Archive of Our Own

ACT 1

Now is the winter of our discontent.

(Richard III, Act 1, Scene 1)

SCENE 1

MIYA ATSUMU ANGERS THIRD CELEBRITY THIS MONTH 

By Fumi Enaga

According to a press statement released by popular Se!joh member Oikawa Tooru, Miya had said that Oikawa’s facial expressions were too stiff. Miya also left negative comments on several of Se!joh’s shows, claiming Oikawa did not have enough acting range for the roles he was cast in.

This is the third celebrity threatening to press charges against Miya in just the span of three weeks. Earlier this month, Miya had left similar comments on rising star Kageyama Tobio and budding actor Lev Haiba’s works. 

Infamous for his harsh critique of newbies in the industry, Miya certainly has established quite the reputation for himself…

Kita slams the article onto the table. “Didn’t I tell you to watch your mouth?”

Atsumu gulps down the rest of his miso soup and sets it down on the dining table. Wiping his mouth with the back of hand, he leans back into his chair. “I’m just telling it like it is. His actin’ sucks. Dunno why he’s gettin’ so pressed about it.”

“Don’t know why?” Kuroo asks in disbelief. “You told this guy he chose the wrong career! You told him he was nothing more than a pretty face and he should’ve just gone into modelling!”

Atsumu stretches his arms with a yawn. “Don’t see anythin’ wrong with tellin’ the truth.”

His PR team stares at him, all gathered around the table in an emergency intervention. They all have varying degrees of exasperation on their faces, ranging from Akaashi’s disapproving look to Daishou lying prostrate across the table. 

“It doesn’t matter whether it was the truth or not,” Kuroo protests. “Look, we know your acting is great. You win awards every year, blah blah blah. But you’re not going to land roles just because of that! Nowadays, everyone looks at public image. You can only get around this industry if you have good relations to other hotshots, like collaborating with them and shit.”

“Besides,” Akaashi cuts in calmly, “you never know when any of them might end up being your co-stars.” 

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “That scrub sucks so bad, he’s never gonna work with me.” 

Kuroo is about to rebuke Atsumu when Yachi interrupts, professional tone cleanly cutting through the bickering. "That might be true, but it's clear you need someone specifically dedicated to keeping you out of trouble. We’ve found a personal assistant for you, one Ushijima referred to us—he'll be shadowing you to make sure you don't get into any more trouble."

Atsumu perks up. “When’s he coming in?”

Yachi types something into her computer and pushes her glasses up. “Tomorrow at nine in the morning.” 

Atsumu groans, but he’s cut off by Kita adding on, “Please make yourself somewhat presentable and try not to scare him away.” 

This is far from the first time such an incident has occurred. The first personal assistant they had tried to recruit had rejected them shortly after meeting Atsumu, complaining that Atsumu was too difficult to deal with. From where he is sitting at the head of the table, Osamu watches Atsumu begin to bicker with Kita.

As people who have had to deal with Atsumu’s bullshit for an extended period of time, his PR team is quite the force to be reckoned with. Here is the lineup:

Standing at the head of the team is Kita Shinsuke, the only one who is able to subdue Atsumu with a glare. His job, essentially, is to lead the team and stand in for anyone who cannot perform their duties at critical moments. He also manages to keep Atsumu out of trouble ninety-eight percent of the time. The other two percent usually ends up in a gossip article. 

Next is Kuroo Tetsurou, Atsumu’s publicist. He snags endorsement deals and television interviews to keep Atsumu in the limelight, and generates buzz by helping to brainstorm social media campaigns. Gifted with a pretty glib tongue, Kuroo is often tasked with the painful job of dealing with the press whenever Atsumu screws up—which is, admittedly, fairly frequently.

Here, Akaashi Keiji comes in. He works with Kuroo to deal out damage control, writing most of Atsumu’s public apologies. He also curates Atsumu’s social media alongside the rest of the team. 

Working closely with them is Yachi Hitoka, who manages Atsumu’s schedule and keeps track of events, big or small. She also knows his filming schedule inside out and ensures nothing clashes. Basically, an over-glorified Google calendar. 

Then there’s Daishou Suguru, or Atsumu’s on-call stylist. He ensures that Atsumu looks good, or at least presentable, to the public and decides on outfits based on Atsumu’s dressing preferences. Atsumu isn’t a particularly fussy dresser, but he hates wearing too much fur because it makes his skin itch. And hates turtlenecks because he feels like he cannot breathe in them. And hates wearing accessories on his legs because they feel restrictive. And…

Okay, maybe a bit fussy.

Finally, the team’s unofficial member, Miya Osamu. He’d originally debuted as an actor alongside Atsumu and the two had dominated the industry, up until Osamu announced his departure from the acting scene two years ago to open a boutique instead. Since then, he’s led a quiet life with his boyfriend, Suna Rintarou. He’s mostly only on the team for moral support (read: roasting the shit out of Atsumu).

But the various strengths of the team members don’t matter for now. Later today, someone new is about to be added to the crew. Four-fifths of the group and one Miya Atsumu sit in his living room, awaiting Atsumu’s newest victim. Kita is driving him to Atsumu’s villa. 

Atsumu begins to tap his feet nervously on the carpet, a sign that he is getting anxious, excited, or both. He knows by this point he’s probably bitten his lower lip red and scratched lines into the leather from picking at the sofa—maybe some of the pep talk Kita gave him last night managed to wriggle its way into his brain, because for once, he just might want to make a good first impression.

“H-hey,” Yachi tries to reassure him, “I’m sure it’ll go smoothly. You’re—” 

The door opens and everyone holds their breaths. “He’s here,” they hear Kita announce, and then:

A tall man, even taller than Kita, stands at the entrance to the living room. Curly hair and onyx eyes—there really isn't much else Atsumu can see with the bottom half of his face hidden behind a white surgical mask. The man is wearing a simple suit and black leather gloves, Atsumu swallows when he spots two moles above a fine brow, stark against milky skin.

He feels a strong and rather strange compulsion to kiss them. 

“My name is Sakusa Kiyoomi,” the man says, bowing.

His voice is slightly muffled by the mask, and most of Atsumu’s attention is still on those two moles, so he cannot really be faulted when he asks, “Your name is Omi?”

“Kiyoomi.” Sakusa straightens up, a slight crease between his eyebrows. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Omi, then.” Atsumu grins and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. 

(The pep talk did not work at all.)

The furrow between Sakusa’s eyebrows deepens. What a fantastic start to their relationship, Atsumu thinks contentedly. I want to piss the living hell out of this guy.

After introducing the rest of the team, they debrief Sakusa around the dining table. Sakusa sits opposite of Atsumu, right next to Osamu, as Kuroo goes over the list of Sakusa’s duties and limitations with a slideshow straight out of Atsumu’s high school days.

It is a boring presentation, to say the least. Atsumu barely catches any of it; he sleeps through all of Sakusa’s likes and dislikes, wakes up to hear Kuroo talking about setting boundaries, and falls back asleep. 

It’s not like Kuroo doesn't know Atsumu will never pay attention. Despite his initial interest in Sakusa, if his new PA instends on keeping his distance, Atsumu isn’t going to waste his time getting to know him. That’s not how Atsumu operates, and he will not change for some pretty boy who just shows up out of nowhere. Atsumu moves on. 

Just when Atsumu’s admittedly short attention span is about to run out, Sakusa brings it back by saying, “I will not remove my mask.”

At this, Atsumu sits up and peers at Sakusa curiously. “Why not? Ya sick or something? Holy shit, is it terminal, contagious or both? Oh my god, if ya die on me while I’m hitting up chicks at a bar I’m gonna murder ya.”

It shouldn’t be humanly possible for Sakusa to look this disgusted with him while wearing a mask, but his eyes and eyebrows are strangely expressive. "I don’t like germs—something you would've known if you had been paying attention to the presentation." 

It’s the most Atsumu has heard him speak so far, and Atsumu wants to hear more. He has never heard anyone with a voice like Sakusa’s, low and gravelly with an accent Atsumu can’t decipher. He itches to hear what Sakusa sounds like without the mask—would his voice still be as nasally as it sounds, or much clearer? 

“Then why’re ya doin’ this job?” Atsumu asks instead. ”Ya hafta follow me to press events and shit, where there’s a ton of people.”

