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To want is human, and Atsumu can only pretend to be a disinterested god so often, can only act so above everybody else if the circumstances are right, which is when insomnia doesn’t grip him like an old friend, when he isn’t alone but is instead stood in front of a willing audience, when the night isn’t so frigidly aching and Chopin’s nocturnes aren’t his only comfort.

Atsumu wants.

To be clear, it’s not like it’s a secret that he wants. Atsumu wants and wants and wants. He wants to want.  It is, after all, desire that keeps him afloat, it is dissatisfaction and the inability to remain satisfied that roots him to the sport he’s played since he was a kid.

In every other aspect of his life, Atsumu wants and then gets and then leaves it all behind. Not with volleyball. Never with volleyball. He’s committed, like a lover, like family, like a closest friend. He has made up his mind about volleyball—on this bed he will lie, on this hill he will die.  

Perhaps it is because of his devotion to the sport and his inability to want anything other than volleyball for more than 20 days that people don’t ever think of what Atsumu wants or whether he even wants at all.

Well. He does. His walls know that. His balcony knows that. His AirPods and Spotify playlists know that. God, whoever designed the algorithm that puts together his weekly discovery playlists should be given some Nobel prize.

Atsumu wants like the way he lives. Atsumu wants like a person who will never get. He wants like he knows to want is human, and that the gods humans conjecture do not love him.   

The content of his wants stretches across boundless categories. Atsumu is a selfish, greedy bastard. He’s heard that comment enough times to believe it wholeheartedly. He wants so much so often that it seems to cancel it all out. He wants everything, they say, that must mean he wants nothing at all.

Insanity. They must not know what it means to want at all.

Just because he wants a lot doesn’t mean he doesn’t mean what he wants. Same theory goes for the shit that leaves his mouth sometimes. Some of his sentences have been proven to weigh nothing, but it doesn’t mean no one should consider all his words null.

Even if what he wants is temporary, should they matter less? Should the people that flicker in and our your life, on the same token, be considered worthless? After all, only a prophet could know how long you could want something—and whether you know exactly what it is you want enough to know for certain you want it.

Because Atsumu sure as hell does not know. Not right now. Not with this specific set of wants.

The specific set of wants he can articulate that plagues him currently, in no particular order, are as followed:

• He wants a night of peaceful, unrousable sleep which he will wake from feeling refreshed. No dreams. No nightmares. Only comfort.
• A fatty tuna onigiri made by his brother.
• The title of Best Setter and Best Server to be his as long as his body can and will play in the V League.

And then finally,

• For someone say ‘I love you,’ to him and for him believe it wholeheartedly, unflinchingly, and with zero doubts.

Yes, yes. Atsumu is a selfish, greedy bastard. We’ve already mentioned this. It’s only natural that narcissism comes next.

But hear him out. It’s not actually that he thinks everyone should love him, even if the records show that he has declared those exact words enough times to give the impression he’s Narcissus incarnate. Atsumu isn’t a kid anymore. He’s jaded enough that he admits things, even cringey ones, to himself these days.

Atsumu wants love. To have and to give.

Maybe it comes with the age, with the concerning grey hairs and smile lines. Maybe it comes with seeing friends and family of the similar age bracket be colored distinctly with love and all its rosiness and be all the better for it.

Maybe it simply comes from a lack thereof.  

Atsumu wants love, and he’s not sure if he deserves it, but he certainly doesn’t think he’ll ever have it. Not the unadulterated kind of love, not the sincere kind of love. Not the kind of love that is born from a delicate and intricate understanding of the recipient.

He can’t fathom ever having it right now, at least, not ­­with his weary bones and droopy eyes; Chopin in his areas and immovable yearning in his soul.

To want is human, and you can decide a lot about someone from what they want or what they say they want or what they seem to want. Depending on whichever three of these options one chooses to obtain from Atsumu, one would get very, very varying determinations.

But with knowledge of all three, which is possible if you are Miya Atsumu himself, there is one thing he can theorize:

Atsumu is a dishonest, lonely man who needs to go to bed.

--

Daytime comes and the deeper levels of wanting goes, and what is left is just a hungry Atsumu and his ego.  ­­­

The hunger is simple to satiate. The ego, not so much.

“Yikes, Tsumu,” Shouyou winces upon seeing the setter. Knowing Hinata Shouyou, he probably means nothing harsh of it, but instead is just concerned, but it wounds, nonetheless.

“Yikes is correct,” Inunaki grimaces. “Did you even get enough sleep last night?”

Atsumu instinctively touches his face. Was it that obvious? He hadn’t noticed in the mirror. Oh, no, has his vanity dissipated so much that he didn’t even inspect his face properly? Not as instinctively, he smirks. “Yet I look better than you peasants still,” he declares before running a hand through his hair, tilting his head backward, pointing his chin up. He wags his eyebrows. “The dark circles may be more pronounced today, boys, but I might say it was worth it.”

“Eh? What does that mean?” Shouyou asks innocently.

“Miya made a sex joke, Hinata-kun,” Sakusa Kiyoomi deadpans, stepping into the locker room. Atsumu freezes at the sight of the spiker. Sakusa’s eyes bore into his and they look all-knowing. Atsumu’s always been a little bit terrified by Sakusa. Well, not terrified. Intimidated, maybe? Unnerved?

Turned on?

Regardless. Sakusa is, unfortunately, Atsumu’s neighbor. Which, unfortunately, means that he knows Atsumu is lying about his activities last night.

It’s not that Atsumu’s ashamed about not getting himself any action. To be honest, Atsumu’s sex drive isn’t that high. Most of his energy is spent on volleyball. It’s always been that way. The only times he’s ever felt overwhelmed by his libido is when…

Atsumu tears his eyes away from Sakusa’s annoyingly flawless face. No obvious wrinkles, no acne, no undereye bags, nada. Just skin as smooth and even as a baby’s butt. Completely unfair. He probably had some dumb, meticulous night care routine and an impeccable sleep schedule, that control freak.

It’s not that Atsumu is ashamed. It’s just that Atsumu doesn’t want his teammates to find out about his current battle with insomnia. They’d probably make him take breaks or something. Atsumu doesn’t hate vulnerability, intrinsically, but he hates making his own private messes public. There’s a difference there. Somewhere.  

“Heeehhh?!” Shouyou sounds. “Tsumu! You were getting down and dirty yesterday?”

“He did no such thing,” Sakusa wrinkles his nose.

“You don’t know that!” Atsumu retorts haughtily.

Hinata frowns again. “Why would Tsumu lie?”

“It’s simply a ruse to make him seem less pathetic and more… promiscuous,” Sakusa methodically begins wiping down his assigned locker with his alcohol wipes. He doesn’t even have anything in the locker, the jerk.

“Now, why would I want that?” Atsumu rolls his eyes again. One day, it’s going to get stuck like that. Like a gif. And it’ll all be Omi’s fault.

The words seem to be exactly what Sakusa wanted to hear. A slow, lazy smirk appears on his face. Fuck. People always forget Omi is almost quite as nasty as Atsumu when he wants to be. “Because, Miya, you wish to appear as though you are wanted,” he says with narrowed eyes. “When it is the thought that you are not that keeps you up and leaves you looking,” he waves his hand and flares his nostrils, “like… that.”

You fucking vulture… okay. You want to play? Let’s play.

“And how would ya know I didn’t get down and dirty yesterday, mm? You pressed up against my wall, sweetheart? Listening fer sounds?” Atsumu taunts, voice dropping to drawl. The Kansai ben makes itself known. “My, Omi-Omi, you pay that much attention to me?”

But Atsumu forgot that Sakusa Kiyoomi never learned how to feel humiliation.

“I pay enough attention to my surroundings to know no one other than yourself entered or left your apartment last night after practice, and our walls are actually relatively thin. Not that you would know because I’m actually a very considerate neighbor and keep the din to an absolute minimum,” he begins. “I also know that when you do get ‘down and dirty’ you make sure it’s known, if not during the procedure or immediately the next day after by exposing crude markings or making brash statements. For it to come up naturally is above you.”

At this stage, more people have shown up in the locker room and are all watching Sakusa destroy Atsumu. Shit. How’s Atsumu going to Atsumu his way out of this one? He didn’t get enough rest for this mental brawl.

“And,” Sakusa finishes sanitizing his empty locker and disposes of the wipe. He folds his arm resolutely. “Your tendency to overshare in an attempt to make all conversation centered on you has more than hinted at your… preferences. And, as I’m sure all of us can see, you aren’t walking with a limp today, Miya.”

The locker room is eerily silent. And that usually never happens in any volley team’s locker room.

Barnes is the first to say something. “Where I’m from, we call that a read.”

“We have something for it too,” Inunaki breathes distantly. “It’s called Atsumu just got completely owned!”

And so the laughter roars, reaching every corner of the locker room, and even Sakusa is looking positively gleeful at his own performance.

Atsumu feels his cheeks burn a little but he simply harrumphs. If there’s anything he’s got in excess, it’s pride. Atsumu’s a professional. He grew up with a twin. This is nothing.

However, his chest does a weird, tiny compression as he connected his eyes with Sakusa, who lifts his eyebrow and curves his lip upwards.

That was hot, Atsumu heatedly admits to himself before drowning the thought with internal promises to ruin the spiker with service aces at their next game. But the thought comes running back a moment later. Fuck, why was that kind of hot???

“Well, it’s good to know that the walls aren’t as soundproof as I thought,” Atsumu sniffles. “You better watch out, Sakusa.”

“Miya… if you even dare to purposefully bother me, I will contact the authorities.”

Before Atsumu can snap back, Meian enters the room and claps his hand. “Alright, Enough chatter about Atsumu’s nonexistent sex life. Time to practice.”

Everyone gives one last laugh at the jab at Atsumu, but he just winks at Sakusa again, which causes him to seethe.  

Atsumu just grins back, like an asshole. Well, it’s mostly an empty threat anyway. It’s obvious to himself that he wouldn’t actually do something ridiculous like that. Because, actually, he is a bit mortified at the newfound knowledge that the walls are not, in fact, soundproof. How much has Sakusa heard?

Atsumu thinks about getting soundproof panels. Atsumu thinks about never inviting anyone home again.

He thinks about whether or not Sakusa has heard his occasional screeches into the pillow. He thinks about whether the spiker cares when he does.

He wants to know.

And what will you do with that information? His brain asks.

Nothing, I guess, he responds. He files it under his unexplainable wants and schedules a time later to ponder over it.

Atsumu doubts he’s getting restful sleep tonight, anyway, so it’s good there there’s plenty to ruminate over.  

“So,” he hear Hinata whisper to Bokuto. “What’s Atsumu’s preferences? What’s it got to do with a limp?”

--

Atsumu sleeps for maybe 3 hours before he jolts awake. He doesn’t even try to go back to bed.

He’s watching his fourth Japanese lifestyle vlog of the night when he gets a call from Osamu.

“Why are ya bothering me at… 3 a.m.?” Atsumu answers in lieu of a proper greeting.

“Why did ya answer?” Osamu retorts.

“I thought you’ve been goin’ ta sleep earlier these days,” Atsumu says.

“I have,” Osamu assures. “I’ve just… been thinking.”

“Yikes.”

“Shut up, asswipe,” Osamu grunts back. “It’s serious.”

“Double yikes.”

Osamu doesn’t satisfy him with a response, but instead just sighs. “It’s about Suna.”

The cogs in Atsumu’s brain turn. “Yer gunna pop the question?”

Osamu breathes on the other line, and it’s all the confirmation Atsumu needs.

“Holy—yeah,” Atsumu blinks. Sunarin’s been part of the family for so long, the decision is almost not worth a spectacle. Almost. It’s still a huge step. “That’s…” Atsumu swallows. Now, why is he getting emotional? It’s the age. It has to be the age. “When? How?”

“Like, day after tomorrow,” Osamu laughs nervously. “It’s our 2000 days.”

“Gross,” Atsumu responds instinctively.

“It’ll be small, I think. The proposal,” Osamu murmurs. “Unless you think he wants something public?”

“He’ll be happy as long as it’s you,” Atsumu says honestly. “And if the ring’s like, super… jacked, or whatever terminology jewelers use. Like, if it’s a big carrot?”

“Caret, idiot. And, yeah… I might’ve went a bit overboard with the ring.”

“Good,” Atsumu laughs. “Sunarin’s gonna love it.”

