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Miya Atsumu doesn’t need things like memories.
Memories are, if he’s putting it bluntly, shit. Absolute shit. They fill his mind, consume his time with ‘what ifs’ and ‘should haves.’ None of them will leave him alone. That’s all he wants — to be left alone. His brain, on the other hand, wants him to be perfect.
A loud knock shakes the door he’s slumped against, resonating through his thick skull.
“Miya,” Sakusa’s voice comes through the same, “are you okay?”
No. He’s not okay. He will never be okay again. It would probably be better if he was never born, if—
The knock interrupts again. “Don’t make me break down this door.”
Sakusa means it, too. He’s that type of guy; the type who never makes an empty threat. It’s infuriating, honestly, but also kind of impressive. Atsumu unlocks the door and moves to slouch against the wall as Sakusa slips into the bathroom, locking back up and closing them in. He stands awkwardly for a moment before sliding down beside Atsumu, hands shoved in his pockets to hide from the floor.
“Are you going to stay in here all night?” he asks.
Atsumu closes his eyes. “Leave me alone.”
“If that was what you wanted, you wouldn’t have let me in.”
As usual, Sakusa is right and as usual, he’s a too-blunt asshole about it.
“I wanna forget everything,” Atsumu blurts out. “I wanna move to another country and start over.”
Sakusa makes a strangled noise like he’s holding in a laugh. Or maybe something close to it — Sakusa doesn’t laugh.
“It’s not funny!” Atsumu crosses his arms and glares.
“It’s not.” The smirk drops off Sakusa’s face. “I don’t know what you were thinking, honestly.”
“I was thinkin’ maybe someone actually liked me, alright? I was thinkin’ I was right fer someone.” Atsumu huffs and trains his eyes on a bleach stain near the far corner of the well-worn bathroom rug, blinking until his vision clears enough to make it out — it’s shaped like a lumpy heart. Funny. Real funny.
“Well” —there’s a long pause and a heavy exhale— “you should still ask before you kiss someone.”
“Yer not helpin’,” Atsumu snaps harsh and jagged. “I already apologized to Shou, so stay out of it.”
Sakusa is quiet. He’s quiet for so long Atsumu forgets about the stain, starts to think instead about what else is ruined here. A lot. That’s the answer plain and simple, but nothing with Atsumu is ever truly simple or plain. Sakusa, too.
Atsumu turns to his silent companion to find his face wet — a single tear staining a line down the length of his cheek.
“What—” Atsumu’s mouth falls open. “What’re ya cryin’ fer?”
Sakusa doesn’t answer right away. He sucks in a breath and blinks his eyes until they’re back to normal, back to sharp, but he makes no effort to wipe his lone tear. That stays.
“Sorry—” Sakusa shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It makes me sad.”
Atsumu doesn’t understand what he means. He doesn’t know how to make sense of it, what questions to ask. He pulls his sleeve over his thumb and swipes it across Sakusa’s soft cheek, stealing the tear away.
As usual, Sakusa flinches at his touch and as usual, Atsumu mutters an apology of his own.
They sit there against that wall letting the thumping music of the party flow through them, fill between, soak in the heavy sadness they share.
The memory of it won’t leave him alone.
——
The next time they have a moment —as Atsumu’s brain has branded them— is when they’re slamming locker doors as loud as they can and yelling over it all. Their voices are as big as they are, as threatening and full of bite. Their words, too, insults flung back and forth, hurled like rocks.
As usual, it’s Sakusa’s fault and as usual, Atsumu refuses to let him forget it.
“Yer playin’ is trash lately,” Atsumu fires back to whatever insult Sakusa launched at him; he’s not even hearing them anymore. “Disgusting in the worst way!”
Sakusa’s been like this the entire week. Slipping, missing more and more of Atsumu’s sets, closing himself off with crossed arms and harsh words. It’s starting to have Atsumu second guessing everything: their synchronization, their almost-friendship, even himself — and he certainly doesn’t need that. He can do that well enough on his own.