“I’m not required to give you an answer,” Sakusa replied curtly. “Since it involves my personal life, I’m not obligated to give these details out.”

“Boorriiinnngg~” Atsumu sing-songs. “I’ll find it out myself eventually~” 

Sakusa gives him an odd look, one that Atsumu doesn't understand and doesn't care for. Over the years, Atsumu's been called so many names by so many people, that at this point he just accepts being an asshole as part of his personality. Maybe he has no emotional capacity or feelings, but so what? If it’s not something that affects his acting, he couldn’t care less. 

Sakusa's sanitation standards and preferences fall into this second category, and so Atsumu stands up, rolling his eyes.

“I’m going back to my bedroom,” Atsumu says pointedly, and stalks off towards the left wing of the villa. He hears someone follow him as he turns down a set of corridors, resolutely ignoring them until he has almost reached his bedroom.

When his unwelcome companion shows no sign of slowing down, Atsumu whirls around and stabs a finger into Sakusa’s chest. “What’re ya tailin’ me for?”

Sakusa stares down at him, and suddenly Atsumu feels very, very small. “As Kuroo said, I’m supposed to follow you around and make sure you don’t get into any trouble. Like a babysitter.”

“Don’t ya have yer own room or something?” 

“Yes, it’s right next to yours. You’re supposed to give me a house tour.” Sakusa sighs, and pointedly takes a step back. “Kuroo said that too. Also, please refrain from touching me like this without warning, it makes me uncomfortable.” 

“Fussy ass,” Atsumu mutters under his breath, and then louder: “Follow me. I’ll show ya around this place.” 

He leads Sakusa out into the courtyard first, nodding at his gardener when they cross paths. Atsumu turns to tell Sakusa that the garden is further down and nothing much to see, but Sakusa is breathing heavily, chest heaving. His eyes, widened, are zeroed in on the bucket of purple hyacinths in the gardener’s hand.

Atsumu blinks, glancing back and forth between the flowers and Sakusa—but by the time Atsumu turns to ask him what his problem is, he has composed himself. Sakusa’s pretending like nothing happened, so Atsumu shrugs it off and decides it would be best to steer clear of the flower gardens for now, freshly planted with the same purple blooms. Instead, Atsumu turns around and takes Sakusa through the courtyard, into the right wing of the villa. 

SCENE 2

“The swimming pools are here, and the jacuzzi’s further down,” Atsumu says as he walks past the entrance to the two indoor pools on the other side of the wall. Atsumu points things out as they walk: storage rooms for his fan mail and fan gifts; an elevator to the garage; a home theater stocked with classic snacks. He leads Kiyoomi through an arcade room, offhandedly saying that he doesn't play much, but when Kiyoomi follows Atsumu out of the room, his hand accidentally brushes against a game machine, still hot to the touch.

Kiyoomi wonders how many lies Atsumu has told. Is he trying to save face? Show that he isn’t over-reliant on his twin? Trying to prove a point? 

As curious as he may be, he opts not to question it—ultimately, Atsumu is his boss, and Kiyoomi would rather not be fired on his first day of work. 

They cross another corridor to the left wing of the villa, towards all the bedrooms. Atsumu recites names as they pass closed doors: Atsumu’s PR team resides on the second floor, while Osamu and his boyfriend Suna stay on the first floor with Atsumu. Kiyoomi will be taking the empty bedroom down the hallway from Atsumu’s, just for convenience.

They walk back to the first floor of the main wing, where the living room leads to the large dining hall filled with antiques that Atsumu probably never even knew existed. Beyond the dining hall is the kitchen, and then a large backyard the size of a quarter of a football field. 

It is, Kiyoomi will admit, a very nice house. But for a house so big and filled with so many people, Kiyoomi cannot help but notice that Atsumu seems a little… alone.

Kiyoomi sees it in the small hunch of Atsumu’s shoulders and the dull shuffle of his feet on shiny marble flooring. Soft footsteps echo as Atsumu walks back to his room, Kiyoomi following a small distance behind. It is strangely quiet for a house with so many inhabitants. 

With the tour over, Kiyoomi finds himself in his new bedroom, where three of his luggage have been rolled in beside a long mahogany desk. The room is spacious, almost a suite, and a large king-sized bed takes up the centre of the room where it is pushed against a wall. But it’s not the glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, nor is it the wide flat-screened television on the wall that catches Kiyoomi’s attention.

Rather, his eye is caught by a small, old photograph—lying forgotten in a drawer most likely left open by a cleaning lady by accident. He picks it up; in the picture, two identical boys with their hair parted in opposite directions smile cheesily at the camera. They both have their arms around each other, standing in front of a campfire, and although the lighting is poor, Sakusa can make out a thin band on the wrist of the boy with his hair parted to the right. 

Kiyoomi’s heart thumps loud and fast in his ribcage. He slips the photo back into the drawer and turns towards his luggage, setting the smallest suitcase on the table to unpack it. He unzips the first compartment, closing his hands around a small grey toiletry bag. Reaching inside, Kiyoomi draws something out and clenches his fist around it. 

SCENE 3

Atsumu knows that he’s annoying. He deliberately clicks his pen during meetings to get a reaction until his thumbs get tired. He pokes people in the ribs until he finds their tickle spot. He plays cat videos over his speakers at disturbingly high volumes until Osamu tells him to shut the fuck up from three rooms down. 

Despite this, there’s something that is making him hold back on Sakusa. After seeing Sakusa show something other than disgust at the purple hyacinths— was that fear? —Atsumu suspects that maybe Sakusa is not just another run-of-the-mill personal assistant with possible anger issues.

Whatever. Atsumu isn't going to waste his time on trying to take apart the enigma that is Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

I don’t care at all , Atsumu tries to convince himself as he flops onto his bed. He’s attractive and mysterious (which is kind of my type), but I don’t care at all.

He’s trying to take his mind off the stranger in the next room by going through his script when someone knocks at the door. 

“Come in,” he says, not looking up from the script he is reading.

Yachi pushes open the door, an iPad in hand. “Do you need me to update Sakusa about your filming schedule for Upstream , Atsumu?” 

“I just have a few more scenes left before filmin’ gets wrapped up, but sure. Do whatever ya want.”

“Okay, then I’ll forward the email to him. Sorry for disturbing you!” The door closes shortly after, and Atsumu grunts and rubs his eyes. He thinks he has the script memorised, but he’ll probably have to go through it once more after this… practicing the emotions and actions. 

Atsumu has always been known to be overdramatic, so most people assume that the emotions should come naturally, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt love. It’s easy to fake it on a screen, but in reality, relationships are so much more complicated.

If Atsumu couldn’t even handle familial love, how could he deal with romance? 

He presses his knuckles against closed eyelids harder. There is a mirror sitting on top of his dresser, one that Atsumu doesn't look at because he is scared of what he will see. He’s so afraid that he’ll see a stranger staring back at him, haggard and burnt out. There are chains pulling and twisting at his heart, refusing to let it beat for anyone. 

Sometimes, Atsumu feels like a walking corpse. Concealer can hide his eyebags and blush can bring colour into his face, but no matter how good he looks on a big theatre screen or on magazine covers, Atsumu’s eyes are empty and lifeless. One day, his feet will carry him to his casket.

He refocuses his attention on the script in front of him. There are several intimate scenes scheduled, a forgone conclusion to the building sexual tension between Atsumu and his co-star’s characters throughout the first half of the movie.

Truthfully, Atsumu has no idea how he manages to get through them. It’s not like he doesn't have an active sex life—he often goes out to visit clubs and bring someone home to hook up with—but there are no sparks, no chemistry. He cannot fake desire in his eyes. 

Maybe somewhere along the way, Atsumu has learnt how to act too well. The lines between the filming set and his home blur, until standing in front of a camera feels like second nature. The world watches him like hawks waiting to devour their prey, something he has found out the hard way—fans who have pledged their lives to him would turn their backs on him in an instant should he mess up. 

In a fast-changing world where attention spans are getting shorter and shorter, Atsumu has to keep coming up with something new. He must fight to stay relevant or be left in the dust. It doesn't matter how he gets to the headlines—fighting other actors, getting caught up in scandals, shamed for sleeping with someone new every night. For someone whose dinner bowl is made from his face, Atsumu will try every underhanded tactic in the book to climb his way to the top.