“But… are we sure? You know. If he’ll…”

Atsumu pauses and smiles fondly. “We’re sure. Hey. Y’all pissy, judgmental, disgusting lovebirds are as endgame as endgame gets. Suna’s probably gonna nut when you ask him.”

“Do not talk about my boyfriend nutting ever again.”

“What if it’s my brother-in-law?”

Osamu’s silent for a moment. Atsumu wonders for a moment if the jitters are coming back to him. But instead— “You’re my best man, right?”

Atsumu wants to cry, but he doesn’t. “Yeah, dumbass. Of course I am.”

--

Atsumu means it wholeheartedly when he says he’s never seen a couple like Osamu and Suna.

Even in high school, they acted like a little old married couple. They’re both ridiculously in love and the love has never dwindled. They’ve fought a little over the years, but never something serious. They spend time apart and have their own friends, but they come home to each other every time. There is no doubt there, no room for distrust. There is only love and it’s best accompaniments: friendship, laughter, loyalty and support, to name a few. They’re really what it means to be healthy life partners.

Atsumu knew they were eternal when he caught them one time at their family home one Christmas, Sunarin wrapped in Osamu’s arms. And Osamu was singing. To be honest, neither of the twins could sing. It’s Atsumu’s only flaw. But Osamu was singing nonetheless, easy and carefree. There is no fear of judgement, even when the pair is the meanest couple Atsumu’s ever met. Atsumu can’t tell what he’s singing, until he realizes it’s not even Japanese.

“When the evening shadows and the stars appear, and there is no one there to dry your tears… I could hold you for a million years,” Osamu creaks out. He’s mispronouncing every other word. Suna closes his eyes and smiles. “To make you feel my love.”

Suna reopens his eyes and peers up with Osamu. “To make you feel my love.”

Musically, it doesn’t sound very good. But that moment… it’s burned in Atsumu’s mind. Atsumu, who’s standing at the top of the stairs, hand clutching the handrail. He can’t even make a joke right now. They look, feel, are so in love that it’s like causing damage to nearby entities.

Atsumu watches as Osamu wordlessly encircles his index around Suna’s ring finger.

There is no fear here. There is only love.

Love that is unchallenged. Love that is mutually recognized. Love that makes itself known.

Atsumu’s so mad he spends the next year trying to seriously settle down and date someone. It was unsuccessful. Atsumu gave up when he realized he had gained nothing except for slightly worse self-esteem, increased anxiety and a semi-broken heart. Maybe love isn’t for me, he thinks. Maybe I’m too good to be brought down by love.

So Atsumu settles with wanting. It’s gets hard whenever he sees his brother with Sunarin, but it’s easy to get over that when the two of them are so collectively mean toward him.

To want is human. To want is enough.

-

The memory of Osamu’s hideous sounding serenade to Suna that surprisingly still worked sticks with Atsumu for the next two days, so he plays it on repeat on his phone whilst spamming his brother for updates on the proposal.

He’s belting the chorus when he suddenly gets a loud knock on the door. No. That is not a knock. It sounded more like a—

“Did you kick my freaking door, Omi?” Atsumu shrieks. “What if your freakishly large feet had broken it, huh?!”

“Stop. Playing. That. Song.”

Atsumu blinked before laughing. “Why? It’s a great song.”

“Not when it’s paired with your singing. And not when you’ve repeated it about 50 times,”Sakusa growls. “I don’t know what’s up with you and if you’re feeling particularly sentimental, but you are disturbing me. Why on earth are you playing it from your speakers?”

“I like the reverb,” Atsumu shrugs.

“Jesus, would it kill you to just turn it off? Or use earphones?”

“Fine, fine,” Atsumu sighs, easily placated today. “But I can’t promise I won’t still sing along, though. Oh! Did you just want to hear me acapella or something, Omi-Omi?”

Sakusa scoffs. “Maybe you finally landed yourself a lover, if your song choice is anything to go by, but do not kid yourself. You sound like a dying hyena. I would not recommend you sing that to your partner, God bless whoever that person is.”

“There is no lover, Omi, as I’m sure you can tell. Or hear, to be specific,” Atsumu rolls his eyes. Why is he explaining himself, actually? “I just… like the song.”

“Didn’t peg you to like sappy ballads.”

“Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Atsumu answers easily before his phone pings. He looks down and gasps. “Yes!!!”

Sakusa winces from the loud exclamation and steps back. “What—”

“He said yes!” Atsumu laughs loudly, eyes wide. Obviously, he knew that Sunarin would say yes. But it’s still euphoric to know the results.

His phone rings and he answers immediately. “Congrats, you fuckers!”

“I’m just ringing to tell you not to bother us for the next 3 hours, at the very least.”

“Make it 5, baby,” comes a low murmur from Suna.

Atsumu wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Ew, I didn’t mean fuckers literally.”

Osamu just laughs manically.

“Congrats again,” Atsumu chuckles lowly, running a hand through his hair. “I…” he closes his eyes. His chest feels a little bit tight and he feels dizzy. His brother. Damn. Engaged. To be married.

“We’ll talk later,” Osamu sounds uncharacteristically kind. Like he knows he’s once again won again against his brother in their unspoken competition toward a life well-lived. Like he knows, and like he’s sorry. “I really have to go now, Suna, give me a sec—”

The line cuts off and Atsumu’s easy laughter falters. He looks up. “Sorry, Omi. I’ll turn it down,” he says when he realizes his neighbor is still standing there. “Sorry I was playing it so loud. I forgot.”

Instead of leaving, Sakusa frowns. “You okay?”

“Huh?” Atsumu asks. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, you just look…” Sakusa trails off. “Never mind. Goodnight, Miya.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and leaves Atsumu alone and confused.

Look… like what?

Atsumu hasn’t even realized that Sakusa has ever even looked at him off the court before. In the way that matters.

He touches his face.

Could he see it? The disgusting traces of jealousy? Of resentment?

Could he see how horrible of a person Atsumu was, in that split second?

“Well,” Atsumu murmurs, locking his door. “Nothing he doesn’t already know.” He lolls his head back and stares up at the blank ceiling. Nothing he doesn’t already assume.

--

Some people are assholes because of the heavy baggage they carry, the trauma that stains their past and colors their present.

Atsumu is an asshole by birthright, and any traumatic baggage that is his to hold is a product of his personality, instead of its cause.

But, still, he likes to think that he’s worthy of some sympathy still, if he were to be vulnerable with someone else. If he bears his scars and admits his darker thoughts, would he be met with compassion and care? Would someone dare to come close and hold him? Would they even believe him at all?

Not that he would do any of that. It’s hypothetical.

He thinks this as he stands on the balcony. It’s midnight again. He hasn’t slept in so long. This can’t keep happening, can it? When did this sleeplessness even begin? Was it high school? Which year? Why?  

He thinks about Sakusa. Omi-kun. Kiyoomi. Would he think that Atsumu was worthy of love, or something akin to it? Would he really pity Atsumu’s lover, if he had one? Like, really?

It’s hurtful, Atsumu supposes, but then Atsumu supposes it’s rather fair. You know, because he’s an asshole.

He’s always known that he was an asshole. It’s especially prominent when everyone points it out, juxtaposing him to Osamu, the little freak who’s just way better at pretending. Okay, that’s not fair. Osamu is probably at least a little bit better than Atsumu. Slower to anger, quicker to kindness. Rational, stable, responsible. But not too much of a straightlaced douchebag. Of course not. Atsumu’s there to tip the scale.  

But it became increasingly clearer just how much of an asshole he was when he started seriously dating that one year. It was already two years ago now. It was before Shouyou or Sakusa had joined the Black Jackals. Surprisingly, before the arrival of those two, Atsumu wasn’t actually that close with the rest of his teammates. Not even with Bokuto.

Atsumu would go out on countless dates. Sometimes even up to four a week. In hindsight, it was stupid. At the time, Atsumu just thought it meant more opportunities to fall in love and find The One.

The dates would go like this. They would meet, and Atsumu would silently appraise them. If they seemed boring or not his type, he’d make some flimsy excuse and leave earlier than intended, leaving the relationship to go nowhere. Sometimes he wouldn’t even know the person’s name or give them a chance to introduce themselves. Atsumu figured if he didn’t like them upon first impression, then it wasn’t worth a shot. Love was supposed to feel different even when you’re not in love yet, right? Or something like that?

Yeah. Atsumu admits it. He’s an asshole.

But during the ‘I Need to Settle Down and be Happier than Samu’ era of his life, he met an even bigger prick by the name of Eiji.

Omi-kun’s right. Atsumu is a bit more of a bottom, even if he likes to say he’s verse. He likes to be controlled a little. It takes away stress from his regular daytime job of being a professional volleyball setter, where he always have to be in control.

He had been a bit enamored when he first met with the Asshole. He had been strong, stoic, mysterious and very attractive. Atsumu, blindsided by Eiji’s handsomeness, had given him a glimpse into his honest thoughts, but Eiji decidedly did not like it, so Atsumu decided, Oh. Never again, then.

Eiji was… rough. No one speaks of Eiji.

No one knows of him, after all. He’s a shameful little secret that even a blabbermouth like Atsumu doesn’t talk about.

It’s not that Eiji had been a really terrible lover. He was fine. He was a little emotionally distant and only seemed to like fucking Atsumu, but he really wasn’t horrible. There were… moments.

Enough moments for Atsumu to really, really like him, it seemed. Maybe Atsumu was just too new to the whole loving thing. Maybe Atsumu was just too desperate. Maybe Atsumu’s just stupid.

“This… isn’t what you think it is, Atsumu,” Eiji had frowned when Atsumu had tried to be ultra-romantic one time. “We aren’t that kind of relationship.”

“Heh?”

“You’re a lovely guy,” Eiji had smiled after a pause. “You’re the sort of guy people meet between good things. Meaningful things. You’re meaningful, too, of course. But not like… that.”

Atsumu had slapped him, because dude, what an ass!

“I didn’t know you were trying to be serious,” Eiji had said calmly. “From the way you behaved, I thought you just wanted what I was giving you, which isn’t… love, Atsumu. I’m just really attracted to you. The way I’m attracted to the others I’m seeing.”

Boy, oh boy, did Atsumu’s blood run cold. “What do you mean?”

Eiji blinked. “This is an open relationship. Remember when we talked about that during the first night?”

Atsumu swallows. That does… sound familiar. He tries to remember the first night. It was after they had sex. He had just heard the word relationship and was getting down from the high and thought—finally.

There is no lesson here. Nothing to gain from reminiscing it, other than another bout of humiliation (and not the good kind).

In retrospect, Eiji wasn’t distant. He just simply didn’t care and didn’t care to care. Atsumu thought that was just part of his cool personality, but nope. Eiji just didn’t like Atsumu as much as Atsumu liked Eiji. It’s no one’s fault. But being called the thing that happens in between good, meaningful things was…

Well, Atsumu laughs, it was kind of poetic. It was honest, for one, and it was accurate. Atsumu’s like a stopgap. He’s meaningful in his own way like Eiji says, maybe, but not monumentally so. Atsumu is a fun little summer, a nice memory to pick on once a few years, but he’ll always be valued more as the interim in between better things.

And so this became his newest baggage, all born out of his personality. Because he didn’t bother to listen properly to what Eiji had said those nights ago. Because he wanted to dethrone his brother from being the happier of the two, instead of being happy for him like a normal brother would.

Atsumu doesn’t want his twin brother to be unhappy. He wants to play his fucked up attitude off as healthy competition between brothers, but if he wants to be honest, he supposes it’s just because he’s fucking miserable. He’s so damn unhappy so damn often that he needs to lie to himself and act like a little brat and make excuses to try to be happy. He sabotages the image of his brother so he could selfishly, greedily and like an asshole, attempt to be climb higher than Osamu, which must be a very happy place to be.

None of this makes sense, Atsumu realizes as he runs his hand over his face. None of this thinking will get him any sleep tonight. None of it will get him what he wants and makes him happy, or whatever else it is that he wants.

He sighs. He thinks. He decides to be happy for Osamu. He decides it’s okay to let Osamu win. He decides to stop call it winning. Life is not a game.

They’re brothers, and Atsumu might never know the kind of love he thought he had for Eiji, but he knows love between brothers. Atsumu loves Osamu.  

