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It’s 2:09 AM when Sakusa finally accepts that he seems to have difficulties sleeping without you. He’s spent the entire evening tossing and turning, his mind too restless to allow him more than a few minutes of peace. There’s a lingering discomfort in the pit of his stomach that swells each time he glances over at one of his team sweaters resting atop the desk at the other end of the room. It’s still neatly folded, as it had been by your careful hands, left undisturbed since the arrangement in which you’d returned to him.
He feels sick at the situation he’s gotten himself into. At how he’s sleeping by himself instead of at your side. At how he pushed you away. At how he made a decision for you that you might not have made yourself—and how wrong he was.
It had been a week since he’d broken up with you, and he’d spent a week regretting it.
He often told himself as consolation that the concept of right or wrong decisions in gray areas such as this was ridiculous. That they were only choices that lead would lead down different paths, neither more correct than the other. But this… this felt wrong. The error of his ways seeped into his gut, clouded his mind, and pounded against his head on nights like these when sleep evaded him. But he wasn’t quite sure how to remedy the situation.
How could he be sure you wanted him back when his words had shattered the calmness of your expression like a storm does the glassy reflection of an otherwise still lake? When you’d come to his apartment to drop off his sweater and a few stray items he’d left behind with just a “Here you go,” and nothing more? When he was the one who had broken your heart?
He was sure you’d never want to see him again, so he hadn’t tried to see you again, in spite of his need to fix the mistake he’d deemed selfish.
There’s a haunting, smothering quietude to his room. No sheets whisper against your skin as you shift beside him to readjust your body in your sleep. No gentle sighs pour onto his shoulder from your drift into a deeper slumber. No quiet murmurs escape between your lips while you respond to your dreams. Just his heartbeat thrumming against his ribcage and his shaky breaths, then the heavy dragging of his phone against the wood of his bedside table when he picks it up.
Your name is on his screen in an instant, and he wonders if you’ve changed his name in your contacts yet. Before he can even process what he’s doing, the gentle buzzing of the dial tone pierces the silence. Fuck. Is he even ready to have this conversation now?
The phone you feel to have been staring at all night lights up on your own nightstand, breaking the darkness and brings you to alertness with its quiet but shrill chimes. Upon picking up the device, you’re met with your ex’s name and face, making your eyebrows furrow both in anger and confusion.
What the hell’s he thinking, calling me at two in the morning? You let it ring once.
Why’s he calling me at all? What does he want? You let it ring twice.
Maybe something’s wrong. What if something’s wrong? You pick up on the third ring.
“Hello?” Your greeting isn’t met with a response. “Kiyoomi…?”
“Hey.”
His voice sounds as heavy as your heart feels. “Uh…” you mumble, unoccupied hand moving to grip your other wrist in an attempt to ground yourself, “Is… everything okay?”
“No. It’s not.” He could never lie to you, even if he wanted to—but the desire never crossed his mind. “(F/n), I…” he drifts off, his jaw clenching as he breathes out a quick sigh of irritation with himself. He clearly wasn’t prepared to make this call, and he hates that he’s disturbed you at such an early hour out of his own selfishness.
In the silence that follows, three, distinct words plaster themselves at the forefronts of both of your minds. They’re those each of you wants to speak but they’re not the same ones. With each second that ticks by filled with anticipation, marked by lips parted as they wait to voice your desires, you find yourself growing more desperate to tell him your three words.
But he speaks his first.
“I fucked up,” he whispers, the soft timbre of his tone a far cry from that of the commands you’ve heard him shout across the court.
Raking his fingers through his dark curls, he continues, “I self-destructed, and I didn’t know what to do. So, I tried to save you by speaking for you, telling you that you were better off without me. But I shouldn’t’ve done that.” You take your lower lip between your teeth as tired eyes sting with tears. “You’re strong; you can speak for yourself. You don’t need or want me to do it for you, especially not when I’m wrong.”
“Kiyoomi…”
“I’m sorry.” A nearly inaudible, shaky breath falls from his lips. “If I could take that moment back so you never had to feel that kind of pain and doubt, I would. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t expect anything, not with the way I pushed you away even after you’d shown you’re the person I can always trust the most.”