He is not a scavenger, like a crow. He is not adaptable, like a cat. If Atsumu were an animal, he would be a fox, sly and devious. There is a Chinese proverb that he came across in a book once, where a fox once told a tiger that every animal in the forest was scared of the fox. The tiger was disbelieving of this, and the fox said that to prove it, the tiger was free to walk behind the fox as they made their way through the forest.

True enough, upon seeing the fox, every animal in their path fled back into the forest. The tiger was impressed. However, it was not the fox that the animals were afraid of, but the tiger walking behind him. 

Atsumu feels like this fox, pretentious and fake—using the tiger as a stepping stone to the top of the food chain. The fox is lonely because he’s a fraud, and he knows that no one would want to associate with him if they knew the truth. 

It’s not like Atsumu is a bad actor. It is that his social media pages are full of pictures of him surrounded by people, while in reality, everyone dissipates after the camera shutter goes off and Atsumu is left alone again.

A gust of wind flips the page of the script. 

HAILEY

Why would you pretend to be someone you aren’t? I love you just the way you are.

Atsumu slumps against the back of his chair. If he lies hard enough to himself, maybe someday he will believe the lies he has been telling to the world.

Later that night, Atsumu heads into the kitchen for a midnight snack. It’s a habit for him to stay up late before shoots, spending hours wrestling emotions into his voice. Only when he is practicing does he look into the mirror, fixing expressions he doesn't feel onto a face he doesn't recognise. 

He is surprised when the kitchen doors slide open to reveal Sakusa holding a cup of something, blowing on the hot liquid to cool it down faster.

“What’s that?” Atsumu asks. He can only make out the silhouette of curls under the dim kitchen light that is turned on. Is Sakusa wearing his mask, or has he finally taken it off? Surely he cannot wear his mask and drink at the same time.

“Oolong tea,” Sakusa tells Atsumu, stepping closer. To Atsumu’s disappointment, the mask is still on. Sakusa is wearing deep emerald silk pajamas and a pair of white fluffy slippers that brush against Atsumu’s feet when Sakusa passes him. He can smell tea leaves on Sakusa and something unfamiliar that is too faint for him to parse out. “Good night.”

Atsumu hums in acknowledgement, listening to the doors slide close behind him. He opens a drawer and rummages for the 3-in-1 coffee he knows Kuroo just replenished yesterday. He misses the house blend roasted ground coffee from Starbucks; perhaps he should go there before filming tomorrow to buy a pack. 

The doors open again. Atsumu looks up from where he is pouring coffee mix into his mug to see Sakusa wearing a strange expression on his face. “Don’t… don’t stay up too late,” he says, and turns on his heel before Atsumu gets a chance to process it. 

Concern? Atsumu shakes his head. He should turn in soon; nights of staying up must have been getting to him.  There is no way a stranger like Sakusa would be worried about him. Besides, why would it be Sakusa’s turn to care when even his own brother doesn't? 

As Atsumu walks back to his room with the cup of coffee in his hand, he hears a song filtering from Sakusa’s door. Does he not know of the existence of earphones? Atsumu thinks irritably.

He is about to enter his room when he realises the song is the opening theme to one of his most popular dramas. That night—or morning, considering he spent another two hours studying his script—Atsumu falls asleep with the smell of boiled tea leaves stuck in his head. 

ACT 2

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and there is winged Cupid painted blind.

(A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 1, Scene 1)

SCENE 1

A crack of thunder, a snap of a twig, rain, so much rain—

A voice hoarse from screaming, small hands seeking each other, tripping over tree roots to find shelter—

A head of unruly dark hair, pretty moles, “Kiyo!”—

Atsumu startles awake, gripping his sheets tightly. Cursing under his breath, he reaches over to pull his drawer open and grab the bottle of pills inside. With slightly shaking hands, he pours a pill into his palm and swallows it, washing it down with water from the bottle on his nightstand.

The sleeping medicine has been working for the two or more years that he has been taking it, but occasionally the nightmares come back, and it’s nights like this that he hates the most. He feels out of control, caught up in a tornado hurtling towards almost certain death. 

He glances at the clock. It's close to five in the morning, and belatedly Atsumu realises that he probably shouldn’t have taken the pill. Maybe he should just make the most of it and go back to sleep…

It is seven when Atsumu wakes up again, this time by someone shaking him aggressively. Groggily, he opens an eye to the sight of Kuroo’s panicked face. 

“You’re gonna be late,” Kuroo says urgently, “and Kita’s gonna murder me, fuck, wake up what the hell you’re fucking late—”

“Chill,” Atsumu says, sitting up and pushing Kuroo’s hands off his shoulders. “The shoot doesn’t start until eleven.”

“Didn’t you say you needed to stop by Starbucks before that? How are you going to get ready in time oh my god Atsu—”

Atsumu pushes Kuroo out of the room before he gets a headache. Still yawning, he makes his way to the bathroom to get ready and changes into the clothes Daishou laid out on the bathtub last night. 

When he gets to the dining table, there is no sight of Sakusa anywhere. Atsumu looks around, searching for inky curls, but quickly snaps himself out of it with a quick shake of his head. 

Daishou follows behind him as Atsumu puts on his shoes after breakfast and walks towards the car. He doesn’t know whether to be shocked or annoyed when he opens the car door and finds Sakusa sitting in the driver’s seat. 

“Omi!” Atsumu greets, not without some false cheer. “Drivin’ me around, eh? What are ya, my dog?”

“You sure pay a lot of money to this dog,” Sakusa replies, adjusting his mask.

“Then maybe the dog should do its fuckin’ job and drive.”

“Maybe the dog’s owner should consider shutting the hell up.”

“Fuck ya,” Atsumu says lamely, crossing his arms to pout out of the window. 

“No thanks.” Sakusa steps on the gas, pulling out of the villa's driveway and turning onto the street. “Where to?”

“Starbucks. The one two blocks down,” Atsumu spits out, because if there is anything he hates more than untalented scrubs, it’s losing to one. He turns to glare at the back of Sakusa's head, but it's only then that he notices the black fingerless gloves that Sakusa is wearing, and his mouth goes dry. 

Logically speaking, there is no way that anyone’s hands have the right to look this good. But Sakusa’s lean and slender fingers tapping impatiently against the steering wheel are so strikingly beautiful, and the dark leather only serves to outline and further emphasise them. It’s like his fingers are screaming for attention, and shit, Atsumu wants to touch them so badly. 

He doesn’t even realise he’s staring until Daishou nudges him with a knowing look and says, “We’re here.” 

Atsumu gets out of the car, still slightly in a daze, and pulls his cap lower over his eyes. He slips on a mask and sunglasses before walking towards the starbucks, and while Daishou stays in the car, Sakusa follows after Atsumu.

The bell on the door rings as Atsumu pushes it open, and he makes a beeline for the counter. “Can I get a—”

“Look who it is,” Atsumu hears from behind him, a voice that definitely doesn't belong to Sakusa. “I’m surprised you come here; thought Starbucks might be too cheap for someone as elite and high-class as you, since you’re so much more above the average citizen. Wouldn’t you prefer Black Ivory coffee instead?”

“Fuck off, Oikawa.” Atsumu turns around to see Oikawa sneering at him—where is Oikawa’s manager? Sugawara is the only one able to control Oikawa, and usually the two of them are inseparable, but today Oikawa is alone, standing in a teal parka. 

“Ooh, what are you gonna do? Tell me my acting’s trash again? Oh no, I’m so scared~”

Atsumu clenches a fist. “Ya fuckin’ scrub—”

Before he can lift his hand to punch the living daylights out of Oikawa’s snobby little face, slim fingers are curling around his wrist, holding it in place. 

“Miya,” Sakusa says from beside him. He is speaking directly into Atsumu’s ear. Fuck. “Everyone in here is watching you. Don’t fight him. You’re above that.”

Atsumu pauses, makes the mistake of turning his head just a fraction, and his eyes slide to the man standing next to him. He feels something punch through his stomach, leaving him sick and open. 

Sakusa’s eyes are fierce, honest—like he believes in Atsumu, like he knows Atsumu will do the right thing and walk away from the fight. How long has it been since someone trusted him so much? 

Atsumu exhales and uncurls his fist, all the anger seeping away like a receding tide. He doesn’t know what makes him do it, but a tiny voice is telling him that he cannot betray that trust. He will not. 