Atsumu’s phone buzzes. There’s a picture of Sunarin there waiting for him. He’s got his hand lifted in front of his face, but it doesn’t even hide the wide grin he’s sporting. There his ring finger sits on display, banded by gold.

Atsumu laughs softly, unable to stop the excited grin that forms on his face. He realizes he’s been thinking too hard about this. Being happy for Osamu is effortlessly easy.

(But being happy, period, is not.)

--

Kiyoomi frowns when he starts doing his stretches. Something feels off today.

It’s only when Hinata lets out a gasp from where he’s sitting in a butterfly pose that he realizes. “Tsumu isn’t here!”

Kiyoomi’s eyes dart across the room, scanning for the yellow-haired, abrasive man. The fact that he even had to look to determine his presence honestly already answers the question.

“Tsum-Tsum is missing?!” Bokuto gasps too.

“Maybe he missed his alarm,” Inunaki snorts teasingly. Kiyoomi purses his lips. It’s unlikely. Miya is surprisingly, or perhaps not really, a morning person. During the time he’s known the blonde, he’s never woken up late. Even on days off, Kiyoomi can hear him cluttering around as early as 7 a.m. and his front door creaking as he leaves for his morning run.

“Can someone try calling him?” Meian asks. “I’ll go ask Coach if he’s said anything to him.”

“I can do it!” Hinata chirps, already on his phone. “Let’s see…”

Hinata puts it on loudspeaker. Kiyoomi leans over to listen better, somehow invested in Miya’s absence. Not that he cares. Well. It’s not like he doesn’t. It’s just—

Kiyoomi sighs internally. He’s curious. Let’s leave it at that.

“Hello?” The groggiest sounding man voices out from the phone. Hinata winces when he starts coughing on the other line and groans miserably.

“Atsumu?” Hinata says sweetly. “Are you okay?”

“You sound like you’re dying, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto shouts, eyes wide.

Miya sniffs loudly. Disgusting. “I’m… fine. Fuck, that’s the time?! Shit. Shit, okay, I’m on my way, give me… half an—” his words dissolve into a coughing fit.

“Don’t you dare,” Kiyoomi snaps, “even think of coming here. Have a sense of responsibility. What’s going to happen if the rest of us get sick because of you?”

Miya is quiet for a moment on the other line. “I’m not sick,” he says quietly. “I…”

“You sound pretty sick, Tsumu,” Hinata admits softly. The usually good-natured man shoots Kiyoomi a glare. Kiyoomi blinks in surprise. “Listen, go drink some water and take some cough syrup or something, okay? We’ll deliver some food to you. Rest today. We’ll tell Coach and Captain.”

“But,” Miya whines. “Who’s going to set for you?”

“The second string player can use some practicing and syncing up with us,” Hinata reminds him.

“What if he replaces me?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and snickers. “You’re not that easy to replace,” he says.

He notices the stares on him and the silence from the other line and realizes what he just said. He feels his skin heat up, but he just folds his arms. “What? He’s the starting setter for a reason. Would I spike his sets if they weren’t good?”

“Omi,” Atsumu wails from the other line. “Omiiiiii.”

“Shut up. You sound like you have a nasal congestion,” he grimaces even at the thought of that. “How did you even get sick?” Kiyoomi’s skin starts to burn a little, thinking about how Atsumu had just plastered himself all over this very locker room a day before. He hunches his shoulders further, forgetting all the training he did that one summer to stop slouching and presses his hands tightly together. He attempts to make himself as small as possible, so his surface area is minimized. Less points of contacts, less illnesses.

Atsumu seems to catch on to Kiyoomi’s tone. “Don’t worry,” he says, even though he coughs right after. “I definitely wasn’t sick yesterday. It’s probably when I went to the grocery store after practice. I… am sorry, though,” he adds.

Kiyoomi stays silent, already thinking of all the ways to prevent sicknesses. He’s going to make some herbal tea later and disinfect the corridor joining his and Atsumu’s apartments.

“Your immune system is usually a lot better than this, though, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto says.

“Ugh. Yeah. It’s probably from my—I haven’t been sleeping well. Is all.”

Kiyoomi frowns. So he was right to have noticed the way Atsumu had started looking worse and worse for wear. His skin was dry and pale even yesterday.

“That sucks,” Hinata says. “Well, we have to go soon, but we’ll get you porridge for lunch, okay?”

“I don’t want porridge,” Atsumu cries. “I want McDonalds.”

“You want to come back and play as soon as possible, yes?” Hinata says sternly. Atsumu sniffles. “Then porridge it is.”

He ends the call and smiles brightly. “Let’s go play some volleyball!”

--

Kiyoomi is reminded of how good Miya is at his profession.

It’s not like he lies to himself about it, it’s just easy to forget when everyone on the court is on the same level. It wasn’t even that long ago when Kiyoomi had to play with college students who weren’t that serious about the sport but wanted to make friends and get girls. The setter on his collegiate team had been one of those people.

The second string setter, a certain Hirotaka-kun if he remembers right, was fairly good, but the gap between him and Atsumu was unfortunately and undeniably huge. He was good. Professional, accurate and dependable, but he didn’t shine. Kiyoomi felt bad thinking about him like that and comparing him to Atsumu, but he supposes that’s the difference between world-class and simply good, even if it’s good on a professional level.

Hirotaka-kun doesn’t seem to quite mind. He laughs after practice, hands on his knees. “Sorry I can’t keep up quite as much,” he says.  “Miya senshuu has huge shoes to fill.”

He had stopped Kiyoomi alone too, bowing. “Sorry I couldn’t get the balls to the right spot, Sakusa senshuu. The next time I play with you, I’ll be much better.”

Kiyoomi tilted his head. He didn’t think anyone had noticed how the ball had felt stiff, because he slammed it across the court perfectly anyway. “It was good,” he says after a pause. “It would’ve been perfect, if it weren’t…” he thinks back to when he had just started playing with the Jackals, when Miya, the jerk, kept tossing higher and higher, until Kiyoomi had to stretch so damn much past his usual limit.

The height and the added spin from the angle he had to work from had been perfect. No one would’ve been able to pick that up.

“If I hadn’t changed my technique… recently,” Kiyoomi finished.

“I see,” Hirotaka says. “Even so, I hope to be a setter who can work with whoever and with whatever skills. Please tell Miya-san to feel better soon.”

Kiyoomi crinkles his nose. “I don’t think I’ll be seeing him soon.”

“Oh. Pardon me, then,” he laughs. “I thought you were close. Miya-san talks about you frequently, so I assumed you were close friends.”

“Miya talks to you?”

“Of course. He’s a great mentor, even if he is technically younger than me,” Hirotaka smiles. “I thought I’d be jealous of him, at first, and that he’d be super stuck up, but he’s actually helped me with my form and gave a lot of advice first string players usually don’t give you, out of arrogance, maybe, or just fear of being replaced. Well, I’m glad it’s his back I have to look at, anyway. Miya-san isn’t a genius, or anything like that, even though he’s talented. His confidence is self-made and born from his hours of practice. Makes his position feel kind of attainable.”  

Kiyoomi thinks about it. Atsumu hadn’t been made the starting setter when he started out, either, but the player before him was about to retire after the first season, so he made he cut relatively soon. Kiyoomi hadn’t thought much of it before, but even a short season can feel like forever for an athlete. One season of training only to be seated on the side. One season of cheering and watching and trailing behind. For someone as restless and afraid as Atsumu, it must’ve been difficult. Kiyoomi had been scouted by many teams and Black Jackals had offered to make him a starting player immediately. He hadn’t known the pain of the wait.

“Anyway, thank you for the practice today, Sakusa-san,” Hirotaka bows again. “I would’ve loved to get coffee with you or something, but I have to go get my kid from school.”

Kiyoomi’s eyebrows shot up. Hirotaka notices and beams. “Her name is Riria and she’s 5. Her mother works a much more demanding job than me, so I get to be the only daddy picking her up,” he grins.

Kiyoomi nods. Hirotaka says another goodbye and begins to leave, but then—

“Hirotaka-san?”  

He turns back around.

KIyoomi swallows. “Do you know what might be a good dish to serve a sick… child?”

--  

He shouldn’t care so much, Kiyoomi thinks as he adds the dashi the vegetable soup. He can hear periodic coughs coming from next door, which causes his skin to prickle.

It sounds painful.

Kiyoomi doesn’t like sick people. He doesn’t like playing nurse. He doesn’t even like Miya Atsumu.

But there comes a point where he has to confess that he doesn’t dislike him either. And that means something in Kiyoomi’s world.

He remembers last night when his freakshow neighbor had began wailing an Adele song at the top of his lungs. It was kind of funny until it started sounding kind of sad. He also remembers the way Atsumu had cheered for his brother; from what Kiyoomi could tell from the phone call it had been about a successful marriage proposal.  He remembers the bright way Atsumu had glistened before his ego had kicked in and the excitement gave way for intense longing, then sadness, then regret.

(Not that kind of ego that Kiyoomi always accused Miya of. He meant the kind of ego that comes between the id and superego. He doubts Atsumu would understand any of this.)

Point is, Kiyoomi recognizes that Miya Atsumu is much more of a labyrinth than he thought. He had always thought of the blonde as more complex than presented, though. Back in high school and at their youth camp, Atsumu had been abrasive and cocky too, but it felt superfluous, like it was just a mechanism to hide his flaws. Maybe it’s still that way today. Maybe Kiyoomi had just simply forgotten to observe Atsumu, because…

Well. Because he’s familiar now.

But people change. Kiyoomi knows that. When he was 8 and started getting fussy over his cleanliness, his parents had waved it off and said their kid wasn’t like that, and that just a year ago he hadn’t even liked brushing his teeth and often left his toys unkempt. People stopped learning about him and their perception of him stuck with the older version of him that he couldn’t even remember being anymore. It took years before they did anything about it. It took Kiyoomi almost drowsing himself in diluted bleach after having been pushed into a dirty puddle of water at school.  

The closer you get to someone, the less you contemplate about the big things. Miss the forest for the trees.

Kiyoomi sets the ladle down and turns off the stove. He closes his eyes and cooks up an image of Miya Atsumu. He is surrounded by autumn leaves, the yellow of his hair blending into the scenery. He’s smiling—the smile he makes when he thinks no one can tell he’s been thinking too much of the things he don’t have.  

No. It’s not autumn. The leaves aren’t orange and gold and beautiful. The glow that haloes Atsumu is not sunlight. Atsumu isn’t radiating warmth.

The forest is fucking burning.

--

Miya is swathed in his wool blanket but he’s still cold. He feels so sick and miserable. He wants to disappear. He doesn’t know how he could’ve gotten this ill this quickly. He hates this.

Plus, he can’t even fall asleep, even though his body feels like it’s going to pass out. Well, he did pass out last night. He doesn’t remember going to bed or falling asleep, only recalls waking up at 9 a.m. on the floor next to his phone and seeing Hinata’s caller ID on it.  

It’s when he’s contemplating about knocking himself out when he hears his door knock. He sits up, feeling his head spin. Did they order another round of food for him? He guiltily looks at the half-eaten porridge. He’s really, really grateful for it and even took a photo for it for his Instagram story, but it tasted bland and sad.

Another knock sounded. “Coming,” he croaks, almost tripping over the train of his blanket-dress as he shuffles over to the door.

He peels open the door and blinks at the sight in front of him. “Omi?”

Sakusa stands in front of him with his mask pulled up and a face shield on. His hands are covered with nitrile gloves. He is holding a bowl.

“Take it,” his voice is muffled by the layers. “Quickly.”

Atsumu reaches out for the soup but his hands shake, making Sakusa snatch the plastic-covered bowl back. “Ugh,” he says. “Just… let me in. I’ll put it on the table for you.”

“Uhn,” Atsumu just says, tripping backward as Sakusa maneuvers himself inside.

He watches as Sakusa kicks the door shut behind him and then walks to the kitchen to set the bowl down. He sneers down at the sight of the half-empty bowl from Atsumu’s lunch. “It’s half-full,” he declares ironically at the porridge. “Why didn’t you finish it? Your body needs nutrients to recover.”

“Couldn’t,” Atsumu sighs.

“Hmmph,” Sakusa says, carefully unwrapping the bowl of soup he brought. “You better eat this. I spent an hour making it.”

Atsumu looked down owlishly at the dish. It smelled… good. “Omi-Omi,” he started. “You… you made this?” He feels his lower lip wobble.