The truth behind his words makes your fingers curl tighter around your phone.
He’s right.
Earning Sakusa’s trust hadn’t been easy, initially, but over time, he’d let down his guard. Laid his head on your chest to let your heartbeat lull him to sleep rather than turn away from you. Spoken to you about what was really bothering him rather than giving you a superficial overview or dismissive response. Let your shoulder be the harbor and safe havens for his emotions when he couldn’t hold them in anymore. All because you’d accepted him each time he chose to step under the blinding light of vulnerability, where all his most intimate thoughts and feelings were exposed without any darkness in which they could hide. Because you’d loved him for who he was, because you love him for who he is, because you will love him for who he becomes in the future.
Sadness brings tremors to your lips and beckons your fingers to your eyes to brush away a few stray tears. Him turning his back on you in a time of need, choosing to fall deeper into the hole he’d dug for himself rather than into your outstretched arms ready to catch him had hurt you the most. The suddenness of his cold behavior had shocked you, and the moment he’d walked away from you had replayed itself in your mind on an endless loop the entire week. But his honesty with you now, admitting to his mistake rather than moving on and away from you, shows you he still loves you—that he never stopped, rather.
After swallowing thickly, the ball of emotion in your throat making it hard to do so, you let your three words be known.
“I miss you.”
His response is almost instantaneous this time: “I miss you too.”
Your lips form a relieved smile though they carry a subtle taste of salt.
An invitation extended to him to come over finds him at your door no more than a half an hour later. The fatigue and stress he’s been experiencing is evident in the darkness beneath his eyes and the slump of his shoulders, but he has no qualms with standing in the entryway for a few minutes longer while the two of you hold one another in a tight embrace. His warmth and the faint but ever-present scent of his favorite laundry detergent lingering on his clothes lifts the fog that has been clouding your mind, and you can feel his body melt into your arms as his head comes to rest beside yours.
“I love you so much,” he murmurs, “I won’t let my thoughts get the better of me like that again, okay? I’ll talk to you, and I’ll be here for you.”
You reply, “I love you too,” and feel his grip around you tighten when you add, “You’re safe with me.”
When the two of you pull away, he follows you along the familiar path to your bedroom and sets his backpack down in the same spot as always—right by his side of your bed, next to the nightstand. It’s only been a week, but things have felt so different without him around that watching him follow the same routines, such as the way he methodically adjusts your pillows to just the right angle and height before peeling back the comforter and sheets, gives you immense comfort. Crawling into bed beside him brings your bodies close once more, and your fingertips find his face out of habit, tracing over his handsome features and moving stray curls away from his weary eyes.
His nose brushes against yours moments before your lips meet in a tentative kiss, as if he’s testing the waters. Your fingers pressing into the nape of his neck to keep your mouths connected pulls him beneath the surface, and he allows himself to get lost in the depths with you for a bit instead of questioning where you’re going. He doesn’t feel the need to.
It’s both lazy and fervent, the way your lips meld together, and your kisses reflect a yearning for each other that eclipses your exhaustion—for a few, blissful minutes, at least. You hum gently when your mouths part for the last time as sleep takes its hold on you. “You need to rest,” you suggest, “Can we talk sometime after you get back from training tomorrow?”
He nods slowly, head heavy with a week’s worth of fatigue, and answers, “Of course.” Beneath his dark fan of eyelashes, Sakusa’s gaze follows yours while you turn on your side away from him, glancing over your shoulder as a silent request for him to take up his usual spot behind you. His arms snake around your torso and the bed dips, bringing your back flush against his chest. Your fingers interlace with a set of his that you naturally hold close to your chest, and he nestles his face in the crook of your neck, planting a gentle peck against your exposed skin.
With you, there’s a peaceful, weightless quietude. He hears your legs shuffle beneath the covers as they readjust and the gentle sigh that leaves your mouth as you drift off to sleep. Feels your heartbeat against the back of his hand while he basks in the familiar warmth emanating from your body that fits against his so seamlessly.
His warm breath cascades over your skin when he exhales deeply once more, and finally finds solace in the slumber that comes to him almost instantly.