He stalks past Oikawa, head held high, without turning back to see whatever thunderstruck expression is pasted on Oikawa’s face. The bell on the door rings again on his way out, as if signalling the end of a match. For once, without actually getting into a fight, Atsumu feels like the victor, and he doesn’t even care that he never got his coffee. 

He arrives at the film set’s base camp and signs in for the day, then has his hair and makeup done as Sakusa waits outside the trailer. Several hours later, he is called on set.

The director gives him a brief rundown of the shooting schedule over the next few days: a chunk of the more dramatic, emotional scenes today, a break for a flash storm tomorrow, and all of Atsumu’s topless scenes the day after. Atsumu's filming schedule doesn't require him to be on set everyday, but with the majority of the film's scenes shot on outdoor sets, timing shoots around the weather is expected. Atsumu’s filming schedule doesn't require him to be on set everyday, but his schedule is extremely fluid since most of their scenes are shot on outdoor sets whose environments can be quite volatile. Filming is supposed to end late today, so Atsumu decides to visit the gym tomorrow—he’ll probably have to dehydrate all day in preparation of that. 

Atsumu knows that dehydrating is unhealthy. Kita and Osamu have individually nagged him about it multiple times, and on one memorable occasion, had lectured him simultaneously. It takes a huge toll on his body, it damages his kidney, it could lead to fatigue and dizziness which could be dangerous especially if he was filming—Atsumu has heard it all so many times, and now it’s like listening to a broken record.

The thing is, Atsumu cherishes his health and body, but his priority, first and foremost, will always be acting. To Atsumu, acting is his life. If sacrificing a chunk of his health means his acting will be better, then so be it. 

Atsumu meets up with his co-stars to go through the camera rehearsal for the scene, then heads on to the waiting area. He quickly locates the chair with his name, largely due to the fact that Sakusa is standing right beside it like a child guarding the last slice of cake.

Atsumu snickers as he plops down. “Ah, so yer my watchdog now, huh?”

Sakusa glowers at him. It’s hilarious, seeing a man who is almost two metres tall pout like a toddler whose favourite toy has been taken away. “Shut up, Miya.”

“Make me,” Atsumu taunts, and shit he did not mean for it to come out like that. What he meant was more along the lines of, “What are you going to do? Punch me?” but from the way a light blush is beginning to spread to the tips of Sakusa’s ears, Atsumu knows his words have been interpreted in a very different way. Wordlessly, Atsumu slumps down into his chair, steadfastly ignoring Sakusa until he is called back to shoot his scene. 

SCENE 2

Kiyoomi knows exactly what Atsumu means. He just can’t help but think about what would happen if Atsumu asked Kiyoomi to shut him up with other things, like Kiyoomi’s fingers, or Kiyoomi’s lips, or—Kiyoomi is going to hell and back for this—Kiyoomi’s dick—

Professionalism, he reminds himself, watching Atsumu argue with the lead actor as the camera pans between them. All eyes are on the scene that is playing out, but Kiyoomi is watching the emotions dancing across Atsumu’s face. After staying up to watch one of the dramas Atsumu has starred in, and seeing his acting in person, Kiyoomi can see that Atsumu is every bit as good as he says he is. 

When Atsumu acts, he immerses himself in the character completely. His acting doesn’t seem like acting at all—it is so unbelievably real, and that is what makes it so powerful. When Atsumu starts shouting and his voice breaks, Kiyoomi can feel the tension pulsing through his own body, can feel a shift in the atmosphere created just by the quivering of Atsumu’s voice.

“Yer gonna get hurt!” Atsumu yells, and Kiyoomi believes him. 

“I’m begging ya to take care of yerself,” Atsumu pleads, and Kiyoomi believes him.

“I thought we were friends,” Atsumu breathes, and Kiyoomi believes him.

Kiyoomi believes every lie and every scripted word. He feels rooted to the ground; nothing can tear his eyes off Atsumu. When the director finally shouts “Cut!”, Kiyoomi wonders how he is going to survive watching this everyday. 

Maybe he will not survive. If this is how I die, Kiyoomi thinks, watching them reshoot the scene from a different angle, then it will not be a painful death. 

The next day, after lunch, Kiyoomi follows Atsumu to a private gym owned by one of Atsumu’s friends, Iwaizumi Hajime. Atsumu introduces Kiyoomi to Iwaizumi cheekily—“Haji, this is Omi, my new personal watchdog!”—and earns himself matching unamused glowers before he starts his workout. Kiyoomi feels like there’s something amiss that he can’t exactly place, but he shrugs the feeling off and trails behind Atsumu into the gym.

Atsumu warms up with some stretching and jogging on the treadmill. He moves on to a sit-up machine and does more reps than Kiyoomi can count, before laying out a yoga mat and proceeding to do at least a hundred dumbbell crunches. Kiyoomi feels tired from just looking at him, but he continues to watch as Atsumu goes through multiple sets of exercises, never slowing down. 

Kiyoomi eventually loses track of time, but the next time he checks his watch, over three hours have passed. It is not until they have left the gym and are heading for the car that Kiyoomi realises what was off—throughout the entire workout, hell, since the beginning of this morning, Atsumu has not drunk a single sip of water. Kiyoomi thinks at first that Atsumu might have forgotten or left his water bottle at home, but Atsumu’s memory is excellent and there is a vending machine at the gym. In fact, they passed by it on their way in. 

“Are you going to drink water?” Kiyoomi asks, as he gets into the car and turns the ignition key. 

“Nah. I’m dehydrating. Means I don’t drink anything and tomorrow I’ll get more defined abs or something,” is the reply, and Kiyoomi immediately takes a left turn. “Oi, where are ya going? My house is the other way!”

Kiyoomi ignores the protests and threats until he drives into the parking lot of a convenience store. He runs in and out quickly, tossing a plastic bag over his shoulder at Atsumu as he slides into the driver’s seat and reverses the car out of the parking lot.

“Omi,” Atsumu whines, pulling out a bottle of cranberry juice, “didn’t I tell ya I can’t drink anything until tomorrow? Why must ya torture me like this?” Atsumu presses the cold bottle to his cheek and licks at the condensation gathered on the side. 

“Drink the cranberry juice and rinse your mouth with the mineral water. It’s the other bottle. Cranberry is a natural diuretic that’ll flush out excess water and toxins in your body, so your water intake will still be reduced,” Kiyoomi explains, turning onto the main road. 

In the rear-view mirror, he catches Atsumu tentatively unscrewing the lid of the cranberry juice. 

The drive back home is quiet, interrupted only by the occasional gulps of water from the backseat. Kiyoomi takes a left turn into the gates of Atsumu’s villa and drops him off at the front door before driving past the roundabout and into the garage. After parking the car and taking the lift back up to the house, Kiyoomi is surprised to see Atsumu waiting for him. 

“Have ya ever watched Mean Girls before?” 

SCENE 3

“No…? I don’t really watch shows,” Sakusa admits.

Liar, Atsumu thinks, recalling Sakusa watching Atsumu’s drama. “I can’t believe you’ve never watched the greatest movie of all time! Oh my god, I’m gonna make ya watch it right now.”

They both change into more comfortable clothing—Atsumu into a long-sleeved graphic tee with casual drawstring plaid shorts, Sakusa into a thin and plain white cotton shirt with light grey joggers. At home, Atsumu can truly be himself. Without the public eye on him, it feels like he can breathe a little easier. 

He definitely doesn't look at the strong set of Sakusa’s shoulders, because holy shit he can see the corded muscle of Sakusa’s back through the shirt and he wants to touch it so badly, wants to feel the muscle jump under his touch. Clearly, Sakusa works out too, and he definitely doesn't need to do bullshit like dehydrating for his abs to be visible. Hell, Atsumu can see them even through the flimsy material of Sakusa’s shirt. 

They sit at opposite ends of the couch, Sakusa pressed against the right side while Atsumu lies across the cushions, his feet almost touching Sakusa’s thighs. 

“Isn’t this a movie for teenage girls?” Sakusa asks as the intro credits start. 

“It’s a movie about teenage girls,” Atsumu corrects him. “Anyone can watch it.”

“Even two fully grown adult men?” Atsumu sees Sakusa raise an eyebrow. 

“Shh, just watch it. It’s good, I swear.”