It’s a kind of rice soup, and it smells like the one his mother makes when he was a kid. It’s the perfect soup to rice ratio that Atsumu likes, which means there’s more soup than there is rice. There’s egg in there and the dashi broth smells amazing. There’s shredded fish, mushrooms and a whole bunch of different vegetables.  Damn. He really feels like crying. He’s always been extra emotional while sick.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Sakusa snaps, gingerly picking up a pair of chopsticks and a spoon from Atsumu’s kitchen drawer then setting it down. Atsumu plops down on a stool. “Eat.”

Atsumu feels his stomach grumble and quickly thanks his meal and shovels it into his mouth. Sakusa looks beyond disgusted but he keeps watching anyway. “This is sho gud,” Atsumu says between mouthfuls. “I didn’t know you cooked so well, Omi-omi.”

“Shut up and eat properly,” he just says. “You’re going to choke. Slow down.”

Atsumu complies. The food is genuinely delicious, though he would’ve praised whatever thing Sakusa brought to him. He peers up carefully. He never would’ve thought Sakusa would visit him while he was sick. It’s laughable, almost, but more confusing than anything else. He wonders if he should ask him why he was here and why he made food for Atsumu. He wondered if he wants to know the answer. He wonders what answer he would want.

Whatever the answer was, one thing was clear.

Atsumu likes this.

Atsumu likes him.

--

Sakusa is diligently washing his bowl in Atsumu’s sink while the latter sits on the couch, watching him. Sakusa had gotten rid of the face shield at some point, deciding that it was unnecessary if Atsumu isn’t really coughing anymore.

His eyes trace Sakusa’s back. His lips mouth the name Kiyoomi. His mind wanders.

Atsumu is not a kid anymore. He admits things to himself.

Sakusa is witheringly handsome. He’s got a mean streak and a witty sense of humor. He’s cold and sharp, but apparently compassionate enough to make food for someone he doesn’t even like. He’s observant but doesn’t step over people’s comfort zones. He likes to be clean and hates touches, but he allows his teammates to clap him on the back after victories. He wipes down a locker he doesn’t even use. He wipes the floors of the lockers once a week and thanks the custodians for keeping the bathroom shiny and hygienic. He squirms when they go out for team dinners at izakayas, but he goes when invited anyway.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is probably lonely.

Is he lonely like me, is what Atsumu thinks, or is he okay with this?

“I need to go to the drug store, so I’ll buy you some medicine that might help. You have a headache, right?” Sakusa says, suddenly now in front of Atsumu.  

Atsumu nods. Sakusa then fishes something out of his pocket. He’s not wearing his gloves either, Atsumu notes. He probably tossed them after getting them wet while washing the dishes. He tosses a bottle of pills to Atsumu. He squints at it.

“Melatonin gummies,” Sakusa declares. “Eat it. Sleep.”

He opens the bottle and shoves two gummies as recommended into his mouth. It tastes sweet. Sakusa watches as he chews on it and lies down and begins to leave.

“Omi,” Atsumu whispers like a prayer to a distant god. “Omi.”

Sakusa looks at him expectantly.

“If you keep being so nice to me, I’ll cry,” Atsumu continues. “You can’t be so nice to me. I’ll forget who you are.”

Sakusa just rolls his eyes. “You’re being melodramatic. I’m leaving.”

“Omi,” Atsumu says again. “Thank you for this. I’m sorry for being sick.”

“Just focus on getting better soon,” Sakusa says. “You better not be staying sick to get all this free labor from me.”

“Of course not, Omi,” Atsumu smiles, already feeling a little sleepier. His eyes droop shut. “I like my Omi-Omi mean.”

Sakusa is silent for a moment and Atsumu assumes he already left. But then, on the precipice of sleep, he feels a gentle hand brush across his forehead. “And I like my Atsumu healthy, so please rest.”

He decides he must already be sleeping. Sakusa would never call him by his first name. Wow, these gummies really work wonders.

--

By the time Atsumu wakes up, it’s completely dark outside. He rolls onto his stomach and stretches, wincing. His nose still feels a little stuffy and his head hurts a little but overall he’s much better than he was in the morning.

“There’s some tea—”

“What the FUCK!” Atsumu lets out a shrill scream, clutching the blankets to his chest like a fair maiden.

Sakusa doesn’t even flinch. He crosses his legs, sitting on a stool he’s dragged over from the kitchen. “I made some tea. It’s still a bit hot. And I thought some painkillers and an over the counter fever reducer. I got the pill type, I assume you can take those?”

“What? Of course I can, I’m not a kid,” Atsumu tries not to pout. He sits up carefully. “What time is it?”

“Around 1 a.m.,” Sakusa says.

“Damn,” Atsumu says. He had fallen asleep at around 7 just now. This is probably the longest he’s slept in two weeks. It’s probably more than what he’s slept in said two weeks combined.

“What?” Sakusa snaps, and Atsumu realizes he’s relayed the information aloud. “Just how bad have you been sleeping?”

Atsumu feels very sheepish, especially since it’s Sakusa confronting him. Sakusa and his perfect night-time routines. Sakusa and his mature lifestyle. Sakusa and his perfect domestic life that Atsumu would just love to get a sneak peek of. What does he wear to sleep? Does he wear soft fluffy slippers? Does he look sleepy when he wakes up?  

Fuck, Atsumu thinks, is the fever coming back?

“Miya?”

“Well,” Atsumu looks away. “I don’t know, I’ve been struggling with insomnia for a while. I think in my third year, I started sleeping worse. It’s usually not so bad but…”

Atsumu thinks about his recent sleepless nights. “They’ve been kind of bad lately,” he finishes lamely.  

“Why haven’t you gotten help for it?”

Atsumu shrugs. “It’s not that bad, compared to other people who need help. I’m not super stressed out anything, it’s just my body having too much energy, probably. Plus, I did try to stop it. I stopped looking at my phone so late and stopped drinking so much coffee. I’m not just… helpless, you know. I’m an adult.”

“You’ve been sleeping so little that your body had to get sick so you could rest, Miya,” Sakusa scoffs. “And yet you say it’s not that bad? What—” He sucks in a deep breath, pressing a hand against his temples. It makes Atsumu feel like he’s a child being scolded so he pouts, but he admittedly feels kind of warm under Sakusa’s scrutinization. What can he say? He loves attention, especially from people who refuse it usually. Sakusa breathes again, calming down. “How have you been feeling lately? Let’s try to figure out the cause since someone won’t go get professional help.”

“Um. Tired, I guess,” Atsumu thinks about it. “A little anxious and less put together?”

Hopeless. Desperate. Touch-starved. Lonely. Bitter. So, so, so greedy that my hands hurt from wanting to hold somebody and have someone hold me and I made Bokuto hug me the other day but convincing him he couldn’t pick me up and I thought about making a Tinder again but what happened last time still scares me and—

“But fine, mostly.”

Sakusa is quiet for a moment and Atsumu wonders if he believes him. “Expand on the anxious part.”

“It’s just all the not sleeping,” Atsumu waves. “It makes me anxious.”

The taller man raises an eyebrow. “Have you ever considered it’s the anxiety that causes your insomnia?”

Atsumu shuts up and sits on this. Gargles the thought and spits it out.

“Hmm,” he just says, like an idiot.

Sakusa doesn’t look impressed, which is a bit embarrassing, because he’s one of the people Atsumu really wants to impress. He’s a bit masochistic like that. He wants people who dislike him to like him. But that’s human nature, right…?

“But,” Atsumu starts again quickly. “I’m not really an anxious person usually, so it doesn’t make sense.”

“Really?” Sakusa looks even more displeased now. Damn.

“Yeah? Haven’t you met me,” Atsumu throws on a grin. “What do I have to be anxious of?”

“First of all, you don’t always need things to be anxious,” Sakusa grits out. “Don’t you think I know a little bit of germ won’t kill me? Don’t you think I know it’s fine even if I don’t sanitize my locker and deep clean my whole apartment every week?”

Atsumu winces. He fucked up. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“I know you didn’t,” Sakusa replies. “You wouldn’t mean that about my mysophobia or Bokuto’s random bouts of insecurities or Hinata’s worries over Kageyama leaving him when he gets drunk. But you’d say that shit to yourself and mean it because you’re a hypocritical idiot, like a child, Miya, who won’t even admit things to yourself.”

“I’m not a child,” Atsumu says weakly. “I admit things to myself. Like, I know I’m an ass sometimes, and that I’m a bit conceited, and that I shouldn’t lie so much, and that I could use to be a bit kinder, and that I—” like you, Kiyoomi “—maybe am a bit too jealous of people and things that don’t involve me. But that’s just human nature.”

Sakusa says something about missing forests and burning trees.

Atsumu sighs. “What do you even want from… this, anyway, Sakusa?”

Sakusa snaps his head up, as though affronted by the sound of his family name being spoken by Atsumu. “I’m sick and you’re here asking me to self-reflect and my head’s hurting,” he feels his lower lip wobble. Oh, no. Oh no, he’s feeling loose-lipped and— “What do you want from me, actually? No offense, but I’m starting to feel a little cornered. Do you want me to say sorry to you, is that it? Do you want me to realize how shitty of a person and how deserving of this illness I am? Because if so, that’s a little bit too much than what I can handle right now cos my head feels like it’s splitting open, okay?”

Atsumu falls back onto the couch and pulls his blanket over his head. “Thank you for everything. I will see you soon. I’m sorry.”

“Miya.”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Miya, this isn’t over.”

He wills his breaths to even out.

“Atsumu.”

He swallows, tensing up. He feels the blanket being tugged. Sakusa is peering down at him. He can almost feel him.

“Why do you think I brought you food, Atsumu?”

The way his name sounds on his tongue feels weird. Feels like too much. It goes straight between his ribcages and pierces his heart. “Dunno,” Atsumu says honestly. “Maybe you could hear me hacking away in my apartment and wanted me to shut up.”

“You really think I’m mean, huh?” There’s no heat behind Sakusa’s words. He almost looks… fond. “Why do you think I’m mean to you?”

“Cos I’m a bit of an ass? Cos you’re a bit of an ass too?”

“No. Really think, Atsumu. Stop focusing on details and see the big picture.”

Atsumu swallows. Maybe he already knows the answer.

“We like it, don’t we?” Sakusa says softly. “It’s fun, yes?” When Atsumu doesn’t respond, Sakusa continues. “I’m not saying you can become close friends by just being mean to someone, but can’t you say you know me better than most? Just through finding what makes me tick and what doesn’t? By toeing the line?”

“You saying we just a bunch of sadists and masochists, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu tries to laugh.

“Maybe,” Sakusa shrugs. “But I’m trying to say I think I know you better than most, too. I know when I make fun of your sex life, you don’t get seriously wounded even if you act it, but right now, as you’re pretending to be nonchalant, you’re hurting a lot.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, and your piss-blonde hair is natural,” Sakusa snorts. “Now tell me again why I made you dinner.”

Atsumu feels like he’s set on fire even though his feet feel cold. Cold fire. Is that a thing?

He feels like his whole face is red when he says, “Cos you… care?”

Something flashes across Sakusa’s eyes and Atsumu wonders if he’s just humiliated himself for the umpteenth time in front of his neighbor and teammate (and maybe crush). But then he says, “Of course I care, Miya,” and Atsumu lets out a quiet breath of relief. “But the coughing was kind of annoying, so I’ll give your initial response partial credit.”

Atsumu whines. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Hmm,” Sakusa says and picks up the now probably lukewarm tea and extends it toward Atsumu. “I know.”

--

There is something very domestic about the way Sakusa feeds Atsumu his medication then helps him to his bedroom and lies him down and tucks him in and turns on the night light and then tells him there’s some pre-packaged bento in from the mart in his fridge if he feels good enough to eat solid stuff tomorrow afternoon, because “no, you’re taking tomorrow off as well.”

What is happening here? If Atsumu concentrates real hard and maybe press his ear against the wall, he can hear Sakusa entering his own room. He can hear the water running as he probably takes a shower.

Be still, my beating heart, Atsumu thinks. You’ve actually seen him shower a bunch of times. Technically, you’ve showered together.

The past few hours have been a little mindboggling. First his brother gets engaged, then he gets sick out of nowhere (well, it was kind fo two weeks in the making, but still), then he Sakusa freaking Kiyoomi shows up and makes him rice soup and then tells him he cares about him.

To what extent, though?