Sakusa opens his locker door only to slam it once more. “Fuck off, Miya.”
This is the first time Atsumu’s heard his surname from that sharp mouth in weeks, and it cuts deep.
“Oh, so we’re back to that now, Sakusa?” Atsumu straight up growls. “I don’t know why I bother. Every time I think we have somethin’ good goin’, ya pull shit like this.”
Every time he starts to feel that spark, every time the warmth starts to spread, he gets shocked by the ice bath. That’s what this is — another cold spell. All because he got a little too close on the bus ride last weekend, because he listened too intently, asked too many questions and gave too many opinions, laughed too loud and smiled too long. He’s good at that — being too much. Atsumu is always too much.
“Then stop trying.” Sakusa crumples the stark white surgical mask in his hand. The poor thing never served its purpose. Every time Sakusa tried to put it on, Atsumu would say something to goad him into showing another sour face. He used to be so much better at hiding. Now Sakusa stands there, mask-less, jacket pocket-less, trying and failing to keep his face emotionless as he utters four devastating words, “I don’t need you.”
“What—” Atsumu slams his fist into his locker with everything he has.
It’s not true. It’s not. It can’t be.
“What’re ya lyin fer?” The question filters through his gritted teeth.
“I don’t need you,” Sakusa repeats after a faltering moment, other mask crumpling.
There’s a dent where Atsumu’s fist leaves, a permanent scar in the smooth metal. “Yes, you do.”
Sakusa says nothing, but his eyebrows hunch together, casting shadows over his face all the way down to the contemptuous curl of his lip.
“Say it.” Atsumu’s nostrils flare. “Say ya need me,” he demands.
They glare at each other. They glare for so long Atsumu begins to lose his anger to something worse. Pure desperation. He has to hear it, to hear those words in that cutting voice. It’s all he has — doesn’t have; it’s all he needs.
“Please” —he drops his eyes to the floor and swallows his pride— “please, Omi-kun, say it.”
“I do need you.” The statement leaves Sakusa’s mouth to hang in the air. “It makes me angry.”
Atsumu doesn’t understand what he means. He doesn’t know how to make sense of it, what questions to ask. He unclenches his fist and stares at the blood blossoming beneath the skin of his knuckles.
As usual, Atsumu’s emotions are a destructive thing and as usual, the carnage they cause isn’t something he can conceal.
They stand there in that empty locker room letting the tension of the day pour from them, pool between, evaporate into the thick silence they share.
The memory of it won’t leave him alone.
——
It happens again months later when they lose a game. Arguably one of the most important ones, one they fight long and hard for, one that drags on and on and on until every single player is ready to collapse from exhaustion.
Kiyoomi —as Atsumu’s brain has branded him— is no exception. When they finally reach their hotel room, he falls face-first onto the bed with a ‘humph.’ The more time Atsumu spends with him, the more he becomes accustomed to these funny little noises. They’re overly dramatic and stupidly endearing all at once. And, even worse, Atsumu can’t help but repeat them if only to get a reaction.
As usual, he does the exact same as Kiyoomi and as usual, Kiyoomi gives an annoyed huff.
“Get your own bed.” His heavy voice is muffled by the sheets.
As if Atsumu could make it another step, let alone five. As if he’d want to.
“Too far,” he whines. Five steps, five centimeters. He’s used to that — being too far. Atsumu is always too far.
Kiyoomi grumbles a response into that stark white bedding, and Atsumu turns, ear pressed to the sheets like there’s a chance he could catch the echo of it. Chance never favors him. It’s silent save his own heartbeat steadily keeping time for his weary mind. He doesn’t mind. The tired is a good kind, a welcome kind ready to take him in and plunge him into a deep dark, a sleep that does its job. Atsumu did his job, and now it’s time to rest.
“We lost.” Kiyoomi’s words lift Atsumu’s heavy eyelids. He’s turned, too, staring at Atsumu with a pitch-black gaze, the welcome kind.
Atsumu stares back. “I know.”
“We did everything right.” Kiyoomi’s eyes start to sink in, asking to make themselves at home.