About halfway through the movie, Atsumu turns to Sakusa, ready to ask who his favourite character is so far. Much to Atsumu’s surprise—and probably Sakusa’s, too, given how his eyes widen—instead of watching the movie, Sakusa is resting an elbow on the arm of the couch to support his head, a reddish tinge colouring his cheeks.

He’s watching Atsumu. 

“Omi,” drawls Atsumu, “I know I’m attractive, but ya should focus on the movie instead of the snack right beside ya.”

The blush on Sakusa’s face rapidly deepens under the light from the bright screen. Faster than Atsumu’s eyes can track, a cushion comes hurtling at him and hits him smack in the middle of his face. 

“I make a living out of my face!” Atsumu wails. He’s whining on purpose, to throw Sakusa off guard. Truth is, Osamu has hit his face with worse things than a cushion (a frying pan, at some point) and Atsumu has always retaliated. Nowadays, though, Osamu hits him with things that hurt more, like words. 

Words like “I hope yer happy now” and “It can’t just be the two of us forever” and “I love ya”. 

Atsumu shakes his head to clear his thoughts and stealthily tightens his grip on another cushion. With a swing of his arm and a loud “Oh, yer on, Omi-Omi'', he catapults it into Sakusa’s chest. 

The movie continues to play in the background, long forgotten, as Sakusa rises to his feet and blocks out half of Atsumu’s vision with another well-aimed cushion, and then ducks to avoid the flash of beige that Atsumu chucks at him. 

“It’s unfair that you have so much ammo,” Sakusa grumbles, and Atsumu doesn’t have any response to that except a grin.

If Atsumu is not playing on the arcade machines that Osamu gifted to him for him to destress, he’s watching shitty B-movies, laughing at the bad special effects and acting. Since he spends so much time in his home theatre, Atsumu has taken it upon himself to make it as comfortable as possible. 

What this means is that there are many, many, many cushions scattered around the room. 

Usually, Atsumu likes for there to be as many cushions as possible because it maximises his comfort, but right now every single cushion is a weapon. Atsumu watches Sakusa begin to gather cushions (read: ammo) in a corner of the room beside the screen, backlit by Regina George screaming as she tears photos off her wall. 

Atsumu lets out an even louder shout and lunges at Sakusa’s cushion fort, getting in a few good hits as he smashes a pillow into Sakusa’s mask. By some miracle, it hasn’t fallen off, but then Atsumu sees that it’s triple-looped around the back of Sakusa’s ears, making them red and angry. 

Atsumu decides not to press about it. If Sakusa wanted to tell Atsumu why he’s so cautious about germs, then Sakusa would have done it ages ago. It’s clearly a touchy subject, and Atsumu would rather take the longer path than tread on landmines. 

A pregnant pause falls over them after Atsumu finally pins Sakusa down. Atsumu uses the respite to catch his breath, but Sakusa uses the momentary diversion to hook his leg around Atsumu’s right shoulder. 

Using the contact as leverage, Sakusa shifts his weight to push Atsumu to the ground, knocking the wind out of Atsumu’s chest. Sakusa takes advantage of his surprise to quickly straddle Atsumu’s chest, leaning forward to press Atsumu’s wrists firmly to the ground. The heels of Sakusa’s feet slide backwards to press against Atsumu’s thighs; they are both panting heavily, cushions are strewn across the ground around them. 

Atsumu thinks the movie might still be playing—he can't be sure because he can barely hear anything over the roaring in his ears. If he had whimpered inaudibly when Sakusa had slammed him against the floor, Sakusa is none the wiser. It feels like Sakusa’s fingertips are burning a hole through the sleeves of his shirt. 

It takes a second, but Sakusa finally seems to realise how compromising this must look, and in an instant, air is rushing back into Atsumu’s lungs and Sakusa is sitting back on the couch. 

“I win,” he says quietly. 

Atsumu sits up, rubbing at his sore rib cage. “I’ll get ya next time.” He crawls back to the couch and flops onto it, resting his calves on Sakusa’s clothed thighs. The movie ends soon enough, and Atsumu puts another show on. Before he realises it, his eyes are slowly sliding shut. 

“Mum? Dad? ’Samu?” A young child stumbles through the woods in the middle of the night, tearing past foliage and fallen branches that he cannot see. 

“I want to go home… mum! Dad! ’Samu! Where are all of ya…” A young child cries with a face full of fresh tears, voice slowly growing weaker and weaker. 

“Help me… mum… dad… ’Samu… I miss ya… where are ya… I’ll be a good boy from now on… I won’t run away on my own anymore…” A young child pleads to a seemingly empty forest for home, for family, for something familiar in a strange and foreign landscape. 

The child trips and falls.

Atsumu jolts awake, fringe pasted to his sweaty forehead. He reaches out blindly for his pills, but comes up with nothing. Shit . His pills are downstairs, in his room, far away, and why are his hands trembling so much, stop shaking, stop shaking —

There is a pair of arms around him suddenly. He is pressed against warmth—no, someone’s chest—and there are fingers dragging through his hair, massaging his scalp gently, continuing even when his breathing evens out.

In the darkness, he cannot see anything, but he can feel Sakusa’s breath ghosting across his forehead. “Omi, yer mask, germs—”

“It’s fine,” Sakusa says, still threading his fingers through Atsumu’s hair. “Do you need anything?” 

Atsumu shuts his eyes and tries to forget about forests and lost children and nightmares. He can sense the same, unfamiliar scent he had smelled on Sakusa the last time they were this close to each other. 

It’s only been a few days, but he’s given up on trying to figure out what the smell is; Atsumu just associates it with Sakusa. And now, wrapped up in the only pair of arms that are available, Atsumu associates it with warmth and comfort. 

Usually it would be Osamu or even Kita to hold him after a nightmare, but both of them have moved out of his room and out of his life. 

Yeah, okay, maybe that is a tad too dramatic. So what? Atsumu is an actor. Being dramatic is what he is known for. 

“I don’t know what I need,” Atsumu tells Sakusa truthfully. 

The hand in his hair stills, and then it slides to his shoulder and hoists him up on legs that feel like noodles. He feels Sakusa reach over to take something—there are two cracking noises, like thunderclaps—and then Atsumu (heavily leaning on Sakusa) is being brought downstairs. At the top of the stairs where there finally is light, Atsumu sees a mask snapped firmly back on Sakusa’s face. Atsumu doesn't realise where Sakusa is guiding him until they reach his kitchen’s sliding doors. 

He is made to sit down on a high stool, where he watches Sakusa pull open a drawer and rummage through it until he takes out—is that a teabag? 

There is water in the kettle already, most likely courtesy of Yachi or Kita, that Sakusa pours into a mug after the water comes to a boil. It is his own mug, Atsumu realises. And then: How did he know which mug is mine?

The teabag quickly soaks up the hot water and sinks to the bottom of the mug. As they wait for the tea to steep, Sakusa doesn't ask about the nightmare; instead, he says, “I made the teabag myself.” 

“What?”

Sakusa clears his throat. “I grew the tea leaves in my backyard and harvested them after three years. Used coffee filters to make the tea bag and stapled the string to the top to seal it. If you want I can teach you sometime; I still have leftover tea leaves.” 

“Yeah.” Atsumu feels himself smile. “I think I’d like that.” 

They sit around for a while after that, and although Atsumu usually feels the need to fill silences with chatter so loud it drowns out his own thoughts, silences with Sakusa are different. 

It feels tranquil and private, like a small stream cutting through a forest, separating two lost children. The stream seems to never stop flowing, endlessly dividing two lands and two paths that were perhaps never meant to cross. 

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Chime. In the background, an old grandfather clock in the hallway ticks away. Sakusa stands up and pushes the cup of tea towards Atsumu. 

“Is this the oolong tea that ya were drinking that night?” 

“Yes. I drink it every night.”

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Atsumu brings the cup of tea to his mouth and blows on it. “Mm. Smells good.” Smells like you.

“Try it. It’s soothing.” 

Tick, tock.

Tentatively, Atsumu takes a sip. “Holy shit, this actually tastes pretty good.”

“Thanks. I can teach you how to grow it too. The smell sticks though.”

“I don’t mind. I like it.” I like y—

Tick.

ACT 3

Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war.

(Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 1)

SCENE 1

Several months after Kiyoomi watches Mean Girls with Atsumu (which has somehow turned into a regular thing where they sit down every Friday and take turns to pick a movie to watch — ranging from trashy B-list movies, where they make fun of the terrible acting and editing, to horror movies where they both pretend they don’t close their eyes every time they feel a jumpscare oncoming) there’s a rare occasion where Atsumu’s filming ends early. It leaves Atsumu free to drag Kiyoomi to whatever address Atsumu has inputted into the car’s GPS — which sucks. 

They’re seated comfortably inside the car, raindrops slowing as they drive further away from the storm clouds and into clear skies. Wherever Atsumu is taking Kiyoomi is pretty obscure, tucked away into a shopping arcade where Kiyoomi struggles to find a parking spot. 

They walk along an arched, covered passageway until Atsumu stops at a small sushi restaurant and leads them inside. A waitress leads them to a private room, leaving them with two plastic menus, and low classical music plays from a speaker somewhere in the room. It sets the ambience for a rather lovely dinner. 

“This is my favourite sushi restaurant,” Atsumu tells him. “Ya hafta try their chūtoro, I always order it when I come here.”

Kiyoomi nods, letting Atsumu call the waitress back and order for both of them. When in Rome, afterall. 

“So,” Atsumu says, shifting in his seat, “ya ever gonna show me whatcha look like without that mask?” 

Kiyoomi scowls. “If it doesn’t aid my job or make my life easier, I don’t see why I should take it off.”

“But Omi, don’t ya find that it gets in the way? How are ya gonna eat later?” Atsumu whines, but Kiyoomi sees the glint in his eye.

This is a trap, Kiyoomi realises, all too late. Atsumu brought him out to this restaurant to force him to take off his mask. His stomach sinks—and here he thought Atsumu genuinely wanted to share his favourite food with him…  

“If this was just a ploy to get me to remove my mask,” Kiyoomi says, standing up, “I’m leaving. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

“Omi, wait, no, it isn’t like that, that’s not what I meant—” Atsumu reaches out, clutches at the sleeve of Kiyoomi’s jacket. “If you’re really uncomfortable I can… I can order takeaway for you.” 

It’s a peace offering and an apology both, strangely considerate of Kiyoomi’s preferences despite this whole ruse.

Usually, most of Kiyoomi’s meals are eaten in his room, and he drinks water through a reusable straw that he inserts through a flap at the base of the mask. He’s actually not that fussy or afraid of germs, but the mask feels like a barrier between himself and the world, keeping everything out and protecting himself. Without his mask, even for a while, he feels exposed and vulnerable. He’s scared of losing control. 

And if there is anything Kiyoomi desperately needs in his life, it’s control and order. His life is built around rules that he cannot break, lines he should not cross. 

He gives Atsumu a curt nod and sits back down onto the tatami. “I’ll watch you eat.”

They don’t talk and the atmosphere in the small private room is tense, only broken when the waitress brings their food over and Atsumu thanks her. Kiyoomi watches with mild disgust as Atsumu wipes his hands on the hot towel provided, before unceremoniously shoving two nigiri into his mouth. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t think he has ever seen Atsumu look this content before. His eyes are closed as he chews and swallows, smacking his lips and reaching towards the plate to take another piece. When he has one nigiri left, Atsumu looks up and asks Kiyoomi (with his mouth full, which makes Kiyoomi wrinkle his nose), “Are we friends?”

The question takes Kiyoomi by surprise. He has to pause for a moment to consider how close they’ve gotten in the past few months before saying, “Yeah… funny you’re the one asking me, though, since you were the one who was so rude to me at first.” 

Atsumu scowls and takes an angry bite. He dips the remaining half of the nigiri into a mix of soy sauce and wasabi. “That’s because ya seemed prickly and stuck-up. Like a teenager in his emo phase.”

“What? ” 

“Black eyes, black hair, black mask, black suit, black shoes…” Atsumu trails off. “Plus ya were all, ‘I’m not going to take off my mask because I’m angsting.’” 

“I can’t control my eye or hair colour,” Kiyoomi protests. “What are you even talking about?” 

“Nothing.” Atsumu laughs giddily, childlike and innocent. “Just thought it’d be pretty funny to rile ya up back then, is all. Ya kinda ruined the fun, though; I couldn’t seem to get under ya skin.” 

“Are you trying to be annoying on purpose?”

Atsumu shrugs. Pops the last bit of rice and fish into his mouth. “Dunno. Are ya annoyed?”

I don’t know lies on the tip of his tongue. “Yes,” he says instead. 

“Good.” Atsumu licks his lips, offering a smirk — he resembles a fox from the nature documentaries Kiyoomi likes to watch,  smug like he’s managed to get away with something. Kiyoomi’s dinner lies untouched on the table, and Atsumu asks the waitress to put it in a plastic box when he calls for the bill. 

He remains quiet as they walk back to the car. Kiyoomi backs out of the carpark and turns onto a highway; leaving one hand on the steering wheel, he uses his free hand to type a location into the GPS. 

“Where are we going?” Atsumu sounds satisfied, like a satiated fox after a meal. Kiyoomi ignores the growl of his own stomach as he continues to drive. 

“You’ll see when we get there.”

SCENE 2

“There” turns out to be a long wooden bridge, stretching over a small river. Sakusa parks the car along the road; Atsumu trails behind Sakusa as they walk towards it.

“Ya haven’t brought me here to murder me, have ya?” Atsumu laughs nervously. “Because, ya know, no one can hear my screams. Maybe yer plannin’ t’bury me at this tree right here. Or yer gonna dump my body into the river, have mercy, Omi—” 

“Can you shut up for a minute?” Sakusa snaps. 

“But Omi,” Atsumu whines, “I can’t die like this! I’m too young to die at the hands of someone like ya…” 

“What do you even mean, someone like me ? What’s your problem?”

“Yer all grumpy, and if ya you ever kill me, it’s gonna be so boring—like, yer gonna poison my tea or somethin’, and it’ll never end up bein’ a big case!” Atsumu spreads his hands to gesture wildly.  “If I die, I wanna be a big media sensation, y’know? I want police t’puzzle over my murder for seventy years. I wanna be on Buzzfeed Unsolved. Otherwise, what’s the point

He catches Sakusa rolling his eyes, but his next words are spoken fondly. “You’re so weird.” And then, coming to an abrupt stop which almost makes Atsumu crash into Sakusa’s back, he says, “We’re here.”

“Huh? What are ya talkin’ about—” Sakusa turns to look over the bridge, and Atsumu follows his line of sight, breaking off mid-sentence to stare.

They’re just in time to catch the sun hanging low over the horizon, reflecting beautiful shades of gold and violet and cerulean on the water’s rippling surface—like half of a molten egg yolk dripping over the thin line separating sky and water. The surrounding trees lining the riverbank extend as shadows against the backdrop of the brilliant sunset, thin branches reaching out to touch the sky. A flock of birds fly across the clouds, high above the river, towards the sun, until they disappear into the distance. 

In the back of his mind, Atsumu wonders if they ever fly close enough to scorch their wings. 

“How’d ya find this place?” Atsumu asks quietly, afraid if he spoke any louder he would shatter whatever moment they were having. 

“My parents used to bring me here when I was very, very young. This is the last place I remember them bringing me to.” Sakusa doesn't turn to face Atsumu. 

“Where are they now?”

“Dead.”

“Oh.” Atsumu turns back to the river. He whispers, a beat later, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

They stand there, staring out into vivid colours splashed against a pastel sky—Atsumu leaning forwards against the railing of the bridge, Sakusa with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It’s like something out of a renaissance painting, muted colours washed with a wonderful vibrancy. 

Atsumu likes the idea of old, lifelike drawings; an artist pouring their soul into graphite and oil paint, breathing life into an empty canvas. An easel waiting to be used, brushes dipped into colourful palettes. He’s never had any sort of artistic talent, but Atsumu is content daydreaming about paint-stained shirts and slender fingers gripping sleek brushes. 

“Can ya draw?” 

“I sketch for fun in my free time, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sakusa tells him. “I wouldn’t say I’m very good at it though.”

“Psh, don’t be so modest, Omi.” He turns to wink at Sakusa. “Paint me like one of yer French girls.” 