Nevertheless, the fact that Sakusa even cared at all is a little exhilarating. It makes Atsumu’s heart giddy and his fingers itch.

Sakusa’s attention is warm but cooling. Does that make sense? Atsumu mulls over it. Sakusa’s attention makes him heated but yet it calms him down. It is surprising but then it also feels familiar.

It’s balanced, is what it is, and it makes Atsumu feel content and happy. To know Sakusa looks at him and thinks, what a pest. I care about it, is very assuring.

But why does Sakusa care? Why now all of a sudden? How did this happen again? What were they even saying in the first place that led to this place? This weird, liminal space that makes Atsumu want to hide but also escape?

Because the why and the how would all lead back to this one truth—Atsumu wants Sakusa Kiyoomi. He doesn’t think he’ll have him. He wants to keep what they have right now, where Kiyoomi cares and can admit he cares, because that should be enough, but like always, Atsumu wants more anyway.

“This is fucked,” he whispers to no one as he pops two melatonin gummies in his mouth. He spreads out like a starfish. “Take me away, you berry-flavored bears. Let a man dream.”

--

“Heh, Tsum-Tsum is still sick?” Bokuto pouts. “Poor thing. In the many years I’ve known him, he’s never gotten sick.”

“Do you think he’s gotten worse?” Hinata comments. “Maybe we should go check on him.”

 “He’s alright,” Sakusa declares, walking into the locker room. “I went over to his apartment yesterday.”

This stuns the two silent. Sakusa looks up and arches an eyebrow. “What?”

“You went to his apartment while he was sick, Omi?” Bokuto gasps. “That’s so nice and not Omi-like of you.”

Sakusa scowls. “He’s my teammate and neighbor. I wasn’t going to let him die, which is what he sounded like he was doing yesterday.”

“So, you’d do the same for us?” Hinata asks with his little wide eyes. “We’re teammates and neighbors too.”

Sakusa pauses. Starts. Pauses. Stops.

Hinata giggles like he already knows. Bokuto laughs too, and he’s usually incredibly oblivious.

“Well, Akaashi would’ve taken the next train to you if you were seriously sick,” Sakusa mumbled. “Same goes for Kageyama for you.”

“Well, they’re our lovers,” Hinata points out. “Are you drawing a comparison, Omi-san?”

Sakusa can feel his face flushing underneath the mask. He clears his throat. “I’m only saying that Miya is a lot lonelier than we care to remember.”

Hinata hums in response.

Sakusa begins wiping down his locker in practiced swipes.

And so am I.

--

“Hey Tsumu,” Osamu says after the first ring. “Suna’s here too.”

“Oh, right, congratulations,” Atsumu hurries out. “Listen, I have a very big issue.”

“That’s it? Yer not even going to ask us—”

“Let him speak, Samu, I have a feeling this is goin’ to be entertaining,” Sanu cackles.

Atsumu swallows. “Okay. So I’m sick, right? And I don’t go to practice, right? So I’m just miserably at home but then suddenly someone knocks on my door and you’ll never guess who it is bringing me a bowl of soup.”

Atsumu waits.

“Uh,” Suna sounds.

“Well, guess!”

“I don’t know, freaking Sakusa?” Osamu snorts.

“Hah, good one, babe.”

Atsumu lets of a manic laugh. “No, but it was fucking Sakusa Kiyoomi standing on the other side!”

The newly engaged couple goes silent for a moment. “You sound really sick, Tsumu, maybe we should get you an ambulance…”

“Yeah, sometimes really high fevers can induce hallucinations.”

“Ugh, shut up! I wouldn’t hallucinate this! Tell me why and how would I even hallucinate Sakusa Kiyoomi coming to my apartment and giving me soup and bringing me medicine and making me sleep and telling me he cares about me?!”

“Huh. Wow, that’s…” Osamu begins.

“Unexpected,” Suna finishes. Ugh. Atsumu hates it when they have to go and finish each other’s sentences.

“But, well, that’s nice that he does, huh. Guess he doesn’t hate you that much. Congrats,” Osamu hums.

“Yeah, and now you guys might even be friends. That’s good that he cares about you,” Suna agrees.

“That’s not the problem,” Atsumu grits out.

“Then? Why are your panties in a twist? You don’t want to be friends with—oh,” Osamu finishes. “Oh.”

“Ugh,” Atsumu just says.

“What?” Suna asks, confused. “What’s happening? Fill me in.”

Osamu lets out a bark of laughter. He stops, and then he laughs again. “Seriously, though, Atsumu? Just because of that little sliver of affection? Fuck, you’re lonely.”

Atsumu wishes he were there with his brother so he could punch him. “Fuck off.”

“Guys,” Suna says impatiently. “Tell me.”

“Tsumu,” Osamu begins, and then snorts. “Atsumu’s got a thing for his hitter with the weird wrists because he showed some human decency. Do you even know the guy? Are you just in love with an idea?”

“I know him!” Atsumu reacts instinctively, feeling especially defensive for someone who hasn’t even finished accepting the fact that he’s a bit too into his teammate. “Fuck, I’m probably the person who knows him best in this building. In our team! I know how he frowns when he thinking versus how he frowns when he’s annoyed and—and, I know he likes umeboshi and green tea and… and what shampoo he uses. So, suck that! I also know he said he cared about me, which is a hell lot more than what you two unloving, ungrateful bastards have ever said to me!”

“Oh, Tsumu,” Suna sighs. “You can’t fall in love with everyone who tolerates ya just because we, your two best friends, don’t.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to snap back at his soon-to-be brother-in-law, but he can’t seem to find anything to refute him with. Suna probably means nothing of it, but now it’s got Atsumu thinking. Remembering. Spiraling. He thinks of Eiji and how Atsumu had literally twisted his words for like two months. What if it’s a trend? What if that was really just Sakusa trying to placate a sick Atsumu? “So, ya don’t think he means anything by it?” He asks hoarsely.

“Well,” Osamu snickers. “Don’t knock it until ya try it. Ask the guy out.”

“We’ll be here for you,” Suna says sympathetically. “I’ll introduce you to some friends, okay?”

Atsumu sighs, feeling the onset of another headache and a wave of drowsiness overtaking him. “Whatever. I’m gonna go sleep.”

“Tsumu?” Osamu says as Atsumu’s about to end the call. “I think you should just talk to Sakusa, okay? He doesn’t seem like the type who plays games.”

Atsumu weighs everything he knows about the tall, brooding, curly-haired man and tries to calm down. He’s not Eiji. He’s not anybody that Atsumu’s met on those pathetic, desperate dates. He’s just Omi-Omi. His teammate, his neighbor, his friend.

“Take care of yerself,” Osamu says before Atsumu says a final goodbye and hangs up.

Atsumu crawls back under his blanket, feeling rather sorry for himself, and tries not to think too much about Omi’s eyes, the moles above them, or his hands. He tries not to bring up old memories of Youth Camp, about setting for Sakusa for the very first time, watching the way his wrists turn, putting that nasty spin into the ball that sets Atsumu’s heart and spirit on fire. He tries not to think about last night, about the hooded way Sakusa had peered at him and gave him food and tucked him in and said he cared.

It’s probably not surprising that when he does end up falling asleep, he dreams of Kiyoomi.

--

Kiyoomi gets a message from an unknown number and he has half a mind to delete and block it, but as fate may have it, he happened to click into it just to see what it was about.

This is Osamu, it reads, you know, the better Miya. I heard my idiot brother is sick and that you did the neighborly thing to help him out a bit. Thanks for that. I made him some food, so it would be super nice if you could come pick it up. If not, could you ask Bokkun or Shouyou to come over?

Kiyoomi falters. Hesitantly, he types out a response. Practice just finished. I’ll be over in a few minutes. How did you get this number?  

Suna asked Komori who supposedly said it would be fine for us to have your number, Osamu replies a second later. I’ll make you some food too. Atsumu mentioned you liked umeboshi, right?

--

“Welcome,” Osamu hollers from somewhere in the shop as Kiyoomi steps through the door of Onigiri Miya. He’s been here quite a few times, actually, with Miya and the others. He’s not a huge fan of onigiris the same way he doesn’t like pizza. The thought of someone’s hand repeatedly touching the ingredients gets to him sometimes. But the onigiris here are different. Kiyoomi likes watching Osamu make them with careful, firm motions and plastic covered hands. It comforts Kiyoomi the same way watching the other Miya carefully wash his hands the exact same way Kiyoomi does when they go to the washroom together.   

“How can I—” Osamu steps outside from the backroom and blinks at Kiyoomi. He smiles. “Oh, it’s you Sakusa.”

“Miya-san,” Kiyoomi nods politely.  

“You should call me Osamu,” the younger twin replies, grinning. “It weirds me out to think you’re calling my brother the same thing.”

“Er,” Kiyoomi says awkwardly. “Okay, Osamu-san.”

Osamu lets out a delighted laugh. “Wait until I tell Tsumu I already got you to call me by my first name,” he cackles. The resemblance is uncanny. Osamu grabs a bag from behind the counter and pushes it toward Kiyoomi. “Here ya go. Thanks for taking care of Tsumu, by the way. The idiot usually never gets sick, but when he does, it’s a nightmare. Not in the sense that he gets really sick or anything, because he gets better in three days tops, but he gets extra sensitive. He’ll probably cry when he sees this. Just leave ‘im alone for five to men minutes if he cries, and he’ll be better. Or you can stay and watch ‘im just to embarrass him.”

Kiyoomi’s lips quirk up, thinking back to the multiple times Atsumu had nearly cried last night. So, he wasn’t just teasing Kiyoomi with those teary eyes and weepy expressions. Kiyoomi bets Atsumu is an ugly crier. He bets it’s adorable.

Fuck.

“Don’t you have a delivery service, Osamu-san?” Kiyoomi asks, looking outside to where a few delivery scooters sit. “You could’ve delivered this to Atsumu yourself?”

“Hmm,” Osamu gives him a knowing look. “Like I said, Atsumu’s really sensitive when he’s sick,” there’s a twinkle to his eyes. “He actually hates people seeing him ill. As you know, he’s really conceited and insecure like that. Very complex guy.”

Kiyoomi snorts. “Good way to put it.”

“But I think he’ll feel real good if yer the delivery guy, Sakusa-san,” Osamu continues. Kiyoomi can see him soften. “You might’ve already noticed, but Tsumu can get pretty in his head, but he hates doing that, so he never usually shows it. It gets work when he’s sick sometimes, so don’t push ‘im, okay? Just wait til he’s better and all.”

Last night, Atsumu had broken down, saying Kiyoomi was cornering him. He feels a little pang of guilt. “Okay,” Kiyoomi replies. “Thank you, Osamu-san.”

“Whatever for? Yer the one helping me out, being a one-time delivery man,” Osamu laughs. “Hopefully the customer leaves a tip.”

--

Miya is not answering the door. Kiyoomi is getting frustrated. He knocks harder. “Miya,” he calls out. “Miya?”

Another minute passes and Kiyoomi is starting to get more worried than frustrated. Unsure of what to do, he decides to text Osamu. Your brother is not answering the door.

Key under mat, his quick reply reads. Let me know if he’s ok, pls. Thank you.

Of course Miya would leave a key in such a dangerous place. Sakusa grimaces as he kicks aside the mat and gingerly reach out to pinch the metal key with two fingers. He slides it into the doorknob, calming himself down. Miya is fine. He’s probably just asleep.

“Miya?” He calls out softly as he steps into the apartment. The living room is empty.

Kiyoomi sets the bag of food from Osamu on the kitchen table and slowly approaches the bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, and Miya is…

A low, distressed whine sounds. Kiyoomi quickly pushes his way inside, hurrying over to the lump on the bed with large strides. He peers down at Miya. His forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat. Unthinkingly, Kiyoomi quickly presses a hand onto Miya’s face, forgetting to worry about the issue of contagion.  It’s cold. Atsumu inhales sharply before twitching again, his eyebrows furrowing. He’s having a nightmare.

Kiyoomi sits down on the edge of the bed and grips Miya’s shoulders. “Miya. Miya.”

Miya lets out a cry, his breath speeding up.

“Atsumu.”

His body relaxes. His breath evens out. Kiyoomi shakes again. “Atsumu. Wake up.”

A few seconds pass before Miya peels open his eyes slowly, tears escaping from the corners. “Nhnn?” he lets out a garbled sound, blinking slowly. “Omi.”