“Yes,” Atsumu answers, and he means it.
All the extra hours they’ve spent —waking up before the sun to run laps, taking turns cooking according to their strict diet plan, staying an hour later than even Hinata and Bokuto to practice serve after spike after set— all of it was worth it. They played well, they played with their whole hearts, but it wasn’t enough. Sometimes —Atsumu’s learned— it isn’t enough and that’s okay.
“I wouldn’t change a thing,” Atsumu summarizes his internal monologue.
A rare smile spreads on Kiyoomi’s face, cutting into the cheek squished to the bed. He laughs. Sakusa didn’t laugh, but Kiyoomi does, and the noise rings in Atsumu’s head like a bell. In clear tones it slices through the dark, lighting up every corner, each little nook and cranny.
“What—” Atsumu reins his own smile in. “What’re ya laughin’ fer? We lost.”
“So?” Kiyoomi’s curls fall over his forehead, tickling the edges of his dark eyelashes.
Atsumu wants to cross those five centimeters and push them back, wrap them around his fingers. “Yer crazy,” he says half to himself. It’s too far.
“And you’re not freaking out.” The distance is nothing to Kiyoomi; he reaches out easily and flicks Atsumu on the nose. “It makes me relieved.”
Atsumu doesn’t understand what he means. He doesn’t know how to make sense of it, what questions to ask. He sticks his tongue out at Kiyoomi like a petulant child.
As usual, Kiyoomi raises an unimpressed brow and as usual, the twitch at the corner of his lips gives him away.
They lie there in that hotel bed letting the exhaustion of the game wash over them, flow between, sink into the soft sheets they share.
The memory of it won’t leave him alone.
——
They’re soaking wet when they reach Atsumu’s apartment, clothes dripping on the floor of the genkan, marking a trail down the hall and into the bathroom where fluffy towels and another moment wait for them.
Atsumu is strong, but he’s no match for his wet shirt, twisted and caught on his elbow as he struggles to pull it over his head. He nearly has it when warm fingers brush over his rain-damp skin, shooting that familiar spark through him. It’s strong, stronger than he is, and it jolts him back against the door to slam it shut. Weakened, he slides down the length of it until his tailbone hits the floor. He stays there, peeking over the collar of his shirt pulled high on his nose, trapped.
Kiyoomi peers down at him, hands returning to his sides and eyebrows high. “I was trying to help,” he mutters. “Sorry.”
That’s Atsumu’s line. He’s the one who finds every reason to touch Kiyoomi, any excuse to utter an apology he doesn’t mean. Kiyoomi stole it. And that’s not all he took.
Atsumu stares. He stares as he yanks the shirt the rest of the way over his head. He stares as he pulls himself up by the towel on the bar. He stares as he backs Kiyoomi against the wall, hand hitting the tile five centimeters from his shoulder with a wet slap.
It echoes, weaving in and out of their heavy breaths until it’s suffocated by them.
“What—” Kiyoomi steals another one of Atsumu’s lines. “What are you doing?”
What is he doing? Atsumu doesn’t know — his brain isn’t in charge anymore. This is instinct, pure animal instinct demanding he twist his fingers in Kiyoomi’s shirt, ruck it up to dig every corner of his hands into each little nook and cranny and
touch,
touch,
touch.
He doesn’t do it. He doesn’t do any of it because the moment he looks up, Kiyoomi’s eyes are wide and his bottom lip trembles as he struggles to swallow down what Atsumu can only imagine is a hearty lump of distaste in his throat. Atsumu would know — he feels the same rising in him, at himself. He’s doing it again: being too much, taking things too far. But this time it’s not too late to stop.
“I’m gonna go—” Atsumu doesn’t finish his sentence. He leaves. His hand leaves the wall, his legs leave the bathroom, his body leaves the last of his heart behind with the thief.
And when he returns in dry clothes with a second set in hand, he finds Kiyoomi hiding in a towel on the edge of the tub with his shirt at his feet.