Atsumu laughs loudly at the way Sakusa’s forehead wrinkles. He desperately wants to see the pout he knows lies beneath Sakusa’s mask, but he knows—partially from earlier—that if there is anything Sakusa is adamant about, it’s that the mask stays on. 

His mind wanders to Sakusa sketching. He itches to see one of Sakusa’s drawings, wants to see Sakusa’s art style and how Sakusa looks like when he is drawing. Atsumu pictures Sakusa in a small library, sitting by a crackling fireplace, fingers twirling a pencil as his other hand taps gently against the paper of his sketchbook. Maybe a few loose sheets scattered around his feet, and oh, Sakusa is wearing the same pair of fluffy slippers Atsumu had seen him wearing the other night. 

On a side table would be a cup of oolong tea, the teabag that Atsumu now knows is handmade sinking to the bottom of the cup. Does Sakusa wear glasses? Atsumu isn’t sure. He thinks he might have seen Sakusa wearing them around the house once or twice, but Atsumu has never really paid attention to his surroundings—something he’s still getting lectured about by Kita.

And since Atsumu is the type to say whatever is on his mind, he blurts out, “Do ya wear glasses?”

“Only sometimes, when I need it.” Sakusa finally turns to meet Atsumu’s gaze. “Do you ever stop yapping? Can’t you just appreciate the scenery?”

“We’ve been looking at the same thing for ages, Omi, ya can’t blame me for getting bored. Can’t the sun set faster or something?”

“Are you seriously asking me that right now?” 

“We gotta go soon or yer sushi ain’t gonna taste nice anymore,” he says, rocking back on his feet slightly. “Plus, there’s stuff I gotta do.”

“Just… a while more. The sun’s almost gone down.” There is an almost wistful expression on Sakusa’s face. “It feels like it’s been so long.”

Atsumu doesn’t ask; this is another landmine he carefully avoids. One day, he will eventually be called back to clear the area, but that day is not now, nor does it feel like it is anywhere in the near future. 

For someone with so little patience and such a short attention span, Atsumu is surprised to find that he’s willing to wait. 

SCENE 3

They watch the sun sink into the horizon, before making their way back to the car and then home. 

Kiyoomi sits at his desk (wiped down and freshly sanitised), hands washed (twice) and the box of nigiri on the table. The food smells unbelievably good, even after sitting in the car for so long. He takes one and eats it in a single bite. 

At first, all he can taste is tuna, before flavour explodes into his mouth. Chūtoro nigiri sushi, as Atsumu had told Kiyoomi on the ride home, is hand-pressed sushi rice topped with medium cut fatty tuna, found on the back and the belly of the fish. 

The nigiri is seared evenly, charred until it is just lightly golden, with a small topping of caviar that accentuates the deep flavour of the sushi. The contrast is sharp, bright bursts against soft texture, and Kiyoomi doesn't understand how Atsumu can eat so quickly when he has to stop every few bites to properly savour the nigiri’s rich taste.

Half an hour later, when Kiyoomi has finished off everything in the box (including the gari at the side), there is a knock at his door. 

“Practice my lines with me,” Atsumu says from outside.  

“Don’t you have anyone else to practice them with?” 

“No,” says Atsumu, and continues to knock. 

What about his brother? Kiyoomi wonders, but when Atsumu still doesn’t stop, he gets up with a sigh.

When Kiyoomi finally emerges from his room, Atsumu grabs his sleeve and drags him next door. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but Atsumu’s room is plainer than he had thought it would be. It looks pretty similar to Kiyoomi’s room, save for the mirror fixed on the dresser. The polished surface is littered with fingerprints, as if someone had been pressing against the glass—or a reflection. 

Before Kiyoomi can think too much of it, Atsumu is pressing a script to his chest. “Read this scene and help me practice for it. I’m not sure I’ve got the emotions nailed, so ya gotta tell me if I’m convincin’, ‘kay?” 

Kiyoomi wants to tell him that his acting is excellent no matter what, but Atsumu doesn’t seem like the type to take no for an answer, so Kiyoomi sighs and scans through the script. His eyes widen slightly. 

Twenty minutes later, they begin.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt!” Kiyoomi starts first. He is playing the role of Hailey, supposed love interest of Atsumu’s character. He is unfamiliar with acting and terrible with bringing emotion into his voice, but he is not an actor, so he leaves the acting to Atsumu and reads his lines blandly. “You’re my friend and I—I care for you so much.” 

“Hailey,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi is sitting cross-legged next to him on his bed. “Is it just care? Nothin’ else?” 

Atsumu brings a gloved hand to Kiyoomi’s cheek. Kiyoomi inhales; they have discussed this beforehand—Kiyoomi’s safe word of “mango,” sanitary precautions and how far they’re both willing go with this scene—but it’s still all a little new to Kiyoomi. 

He leans unconsciously into Atsumu’s palm. “There could be more if you wanted there to be.” 

“How much more?”

“However much you want, I’m willing to give.” He flicks his eyes up to meet Atsumu’s gaze. “I’d give you the world if it meant making you happy.”

“What if this doesn’t work out?” Atsumu whispers. 

“Then we’ll make it work out together.” Under his mask, Sakusa smiles. “It’s always been just us against the world, huh?” 

“Hailey,” Atsumu says, but Kiyoomi hears his name, “thank ya for standin’ beside me. Even when no one believed that I would win that swim meet, ya never gave up on me. I won’t let ya down anymore, promise.” 

“How do I know you aren’t going to go back on your word?” Kiyoomi teases. 

“Seal it with a kiss.” 

“I’m kidding, of course I’ll believe you—”

“I wasn’t.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t kidding.” Atsumu’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “Let’s seal our deal with a kiss.”

Kiyoomi swallows. He nods. 

Atsumu surges forward and pauses right before his lips bump into Kiyoomi’s mask. Behind his eyes, Kiyoomi can see a fuse spark, a match about to light a candle. They are both slightly out of breath, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know when he had gone from monotonous reading to actually saying the lines like he means them, means every word. 

Neither of them move, holding the lit match above the wick of the candle, waiting for the flame to catch. It’s a dangerous game they are playing, seeing who is willing to risk it all first. 

Fuck it, Kiyoomi thinks, and drops the match to light the candle. He slides his fingers along Atsumu’s jaw, feeling the smooth, clean-shaven skin under his fingers. Atsumu doesn’t move at all, as if he’s afraid that any movement will startle Kiyoomi away. 

It feels as if he’s being treated like a wild animal, but he doesn’t entirely hate it. 

Kiyoomi thinks he might be a scavenger, starved and on the hunt for a good meal to satisfy his hunger. Sharp onyx eyes narrow in on a rotting carcass, leftovers from a predator’s meal. Kiyoomi swoops in, digs into the food. 

His fingers slide higher and he curls them around Atsumu’s neck. In one quick movement, Kiyoomi presses the pads of his fingertips against Atsumu’s scratchy undercut and finally presses their mouths together. 

A thin barrier of fabric separates them and Kiyoomi knows how easy it would be to just take his goddamn mask off. It would be so easy to tell Atsumu the truth about why Kiyoomi started working for him—but just because it is easy, doesn’t mean it is better. Over the course of his entire life, Kiyoomi has learnt that lesson the hard way,

Having chewed through the carcass until only bones are left, Kiyoomi returns back to his nest. He releases his grip and lightly shoves Atsumu away, getting up from the bed. The script lies on the bed in front of a shell-shocked Atsumu. 

Kiyoomi’s mask suddenly feels too tight. He mumbles, “I have to do something, sorry,” and bolts from the room. He doesn’t stop until he’s back into his room, where he tears the mask from his face and throws it somewhere onto the table, breathing heavily, lungs struggling to suck in air. He is not a scavenger. A scavenger is also a predator , and Kiyoomi is anything but. 

It is hilarious and pathetic. His sudden burst of courage is snuffed out, leaving behind a coward. He can’t fan any flames because he has run away with his tail between his legs, and it’s so miserably laughable that even Kiyoomi pities himself. 

Where is the adrenaline that he was supposed to have felt? Reality is nothing like the movies. People do not simply fall in love after gazing into each other’s eyes; it is so much harder to make a move on someone in real life. Hell, Kiyoomi doesn’t think he can ever look Atsumu in the eye again. 