“Hey,” Kiyoomi says.

“Omi,” he breathes out again, and there’s something reverent about it all. It makes Kiyoomi’s heart clench a bit.

“I think you were having a nightmare, Atsu—Miya.” He clears his throat and moves to stand up. “Your brother—”

Two arms throw themselves around Kiyoomi’s torso. A face presses into his back, between his shoulder blades. “Omi,” Atsumu says for the third time. “Omi. Omi.”

Kiyoomi realizes how stiff he has become. He looks down at the arms curled around his body and feels the shiver wracking through the man sitting behind him, hugging him. If it were anyone else…

Kiyoomi relaxes his own body and puts a careful hand onto where Miya’s are joined. He holds it and disregards any thoughts about contamination and disease. Instead, he leans back slightly. He remembers what Osamu said and what he knows about the setter himself. Miya is a mess. He’s loud, abrasive and annoying. He’s adaptable. He’s mischievous. He’s admittedly funny. He’s proud, talented and passionate. He likes talking about himself and takes jabs and teases easily.

Miya Atsumu likes being in control of what people think about him. He fakes vulnerability as a way to keep people out and lock himself in. He does not think it is worth it. He does not think other people care. He mops up his own messes and holds his own hand. He doesn’t like other people babying him when he’s sick, letting perhaps only his own twin brother in. He admits he hasn’t been sleeping well but doesn’t explain it with clarity. No one knows he has chronic insomnia and that he stands outside on his balcony for hours before turning in.

Miya Atsumu knows himself. He is the only person who knows himself. He’s already decided that no one else could possibly understand, so he’s picked out the pieces that he thinks are acceptable to be perceived and made a public identity out of it. He’s not fake or puts on a show for others. He simply sweeps everything else that doesn’t seem marketable within himself. Opens it up late at night and contemplates it. Packs it back up and buries it within.

His pandora box doesn’t seem to lock as tightly when he’s sick.

Kiyoomi traces a his thumb over Miya’s knuckles. His precious setter’s hands. He wants to kiss them and tell Miya that he’s here now. But Miya’s sick, and Kiyoomi doesn’t want to corner him again. So he just closes his eyes and lets Miya hold him.

It must’ve been at least five minutes before he feels Miya stirring from behind him. The arms around his body twitch and then—

“Fuck, sorry!” Miya squeaks, scrambling backward. Kiyoomi patiently turns around. His fists are clenched and his biceps are flexed, like he’s restraining himself from touching Kiyoomi again.

But I want him to…

Kiyoomi chases the thoughts away. It’s not about what he wants right now. It’s about taking care of Miya Atsumu. His idiot teammate and neighbor. His friend.

“I didn’t mean to,” Miya whispers, like a child waiting to be scolded. He laughs. “You could’ve pushed me off though, I really hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, or, God, make you sick, and—”

Kiyoomi reaches up for his masks and tugs it down, despite his better judgement. His rationale doesn’t seem to work quite the same around Miya Atsumu, the same way he doesn’t freak out when he gets all dirty and sweaty when he plays volleyball. These are his exceptions. These are his prides. He tries for a smile. “I wasn’t uncomfortable, Miya.” I don’t think I could be uncomfortable here. In your apartment. In your room. In your arms. “Stop being so dramatic.”

Miya flushes. “Well, how am I supposed to know? You—you’re always so… so…” he deflates. “I thought you hate people touching you.”

“You were having a nightmare,” Kiyoomi says, like that explains it. “And… it’s not like I hate it when you touch me.”

“Eh?”

Kiyoomi tugs his mask up quickly. “You’re my teammate, after all. Touching is only natural in sports.”

Kiyoomi wants to slam his face into the mattress. Yeah, touching in the form of high fives and pats on the back, he thinks, not… spontaneous spooning.

“Anyway,” Kiyoomi starts. “I brought you some food from your brother.”

“Samu?” Atsumu perks up. “You… went to his shop?”

“He asked me to pick it up,” Kiyoomi mumbles, standing up. “There’s a whole bag of it. I think there’s bottled tea too.” When he notices Atsumu isn’t following him, he looks back to see he’s still in bed with a stricken expression on his face. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at his high-maintenance neighbor and reaches out a hand. “Come on. I bet you haven’t eaten today.”

Miya watches the extended hand warily before slowly grabbing onto it. Kiyoomi feels like they fit the same way a volleyball hits his palms perfectly when Miya sets them. He squeezes experimentally and plays it off as just him trying to hoist Miya up.

True to Osamu’s words, Miya begins tearing up as Kiyoomi sets out the food. It’s a bit overboard, with a large variety of dishes that aren’t even on the Onigiri Miya menu. There’s a box labelled For Sakusa that is just half a dozen umeboshi onigiris. It makes Kiyoomi smile, whereas Miya fully bursts into tears when he reads the, Feel better soon, boke, on the fatty tuna onigiri container.  

“Why are you crying?” Kiyoomi asks, amused.

He just cries harder.

Kiyoomi holds back a snort but instead reaches into his pockets for his handkerchief. He had been right about Miya being an ugly crier, he realizes as he gently pushes his handkerchief against the setter’s eyes.  

But it’s not just adorable or funny or anything like that.

Miya hiccups, and covers his face, clearly embarrassed, though he denies feeling that way since men are supposed to cry, Omi-Omi.

Kiyoomi uses Miya’s avoidance to properly look at him. The blonde hair, the almond eyes, the red nose, the tear-streaked cheeks, the puffy lips.

It’s precious.

He is precious.

And this, whatever this is, is precious.

--

They’re seated on the couch now, as far away as each other as possible, and the there’s some basketball game playing on the sports channel they’re tuned into. Atsumu’s not sure why, but he feels like he owes Sakusa an explanation, but since it’s Atsumu, he starts the conversation by being as annoying as possible. “So, even you can’t resist my cuddliness, huh?” he taunts, eyes darting around to feign nonchalance. “When’s the last time hugged you, anyway?”

Kiyoomi looks to be unperturbed. “When’s the last time someone hugged you?”

Atsumu scoffs. “Like…” the cogs in his brains spin. His brother must have given him a hug sometime in the past four… five… months, right? “I don’t even have to keep track, because I get hugs all the time.”

“Right.”

“Anyway,” he quickly says. “I was just having a bad dream, is all. I wouldn’t have crossed your boundaries otherwise. You… know that, right?” He peeked up. Sakusa has a weird look on his face.

“Are you still hung up over that? I told you it’s fine,” Sakusa says, but it’s not unkind. “What were you dreaming about?”

Atsumu’s throat dries up and he looks away, sighing. How is he supposed to tell Sakusa Kiyoomi that he dreamt about him?

“You don’t have to say. I’m just curious,” Sakusa says.

“No, it’s just…” Atsumu laughs. “It was just weird. You were… there.”

Sakusa’s eyebrows shoot up. Atsumu’s always found it amusing how expressive the other man actually is. It’s a little more subtle than the average person, but the details are clearly there. He likes tracking Sakusa’s expressions. He charts them in his head like an explorer with a blank canvas for a map and he likes tracing them on some nights, mulling over Sakusa’s interesting idiosyncrasies. Sakusa’s a real interesting specimen. There’s always so much to learn about him, even though Atsumu’s actually known him for the longest time out of everyone in Black Jackals.

“What did I do, in your dream, that made you so… upset?” Sakusa asks.

Atsumu shrugs and decides to be honest. “I was just projecting what someone else said to me before onto ya.”

“Something that… hurt?”

Atsumu licks his lips. “Kind of. Depends, I think.”

“What was it?”

“You’ll think it’s dumb.”

“Is it?”

“…I mean, not to me.”

“Then I won’t think it’s dumb.”

“Very sound reasoning you have there, Omi-Omi.”

“Just tell me.”

Atsumu exhales through his nose. “Well, someone told me once before that I’m the type of person you meet in between two good things. You know. Which is kind of funny, but you know, sometimes you just think too much into words and it came from one of my… exes, I guess, but we were apparently just fuck buddies, but I didn’t know at the time, and… uh, Omi?”

Sakusa’s gone all quiet, which is normal, but he’s got one of the expressions he wears when he gets annoyed at those reporters from the gossip sites that keep pushing his buttons even when he’s been especially polite to them. Atsumu hates those reporters. He always tries to get Sakusa far away from them by doing something so stupid the reporters have to talk to him instead.

“Oh, you probably don’t want to hear all about my love life,” Atsumu laughed, scratching the back of his head. “Anyway—"

“Who was it?”

“What?”

Sakusa’s eyes are dark, darker than usual. He leans forward, almost crowding into Atsumu’s space. “You’re annoying and loudmouthed and a jerk at times, Miya, but ask anyone around you and they’ll say you are one of the most spectacular people they’ve ever met. You’re unforgettable, Miya. Anyone would say that.”

“Even you?”

Sakusa gives him a look. “Obviously me. I’m saying it right now.”

“Yeah, well… well, you’re my teammate,” Atsumu rebuts “I’d like to think that I, a professional volleyball player who’s been at this for well over a decade, am pretty spectacular. But he probably meant—”

“I don’t care what he meant,” Sakusa interrupts. “You’re spectacular, period, Miya. There is no on-the-court Miya or off-the-court Miya or relationship Miya or friend Miya or neighbor Miya or—”

“That’s a lot of Miyas, Omi,” Atsumu laughs nervously.

“There’s just you,” Sakusa huffs, glaring down at Atsumu, making him feel a certain way. Sakusa always makes him feel a certain way. “And anyone who insinuates you aren’t brilliant in your own right and that you’re just someone that people meet in between good things, then they’re clearly not looking at you properly.”

Atsumu covers his face. “You can’t say things like this.”

“I can’t speak the truth? Why?”

Atsumu feels like he’s either about to cry or hit Sakusa to get him to shut up. “Because,” he just whines out.

“Why do you hate yourself, Miya?”

Atsumu gasps, affronted. “I don’t hate myself.”

“Okay, then, why do you think everyone should hate you?”

“I don’t think that way,” Atsumu says, a little less convincing this time. “It’s not like I think everyone should. I just think… I’m just self-aware, alright? I’m not insecure, I don’t think everyone hates me or anything like that, but I do know if they know me for long enough or have to deal with me for a long time, like if they had to date me or whatever, then they’d probably hate me a little bit, okay, Omi? I think that’s pretty fair to say. Right?”

“Has everyone you dated said that?”

“Heh?” Atsumu furrows his eyebrows. “Well. I don’t know. Maybe some version of it. Look, I’m just a little high maintenance. What can I say? All this perfection takes nurturing. The people I’ve dated just can’t seem to handle that. Which is fine.”

“Then, let’s date.”

Atsumu halts to a stop. Stares up at Sakusa. Really stares. His first instinct is to say haha, that’s funny, Omi, but like Osamu says, Sakusa isn’t the type to play with feelings like that. He’s not so cruel, even if he looks like he could be. Sakusa is always careful, from the way he carries himself to the way he treats others. He gets a little rough sometimes when Atsumu or Bokuto bother him too much, but he never says things he doesn’t mean. Maybe it’s metaphorical, but Sakusa always considers his words. Maybe it’s because he’s been alone for so long, just on the outside watching in, that he’s already picked out the best things to say for different occasions.

Sakusa’s eyes are dark and his lips are parted and this is the most heated Atsumu’s ever seen him off the court. Sakusa means this.

Fuck, he better mean this.

“Omi… what do you… what…”

Sakusa sighs, the tension suddenly leaving his body. “I’m sorry.”

Atsumu feels like his heart just stopped, but he’s still alive, so he must just be dramatizing it as always. Oh. Did he not mean it, after all?

Perhaps Atsumu didn’t know him as well as he thought he did. Of course not. He shouldn’t have assumed. It’s not like he could ever perfectly know Sakusa, even if he has spent hours looking at him in the years he’s known the curly-haired man. He doesn’t actually have the luxury to know Sakusa the way he wants to.

And I never will.

Sakusa leans back, and Atsumu nearly chases after him. “You’re still sick,” he looks guilty. Why is he guilty? Don’t be guilty. “I promised your brother not to corner you while you haven’t recovered.”

“Don’t listen to Osamu,” Atsumu says. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Sakusa snickers. “I think he knows too much, actually.” He runs a hand through his hair and Atsumu swallows. Hell, why is Sakusa so attractive? “I… guess I should take my leave for tonight.”

