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Atsumu Miya was six years old when he received his soulmark, exactly three days before Osamu. Atsumu remembers the details because he has fond memories of him as a child spending those three days relentlessly teasing Osamu for presenting later.
He was fourteen when he first saw his soulmate, on a volleyball court, of course, as nothing short of a fellow starlet athlete would be right for Atsumu. He remembers very little about that time--he actively does his best to repress his junior high days--but he remembers seeing the boy’s eyes first, vehemence and stormy and mysterious. He saw the boy’s soulmark next, a small discoloration right in the middle of his left forearm, right where Atsumu’s was.
He remembers tugging on his mothers sleeve, and pointing at the other boy--who had just made one of the nastiest spikes he’d seen in his entire life . “Ma,” he had said, “that’s my soulmate.”
His mother had patted his head, and told him not to jump to conclusions, but when the other boy had looked up at the stands and they looked eyes, when Atsumu felt the intensity in the other boy rumbling through him like a thunderclap, he knew. They were meant to be.
He was fifteen when he met his soulmate in person, during the winter break in his first year of high school, when they had both been invited to the Youth All-Japan for the first time.
Atsumu had gone up to him, held out his hand, and proclaimed, “My name’s Atsumu Miya, setter, and I’m yer soulmate.”
His soulmate had regarded him like a piece of chewed gum that he had just stepped on. He glanced down at Atsumu’s outstretched arm. “I don’t shake hands,” he had said, eventually.
Atsumu had put his hand down, and grinned at him. “That doesn’t matter, s’long ‘ya can hit my sets.”
The other boy’s eyes had sparked competitively. “Oh,” he hissed, “I can demolish your sets.”
“Prove it.”
“So,” Atsumu panted, after an hour (maybe two. Three, even. He lost time around that boy) of setting and spiking over the net. “What’s yer name, anyway?”
The boy had smiled minisculely, breaths coming out heavy as well, but his eyes had relaxed, and his face had looked peaceful. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”
After the camp had finished, he went home and practiced the syllables on his tongue, until rolling them out became as natural as breathing.
He was seventeen when they became official, right before the start of their third year. Osamu had walked in on them making out in the bathroom and didn’t let Atsumu live it down for weeks.
Worth it, though, if only so he could look at Kiyoomi for one second longer.
When he was eighteen and Kiyoomi was seventeen, after the games and the celebrations and with the high of graduation racing through their veins, Atsumu had confessed. “I think I love you, ‘Omi.”
And Kiyoomi, notoriously stiff, uptight, awkward Kiyoomi, had grabbed his hand, laced his fingers around his, and turned his face towards the star-filled night sky. The moonlight had framed his face ethereally, and Atsumu had wished he’d taken a picture so he could savor the beauty forever. “Atsumu,” Kiyoomi had whispered towards the sky. “I love you too.”
“I think I could sit like this forever. With you, the stars, and nothing to worry about but each other.”
Kiyoomi had hummed in agreement. “Me too,” he had whispered, just as the first meteor in the shower streaked through the sky.
Four days before he was supposed to turn twenty-three, his soulmark turned black.
-
“So…” Atsumu started. “It’s been awhile.”
His only company was the wind whipping through the cemetery, brushing through the gravestones, rustling through the flowers in Atsumu’s hand, and causing the leaves to whistle as they were picked up and hoisted into the air. The sky was overcast. It reminds him of Kiyoomi.
“I love ‘ya, Omi,” Atsumu whispered hoarsely, crouching down to rub his fingers over the indents in the coffin. Loving Partner, it read. It was impersonally,
Atsumu swallowed. “I miss ‘ya. Why’d ‘ya have to go and leave me here, by myself? It was gonna be us, against the whole wide world.” He set the bouquet down next to him “‘Ya remember that night after graduation? When we saw the meteor shower together. It was the first time I said I loved ‘ya.” He swallowed thickly. “It was the first time ‘ya said it back.
“‘Ya remember what I said that night? Not just the I love ‘ya part, even though it’s true. I still do, by the way, if ‘ya were wondering. Not that you would, ‘cause you’re,” he had to force the word out, “dead, but I said somethin’ else too.
“I said ‘I wish I could sit like this forever.’ I still think that. I think that was the best night of my life.” He squeezed his hands together nervously, though he didn’t know why. It wasn’t like anyone could hear him. “Komori says hi, by the way. He says he wishes he could come but he had a ‘very important practice today.’” Atsumu laughed wetly. “That’s bull, he’s got a date tonight. That’s okay though, I guess. The girl’s nice, at least.
“Actually, I think ‘ya would’ve liked each other. She’s a shameless cheat, just like ‘ya. I think I’d give anything to watch you kick Bokuto’s ass at Mario Kart.
“‘Ya were my lungs, ‘Omi, I needed ‘ya to breathe. It’s been a year already and I-” Atsumu broke off, overcome by an influx of tears. “I still don’t think I’m doing it right.
“God, this feels pathetic. I’m talking to a gravestone. Y-yer gone, “ his voice quivered, “and I just need to fucking accept that. But I won’t, I know it, if ‘ya were still around ‘ya would be agreein’. I don’t think love works like that. I think it...persists. Maybe even through death.”
Atsumu wiped his eyes, and stood to leave. “I love ‘ya, Omi-Omi.” He whispered. “Happy birthday.”