As usual, he’s pulled it up over his head like a child and as usual, he’s nothing short of adorable with his pert nose and his crown of curls peeking out.
“Ya look silly like that.” Atsumu sets the clothes on the countertop and sits beside him, leaving space between.
“Atsumu—” Kiyoomi’s tone is softened by the fluffy fabric. “I don’t—”
“Ya don’t have to say anythin’.” Atsumu sighs. “I know.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t like him like that. No one does — not Kita, not Hinata, not anyone he’s ever dared fall for. Memories of unrequited love fill the space where his heart used to sit before he gave it all away. He should have held on to it better. He should have kept some small piece for himself.
“You don’t know.” Kiyoomi surprises him with a hand hovering over his knee.
They both watch it, watch as fingertips drop, dragging over skin before curling into themselves, pulling back and hiding away.
“You don’t know at all.” Kiyoomi adjusts the towel to cover his head completely. “It makes me scared.”
Atsumu doesn’t understand what he means. He doesn’t know how to make sense of it, what questions to ask. He tugs on the corner of the towel, pleading without words to be let in.
As usual, Kiyoomi gives in the slightest bit and as usual, Atsumu pushes for more until they’re pressed together.
They perch there on the edge of that tub letting the safety of the towel ensconce them, disappear between, keep in the solid warmth they share.
The memory of it won’t leave him alone.
——
Miya Atsumu doesn’t need things like memories.
But he wants them. He wants them like he wants Kiyoomi. He wants them to fill his mind and consume his time. That’s all he wants — to never be left alone. They’re not perfect. Not Atsumu, not Kiyoomi, not his memories, but that’s okay.
What is perfect is this moment in time.
With sunshot skin and satisfied stomachs, they lounge on a blanket at the park, surrounded by empty bentos and the sounds of summer. Cicadas are buzzing, children are laughing as they chase each other along the edge of the gurgling stream, and Kiyoomi is sighing beside him over and over and over.
“Need somethin’, Omi-kun?” Atsumu finally looks up from the magazine he’s been flipping through as slowly as possible if only to bring Kiyoomi closer.
His plan is a solid success. Kiyoomi is mere centimeters from his face, craning his neck and pretending to care about the sneaker ad spread across the page.
“Yes.” Kiyoomi’s eyes slide to him, sink right in without delay. “You.”
Atsumu raises his brows high. “In the park? Scandalous!”
As usual, Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and as usual, Atsumu can’t help but plant a kiss on his cheek.
It’s warm and soft and Kiyoomi doesn’t flinch. Even better, he pushes into it, asking for another and another and another. Atsumu doesn’t have to ask; he doesn’t have to apologize. All he has to do is give.
“Greedy,” Atsumu gets out when he finally escapes. “You like me too much, Omi-Omi.”
“I do,” Kiyoomi sniffles, and a tear rolls down his well-kissed cheek.
“What—” Atsumu starts. “What’re ya cryin’ fer?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t answer right away. He sucks in a breath and blinks his eyes until they’re back to normal, back to soft, but he makes no effort to wipe his lone tear. That stays.
“Are ya sad?” Atsumu steals it away with a swipe of his thumb, bare.
Kiyoomi gives a quick shake of his curls.
“Angry?”
And another.
“Relieved?” Atsumu tries even though it doesn’t fit. “Scared?”
And another.
“Then what is it, Omi-kun?” Atsumu erases the space between them, tangling their bare legs together, each little nook and cranny of their sun-warmed skin clinging at every corner of contact. “Say it. Please.”
“It makes me happy.” Kiyoomi smiles then, teeth and all. “You make me too happy.”
Atsumu understands exactly what he means. There’s no need to make sense of it, no questions to ask. Atsumu smiles back too big and too bright and too full, and it’s just right.
As usual, Atsumu gave every last piece of his heart away and as usual, the space where it used to sit is overflowing with Kiyoomi’s.
They hold each other there on that blanket letting the warmth of the sunshine melt them, blend between, become one in the imperfect love they share.
The memory of it won’t leave him alone. Atsumu refuses to let it.