“You’re going to leave me?” Atsumu says, alarmed.

“I have to get some rest somehow.”

“But,” Atsumu searches for the right words, the right excuse. “What if I get sicker?”

“Didn’t you say you’re mostly fine now?” Sakusa cocked an eyebrow.

Atsumu huffs and crosses his arms. “I thought you said you cared about me, but I guess you lied, Omi-Omi.”

“Do I look like a liar to you? Would I be here if I didn’t care, Miya?” Sakusa’s looks like he thinks Atsumu is stupid. Atsumu feels like he is stupid. But he’s not stupid… is he? “Come on,” Sakusa continues when it’s made clear that Atsumu is perhaps a little stupid. “Time for bed.”

Begrudgingly, Atsumu lets Sakusa lead him into his own bedroom and be guided into his own bed. “Goodnight, Miya.”

“Goodnight, Omi,” Atsumu murmurs back. He feels the burn in his stomach and the clench around his ribs—the feeling he gets when he wants something just a little too much, when that something is so ridiculously unattainable. “Omi?”

Sakusa stops by the doorframe. “Yes?”

“Will you come by tomorrow?”

A ghost of a smile flickers across Sakusa’s face. “Only if you sleep properly tonight.”

Atsumu’s lips part before he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, willing himself to sleep. He can hear Sakusa snort softly as he leaves.

Like yesterday, Atsumu listens intently for the sounds coming from Sakusa’s bedroom. There’s some soft thuds before the telltale water begins to run, and then more shuffling as Sakusa exits the bathroom. Atsumu’s about to fall asleep when he more feels than hear a gentle knock on the wall between them. His breath hitches.

Sakusa’s never done that before. This has to be intentional. Atsumu curls into himself, suddenly feeling very lonely and very greedy.

Another knock sounds.

Atsumu waits.

The final third comes gentler than the rest, like a simple caress. Atsumu lets out the breath he’s been holding and relaxes against his bed. There’s some more shuffling from the other room. Atsumu can almost imagine what it might feel like without a wall in between them.

--

Atsumu wakes up feeling rejuvenated for the first time, like, ever. It’s only 6 when he wakes up, but it’s much, much better than any night’s rest he’s gotten in the past couple of months. He slept a full 7 hours.

He’s so refreshed he goes for a run and ends up stopping at the grocery store to pick up ingredients for breakfast. He doesn’t cook much, and he’s always out, so Atsumu makes it a habit to only shop for ingredients he will use immediately. He only notices that he had bought just enough for two when he’s checking out and sees the bill is slightly higher than his usual morning grocery runs.  

He has the decency to feel a little ashamed by how desperate and lovesick he feels as he whips up two meals and places two sets of utensils next to the traditional Japanese breakfast. Just as he’s about to snap a photo and send it to both Osamu and Sakusa, his phone buzzes, receiving a message from Omi Omi.

Atsumu does not squeak.

Omi Omi: Heard you puttering around since like 7 a.m. Did you sleep?

Atsumu: Aww, you care so much about me! I slept like a log, Omi-kun. Your gummies have been working wonders. As thanks, I made you breakfast! Please come over!!

Atsumu only realizes his use of exclamation marks is less gratuitous and more obnoxious, but that seems pretty on brand for him, so he hopes Sakusa isn’t put off by it. He tries not to linger too much on the idea of Sakusa being annoyed by him. Like, genuinely, sincerely annoyed by his attitude, his appearance and his behavior. Sure, he loves annoying Sakusa and loves seeing Sakusa annoyed, but not… not truly.

He doesn’t want Sakusa to hate him. Quite the opposite, if that wasn’t already clear.

Atsumu feels his chest tighten as he waits for Sakusa to reply. He’s not a kid anymore. He won’t lie to himself. He wants Sakusa, bad. And Sakusa might just be at least a tiny bit inclined to want Atsumu too. Possibly. Hopefully.

Instead of a text back, what Atsumu gets is a knock on his door. He nearly trips over his own feet as he rushes to his front door, peeling it back to reveal Sakusa standing politely. “I brought some tea.”

“Omi!” Atsumu cannot stop the smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Sakusa replies, stepping into his apartment. “Pardon the intrusion.”

Watching Sakusa remove his shoes at the genkan and carefully lining it up, Atsumu allows himself to imagine a scenario where they’re living together. Where Atsumu prepares dinner as Sakusa makes tea for them both. Where the empty rows in his shoe cabinet is filled with Sakusa’s neat and polished shoes. Where Sakusa says “I’m home,” when he enters their threshold, their home, and Atsumu, in turn, replies “Welcome back.”

Atsumu quickly turns around before Sakusa can take note of his flushed cheeks and think he hasn’t recovered. He clears his throat. “Well, there’s grilled salmon and tamagoyaki… oh, and yours is the one with the extra umeboshi on the rice.”

Sakusa sits down. “You… cook well.”

Atsumu laughs, sitting next to him. “You haven’t even eaten it yet.”

“I mean, I didn’t know you cooked. I thought Osamu-san is the one who does the cooking,” he explains.

“Hey! It’s not like only one of us can claim something. We both excelled in volleyball once, mind you.” Atsumu huffs. “And… hold on, why are you calling my brother by his given name?”

Sakusa shrugs. “He requested politely, and I obliged.”

Atsumu lets out an indignant gasp. “Are you serious? I’ve asked politely for so long and I’m still Miya! For years, Omi-Omi. Since high school!”

“Don’t remind me. You were worse in high school. Your hair was disgusting and you chewed with your mouth open,” Sakusa glances up at Atsumu. “I suppose you’ve finally learned some table manners.”

Atsumu decides not to tell him that he still has a habit of talking while still chewing his food, but usually only with Osamu, because he actually did end up learning table manners from a date who had commented on it.

“Well, you weren’t all that either,” Atsumu reminds. “You were worse as well. You were very mean. You told me it should’ve been my brother there!”

Sakusa actually flinches at that. “Well… I didn’t mean it like he was better than you. I just meant you were annoying and kept looking for fights. From what I knew, Osamu was much more polite and put together than you.”

“Oh,” Atsumu can’t even complain about that. “Really? You didn’t mean that I sucked and you would never hit my tosses?”

“Never hit—” Sakusa did his signature eye-roll. You made it to Youth Camp, Miya, clearly you’re an amazing setter. Why are you still fishing for compliments? You’re setting for the Black Jackals now in the first division. You’re setting for Hinata and Bokuto and Barnes and—you get the point.”  

“And you,” Atsumu reminds. “I’m setting for you, Omi.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Sakusa’s face. “Yeah, I know. And I always hit them, don’t I?” His eyes are slightly hooded, head tilted to one side as he stares at Atsumu. His words feel coded. Atsumu feels like an idiot.  

Because these past few days, Sakusa has been different, right? Or is Atsumu just noticing it now because of their sudden proximity, their sudden change in dynamic? Or is Atsumu making everything up in his head because of how touch-starved and love-starved and just all around starved he is?

It’s difficult, differentiating what’s real and what’s not, especially when Atsumu clearly has a tendency of assuming things. But he’s sure of one thing — his feelings for Sakusa. He’s certain. There’s a palpable emotion in his heart, in his mind, and he’s never felt so absolute about anything other than volleyball. His feelings for Sakusa feels so real and so firm, so deeply planted in him. He’s not even surprised by these feelings, or even surprised by his negligence toward it until the last few days.

He’s always been attracted to Kiyoomi, even in high school, but he never thought it would fester—no not fester. He never thought it’d blossom into something so beautiful like this. It would’ve been easier if it had grown into something platonic or something akin to simple rivalry, but instead, it’s become all that and more. Much, much more.

Yeah, it would’ve been easier, but Atsumu’s done running. He doesn’t want easy. He doesn’t just want to want anymore. He wants to have.   

“Hey, Omi?”

“Yes?”

“I’m feeling good as new,” Atsumu exhales, setting down his chopsticks. “Can we please talk about last night?”

His heartbeat sounds like a drum. Sakusa quirks and eyebrow, sets down his chopsticks and wipes at his mouth. “Fine.”

--

“So,” Sakusa begins. They’ve since washed their plates in a tense silence and moved to the couch. “What is it you wanted to discuss, Miya?”

“Don’t pretend,” Atsumu mumbles. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Well, you were quite feverish last night, so who’s to say we’re on the same page, you know?”

“That doesn’t—what—ugh,” Atsumu presses his hands into his face. “This is much harder than I thought.”

Sakusa snickers. “You sounded so suave and confident at the table just now. I thought you’d have a whole speech ready to recite to me.”

Atsumu frowns at Sakusa. Well, pouts, really.  “You’re so mean to me.”

“I’m a lot of things to you, Miya,” Sakusa sips on his tea. “I’m kind to you too.”

“I guess…” Atsumu mumbles. “Thanks for… taking care of me the past few days, by the way. You didn’t have to.”

“Well, I don’t do things I don’t want to,” Sakusa raises an eyebrow. His little habits shouldn’t be so attractive, but they are. He is.

Atsumu swallows. “Well, but… you’d date me?”

Sakusa pauses and Atsumu’s heart nearly stops. He’s about to laugh it off with a ‘just kidding,’ but then—

“No fair,” Sakusa answers softly. His voice has dropped into an even lower register. “I asked you first. You’re the one who owes me an answer.”

“Eh?”

“That’s what you want to talk about, right? Last night?” Sakusa leans forward. “When I confessed.”

“Confess?!” Atsumu shouts. “That wasn’t—that was barely… you were presenting it as a hypothetical, not a… con… confession…”

“I suppose that’s my fault. Your brother told me you’re very vulnerable when you’re ill,” Sakusa says. “But the words slipped out before I could help it. Before I could better explain them. But I had intended it to be a confession. But well, it felt wrong to confess when you weren’t in the right headspace.”

“I’m in a perfect headspace now,” Atsumu breathes. “So, do it again. Properly. Confess.”

“Such a brat,” Sakusa says warmly, and the fondness nearly makes Atsumu whine. “I like you romantically, Atsumu. Let’s date.”

Atsumu stares up at those earnest deep brown eyes. “I like you too. I want you. God, Omi, I really like you. So much, it’s so stupid. And it’s so embarrassing, and I just made sense of it all a couple of days ago, but like, I think I’ve liked you for a while now. Longer than I can imagine, I think. I think we can work. And I…” Atsumu falters. “Sorry. I just… like you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Sakusa murmurs. “I like you too, remember?”

“Do you mean this?” Atsumu whispers, desperate. “Omi. Sakusa. Kiyoomi.”

“Atsumu,” Sakusa is patient. Sakusa is gentle. Sakusa is certain. “I really want this. You. Us.”

Atsumu feels his heart go into overdrive at the kind look Sakusa is giving him. He squeezes his eyes shut, lodges a hand in between their faces. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t look at me,” Atsumu says weakly.

Sakusa snorts. “One second you’re confessing to me, the next you’re asking me to not look at you. Make up your mind Atsumu.”

Atsumu, in turns, shivers. “Fuck, don’t—” he swallows. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but please refrain from saying my name for the next few hours. Or looking at me for too long. I’m… adjusting.”

“For such an attention seeker, you don’t seem to be doing too well with this.”

“It’s just,” Atsumu drops his hands and drops his head against Kiyoomi’s shoulder. His firm, broad, dependable shoulder. Damn, he smells so nice. “It’s just a lot. I haven’t been in a relationship in a long time. And I’ve… never felt this intense.”

“Oh.”

“Why?” Atsumu asks, suddenly insecure. “Have you felt like this, before?”

Kiyoomi wraps his arms around Atsumu. “No one makes me feel the way you do, Atsumu,” he admits, and it’s such a deep confession it makes Atsumu’s heart hurt. “I think this is my first time loving this much too.”

Atsumu clutches onto the front of Kiyoomi’s shirt and lets out a muffled scream. “You’re going to kill me, Kiyoomi.”

“Oh. I think I get it,” Kiyoomi hums. “The name thing. Maybe we should stick to our normal name calling for now. At least during practice. Unless you want everyone to know already.”

Atsumu leans back. “Do you?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “I kind of want to see how long we can pretend. Or how long it’ll take for them to know.”

Atsumu lights up. “Oh my God, surely they’d notice?”

“Apparently, I’ve heard from a couple sources we’ve been exuding romantic tension for a while now, so maybe they’ll just think we’re still in the works.”

Atsumu squeaks. “Tension? Wait, who told you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes? I didn’t even make sense of my feelings until

Kiyoomi brushes Atsumu’s hair fondly. “That’s because you’re quite dumb, mm, Atsumu.”

“Miya,” Atsumu says hoarsely.

“Exposure therapy, Atsumu,” Sakusa Kiyoomi is a cruel lover. Atsumu should’ve known. “I think Hinata might be the first to notice. He’s quite observant. Bokuto would probably know if Hinata knows. I think Inunaki might actually be one of the last to know.”

“But… you won’t be mad or embarrassed if they find out, right? Like it’d be okay?” Atsumu asks quietly. “Like, we don’t have to hide?”

“Not unless you’re uncomfortable with the idea,” Kiyoomi frowns. “Why would I want to hide you, anyway? I mean, obviously you’re a bit embarrassing, but I love you anyway, so obviously that shows I have great tolerance.”

Atsumu pouts, but he can’t help the chuckle that comes afterward. “I’m very comfortable with this, Omi,” he replies, hugging Kiyoomi again. “Just so I’m not making anything up, we’re dating now, right?”

“You’re not making anything up,” Kiyoomi murmurs against his hair. “I’m a little protective of my possessions, so this has to be exclusive, okay?”

Atsumu squeezes tighter. “Yeah. I’m yours if you’ll have me.”

“Don’t say it like having you is a chore,” Sakusa holds him back. “Having you is a precious gift, Atsumu.”

“Damn. Who knew you’d be a sweet talker when in a relationship, huh?” Atsumu doesn’t bother to fight back his blush this time.

“I’m not,” Kiyoomi says easily. “My previous partners can attest. I’m just honest, is all.”

“Stop it,” Atsumu chides. “Be mean to me again, come on.”

“I knew you were a masochist. Walking around being so annoying, you’re waiting for someone to come and shut you up,” Sakusa huffs. “Attention seeker.”

“Yeah, I love when you talk dirty to me.” Atsumu says and immediately yelps when Kiyoomi smacks his back. He breathes out a laugh, breathes in Kiyoomi. “Can we stay together today?”

“Mm,” Kiyoomi agrees. “You’re still recovering after all.”

“Right. You seem to be very okay with me all up in your space even though I’ve been sick,” Atsumu comments. “You just like me so much you can’t resist, huh?”

“Yeah,” is not the response Atsumu expected. “You’re an exception, Atsumu.”

He pulls back. “Can we kiss?”

“Suddenly?”

“I just like you so much.”

“Let’s brush our teeth first,” Kiyoomi maneuvers Atsumu off his lap (ah, when did I get here?). “Do you have a spare toothbrush.”

“Yeah. In fact, I have a spare drawer,” Atsumu grins. “And some spare towels. Oh, and a spare key.”

“I know your spare key is under your welcome mat,” Kiyoomi points out. “That’s how I got in yesterday.”

“Perfect, it’s yours now,” Atsumu grins. “Oh, sorry, my bathroom is a bit messy…”

Kiyoomi doesn’t seem to mind that much. It’s not filthy, because Atsumu is actually pretty neat, but Kiyoomi does grimaces a little when Atsumu accidentally drops toothpaste on the front of his shirt (happens more often than you’d think), but he just rolls his eyes and helps him wash it off.

It’s all awfully domestic, the way Kiyoomi splashes at Atsumu’s face lightly, and the shared glances as they gargled the water, knowing what is to come next. Atsumu waits patiently as Kiyoomi pats his mouth dry. Once he’s done, he immediately soars toward his neighbor’s face—

Only to be locked by his hand.

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi says. “Mouthwash, please.”

Atsumu just laughs. “Okay, okay. Hold on, I have a new travel one you can use.”

Atsumu gargles as long as Kiyoomi does, just to be safe, before they take turns spitting it out and rinsing out the minty aftertaste.

“It… won’t always be like this,” Kiyoomi murmurs, washing his hands again. “The cleaning and everything. Like, we won’t have to brush our teeth every time we kiss. It’s just…”

“It’s okay,” Atsumu gingerly reaches forward, searching for permission from Kiyoomi. The latter steps forward in response, allowing Atsumu to set his hand on his shoulder. Atsumu has to tilt his head up when Kiyoomi’s standing so close, but he doesn’t mind. “We can brush our teeth for as long as you’d like, until you’re comfortable. Good hygiene doesn’t hurt.”

“I have been told I’m a bit high maintenance,” Kiyoomi continues. “And the mysophobia, it can get bad sometimes, Atsumu. We won’t be able to touch like this.”

“Okay. So tell me when you need space, and I’ll give it,” Atsumu’s not dumb. It’s not like he hasn’t known Kiyoomi for a while now, hasn’t noticed the bad days when the spiker scowls at even Hinata for encroaching on his bubble. He doesn’t want to romanticize Kiyoomi’s struggles, doesn’t want to make light of it. He knows it will be difficult, and even knows they might end up arguing over this, but, “We will make it work. Right? I’m pretty high maintenance too. Can’t help it. It takes lots of maintaining to look this good, obviously. I told you, I just like you. And if you feel anything close to what I feel, then you know me having you, being worthy to have you, being allowed to keep you... it’s already so much more than enough.” Atsumu smiles, hopes it’s enough to deliver all his love for one Sakusa Kiyoomi, who is staring back at him intensely. “Please, let me be with you? On your good days and your bad?”

“Y-you sound like you’re reading a wedding vow, Miya,” Kiyoomi’s got a gorgeous flush across his cheeks, different from the light redness he gets after a match. This one’s different. His body language screams tenseness. Is this how he looks when he gets flustered? Atsumu can’t wait to find out so many more of his reactions. Does he ever let out a full belly laugh, or does he always just do that cute snicker under his breath? Is he ticklish? What other dishes does he like other than umeboshi? Does he like ochazuke since he likes tea, or does he find the mixing of rice and tea unsettling? Does he like to cuddle at night? Would he hold Atsumu when he watches a horror movie? The Black Jackals watched a horror movie once, and Atsumu had acted nonchalant even though he was scared out his mind. Kiyoomi had been quiet as well, or was he just hiding like Atsumu was?

“If so, may I now kiss the bride?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and inches even closer, lashes fluttering as he peaked down at Atsumu. Atsumu feels like this is the gentlest he’s ever been held. He feels… he feels…

He feels loved.

The press of Kiyoomi’s lips against his makes him gasp softly even though he had seen it coming. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the softness, for the tender grip on his waist, the emotion that fills his chest, all the spaces there. I love you, he thinks. I’m in love with you.

Kiyoomi’s a fantastic kisser, much to Atsumu’s chagrin. Who’s he been practicing, huh? Atsumu does his best to keep up, his hands initially bunching up the fabric of Kiyoomi’s shirt, but has since moved to curl around his torso. He wishes to get closer, to be completely flush against Kiyoomi, to feel the thud of his heartbeat, the heat of his skin more and more and more.

“Hnngh,” is what Atsumu eloquently says when Kiyoomi finally pulls away. He looks disheveled and he sounds breathless, which all makes Atsumu feel proud. Because he’s an asshole. We have established this. “That was very good.”

“It was alright,” Kiyoomi replies. Atsumu smacks his back. “Well, your technique is a little—” He’s cut off with a wince as Atsumu pinches his sides. “I’m kidding, you brat. You could’ve kissed like what I’d imagine a fish might and it would’ve been good. It’s you.”

“Yeah, that’s a given, but still, I kiss good! I kiss amazing!”

“Hm… prove it.”

Ah, so that’s what he’s playing at huh? Atsumu grins back at Kiyoomi and pushes up against him once again. “Bed?”

“How clean are your sheets?”  

“Clean. Changed them this morning, ‘cos I’ve been sweating from my sickness,” Atsumu says. “But ask me after we’re done. The answer might change.”

Atsumu didn’t think Kiyoomi could look feral off the court. He knows better now.

--

They don’t actually go further than just a (very passionate and hot, thanks) make-out session on Atsumu’s bed. Interestingly, it hadn’t been Kiyoomi who had asked to stop there, but Atsumu instead.

“Can we, um, just k—” Atsumu had said before being interrupted by Kiyoomi’s lips again, “just kiss, tonight?”

Kiyoomi had leaned backward. “Of course we can,” he had answered. “It’s not just because of me, is it?”

“Huh? Oh! No, it’s not. I just want it to be different this time,” Atsumu laughed softly. “The past relationships I had always, uh… always… we always ended up having sex quite early on. Um.” He almost whispers the last part, looking away like he was ashamed. “Not that I always like put out or anything! But not that there’s anything wrong with that! I just… I mean if you want that, that’s alright too! We can work something out.”

“Atsumu, you know we don’t’ always have to work something out, right? We don’t always have to ‘compromise.’ Everything in moderation, but even moderation itself. We don’t always have to find the midpoint. Sometimes one of us is right, one of us is wrong. Sometimes we do the thing one person wants, not traverse to the middle ground.” Kiyoomi frowned. “And I don’t care if you had sex with people before this, you’re with me now, and that’s that.”  

Atsumu had looked like he was almost about to cry. When Atsumu wants to talk, he talks, so the fact that he had hidden his face after listening to Kiyoomi probably meant he was still working through his feelings, so Kiyoomi decided to just kiss the heaviness away, and pocket the conversation for a later time.

Now, they are standing on Atsumu’s balcony. Kiyoomi has a balcony too, but he never goes out there except to mop the floor there. Sometimes, though, Kiyoomi can see the light from Atsumu’s balcony turn on from his window and it’d stay on for a few hours. He’s always wondered why Atsumu was doing out there. Now he knows.

Kiyoomi watches Atsumu. The setter’s… much more subdued than his usual self. Maybe it’s his way of resting, but he’s softer. Much slower in his reactions, and much more introspective. The realization is surprisingly not surprising. Of course, Atsumu wasn’t always on his high-tension mode. He gets this way before games too, but not specifically like this. This version of him is unreserved in his melancholy and wistfulness, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by, but still somewhat contained, like he’s internalizing everything in his mind, packing yearlong experiences and emotions into neat boxes and storing it within the cavity of his chest. Kiyoomi wonders if he would one day weasel himself in there, make a home there, pour his love there.

“What are you thinking about?” He carefully breaks the silence. Atsumu looks over, hair softly illuminated by the overhead light, and he looks so beautiful Kiyoomi aches to keep him forever encapsulated in that light, in that moment.

“You,” Atsumu replies honestly. “Wanting you and then having you… It feels almost like a miracle.”

“Miracles are overrated,” Kiyoomi murmurs.  

“Mm, I just… most of the time, I want things I know I can’t have. That’s the whole point of wanting. Otherwise, if I could have it, I’d just blindly work toward it until I have it, but the whole process of… wanting. It’s like dreaming, right? Like reaching for stars and grasping at air, but not I’m… you… we’re here, and it’s like a wish I didn’t think would be heard,” Atsumu explains. “There was family and Osamu. There was volleyball and everything that came with it—the laughter, the sweat, the victories and the crushing losses.”

Atsumu lets out a deep breath and turns fully to face Kiyoomi. “And now there’s you. A combination of everything yet the very antithesis of what I thought I would’ve wanted. To have you without having worked for you feels like cheating, you know? But not in a bad way. In a way that feels like, yatta, I lucked out, or something.  Like family and volleyball, it’s just something that comes with me. That’s how you feel like.”

Kiyoomi’s not sure what to say. He’s not very eloquent with his feelings, so he just says, “I love you, Atsumu,” and hope it means just as much.

Atsumu seems to freeze at the words. “Um.”

“That’s what you were trying to tell me, right? That you love me?” Kiyoomi smiles softly. “I love you too.”

Atsumu lets his hesitance melt away, breaking out into a smile. Beautiful. “Of course you do,” he says simply. “Of course, you do…”

The words are playful and definitely in character with Atsumu, but there’s something special in what he says, Kiyoomi can tell. Somehow, it feels like Atsumu’s acceptance of Kiyoomi’s love means even more than the love Atsumu’s giving him. There’s an indescribable intimacy to be accepted by Atsumu, to be the one who will finally stand by his side and cherish him like no one has before.

“Ah,” Atsumu exhales into the air. “I want…”

“You want?”

“I want… tonkatsu,” Atsumu finishes. “I want tonkatsu. With a side of gyoza.”

“Tomorrow?”

Atsumu smiles. “It’s a date.”

--