In the movies, this would have gone smoother. Kiyoomi would have taken off his mask and maybe they would have made out on Atsumu’s bed, pushing the script off the bed and scattering the pages as intense music played in the background. In a much harsher reality, there are stilted awkward silences that cannot be filled with cheesy background romcom music. Kiyoomi can’t muster up the courage to kiss Atsumu properly, and runs away instead. 

It isn’t his caution about germs that is stopping him. It is the idea of Atsumu reciprocating, of kissing him back, that terrifies Kiyoomi. The barrier that Kiyoomi has always relied on has cracked open, even if just for a split second. For just a moment, Kiyoomi feels out of control.

Kiyoomi feels like a lost child again. He collapses onto his bed against the headboard, hearing more than feeling the thud as his head knocks back against wood. He has not felt this helpless in so long, and it’s like he is slowly spiralling down towards insanity. He cannot help the way his heart stutters and stops and starts again like a car slowly running out of fuel, and the memory of every gaze Atsumu has ever sent him is a red light, a flatline for his heart. 

He wants to stop feeling like this. He wants to stop. He needs to stop. 

It has barely been a week since they met. Kiyoomi is falling too hard, too fast, tumbling off the top of a skyscraper at hundreds of kilometres per minute. He is slamming on the accelerator, speeding down a highway that only leads to the edge of a cliff. When he shifts his foot to search for the brakes, he finds that there is nothing, and his only choice is to go faster, faster, watch the speedometer climb and climb and climb. 

It started off as physical attraction. It should have stayed that way.

Maybe this is why they are destined only for disaster. Atsumu craves love and Kiyoomi fears it. Forget a match made in heaven; Kiyoomi takes the candle and blows it out. He burns the matchbox. 

SCENE 4

He dreams again. 

It’s not another nightmare, but it damn well feels like one. Atsumu dreams of thin, bony fingers, curved not around paint brushes but around his own hips, sliding across his chest to close around his neck. Strangely enough, Atsumu doesn’t feel like he is being choked. He feels like he is drowning, his air supply cut off, losing feeling in his arms and legs. 

Then, the fingers dip into his mouth—and it is a lifeline that Atsumu reaches out and takes. His vision suddenly zooms out and Atsumu is in an art gallery, surrounded by a large crowd. People around him are talking, filling the gallery with noise. He is standing in front of a renaissance painting by one Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

It depicts Atsumu drowning in the river, where he and Sakusa had been to to watch the sunset, only this time there is no bridge. There is only Sakusa, standing over the water, pushing two fingers into the river as the current ripples around him. 

Someone taps on his shoulder and bends down to say something indistinguishable into his ear. Atsumu recognises Sakusa’s unfamiliar accent in the person’s voice and spins around instantly, but there is no one behind him. All he sees is a mass of writhing bodies, like parasites, and Atsumu realises that the low murmurs he had thought to be background noise are chants of his name.

The voices get louder and louder, until his name is being screamed by people he has never seen in his life, blurred faces that only have mouths—until one face emerges from the crowd, clearer than the rest. 

“Atsumu,” Sakusa says, and the roaring stops. Then, Sakusa reaches out to push Atsumu and he falls backwards, feet leaving the highest story of a skyscraper, tumbling into the hands of a city waiting to tear him apart.

Right before he slams into gravel, Atsumu wakes up. 

He sits up, blinking to adjust his eyes to his dark bedroom. His bed suddenly feels too empty for just one person, and his hand moves to unconsciously rest on the unoccupied space beside him. Atsumu misses having Osamu telling him, “go back to sleep, it’s too early for this.” He’d shoot back with a snarky retort and flop back down onto his mattress. 

Tap, tap, tap.

It takes Atsumu’s sleep-addled brain a few moments to register the noise, before he recognises it as knocking. “Come in.”

He cannot see who it is at the door—his guess was Sakusa, for some reason—but then footsteps pad across the room and Osamu is on his bed, telling him to move his fat ass and shoving him to the edge of the bed.

“What the hell, ’Samu—mmmfffffgghh!” He is cut off by a pillow being stuffed into his face.

“Don’t be so noisy. I couldn’t sleep.”

“What about Sunarin?” Atsumu asks, sticking the pillow under his arm and lying down to face the ceiling. 

“He’s not coming back tonight, ya dweeb. Now shut up and let me sleep.”

“Don’t be fuckin’ rude, this is my room.”

“Used to be mine too. Stop bein’ petty.”

“Yer the one who barged in here.”

“Ya let me in, dumbass. I knocked and all, like a decent human being. Unlike ya. Ya gotta stop enterin’ rooms without knockin’.”

“Did ya know I walked in on Kita and Kuroo yesterday?” 

“Seriously? I thought there was somethin’ going on between them, but, like, for real?”

“Yeah.” 

Atsumu doesn’t get much sleep, but when he drags his feet to the dining room the next morning, he thinks this might be the most alive he has felt in a while. 

ACT 4

We have seen better days.

(Timon of Athens, Act 4, Scene 2)

SCENE 1

Atsumu has been waiting in his trailer for close to three hours. He is bored out of his mind, itching to go onto Twitter to see if his name is still trending from the photo he’d posted of him and a dog two days ago. 

Things have been awkward between him and Sakusa since that night. He had thought their friendship was progressing well, but two weeks have passed and it seems they have gone back to square one. Maybe whatever comes before square one, since Sakusa seems to be actively avoiding him and only speaking to him when necessary. 

The man in question is settled into a high-backed chair a good distance away. He’s sitting perfectly still, hands clasped together in front of him, staring resolutely ahead. Atsumu sighs and turns back to his script. The next scene he has to shoot is the one he practiced with Sakusa—only this time it will be with his co-star, and the kiss will be real, no mask separating them. 

There is a knock on the door of his trailer. “Atsumu?” A production assistant pops her head in. “You’re needed on set, please follow me.”

Atsumu rises and makes his way to the door, but pauses to look back at Sakusa. “Guess that’s my cue. Yer welcome to come watch me, Omi, just don’t get in the way.” When he doesn’t receive any response save a curt “understood”, he shuts the door behind him and follows the assistant to the filming location.

After a final check from hair and wardrobe that his look is consistent with the scene he is working on, Atsumu is directed by a camera assistant to his spike, the floor marking indicating where he should stand. He asks what the exact frame he is in so he knows how far he can move around, and then warms up with a quick breathing exercise that helps him get into the right headspace for the scene he’s about to shoot. 

In, out. In, out.

They run through a camera rehearsal since it’s an intimate scene, and then the director calls “go” and the cameras start recording. A beat later: “Action!”

The first take is botched because someone coughs on set, and the second and third takes are messed up too. On the fifth take, Atsumu and his co-star finally reach the kissing scene. He feels her nails scratching against his skin as she slides her hand up his neck; his hands wrap around her waist as their lips press together. 

Atsumu closes his eyes and imagines fabric against his mouth, a black mask instead of cherry lipstick. Slender, calloused fingers instead of bony digits still slightly sticky with hand cream. What would it be like, kissing Sakusa for real? It scares Atsumu that he wants to know.

They separate and Atsumu looks down into his co-star’s eyes, forcing adoration into his voice. “I love ya, Hailey. Always have, always will.”

She presses her face against his chest, wrapping her arms around his torso. “I love you, too.”

Several takes later, they finally finish the scene. Atsumu thinks he catches a glimpse of a head of dark curls, but when he tries to look closer, all he can see is film crew swarming around the filming location, preparing for the next scene. A part of him wonders if it’s just his imagination toying with him.

SCENE 2

Sakusa leans against the door of the trailer, exhaling into the thick cotton of his mask. 

He had seen the whole scene play out, seen Atsumu’s co-star kiss Atsumu like it was nothing. There had been a small wave of jealousy, wishing that he was the one kissing Atsumu instead, but a bigger swell focuses on how much more chemistry he and Atsumu had shared, back when they were practicing Atsumu’s lines. It fixates on how there was more emotion in Atsumu’s voice, how his expression was more real. 

Sakusa had stayed long enough to watch them wrap the scene before fleeing, because all he knows is how to run. Away from his feelings, away from late night kisses, away from Atsumu. He had not taken this job just to catch feelings, no, he had taken it because—

He pushes the door handle down and stumbles back into the trailer, head a mess—like an earthquake had struck, one with a magnitude high enough to shake up everything he had thought he had known about himself. The little waves he had been feeling earlier had accumulated, slowly building into the aftermath of the earthquake.

He sinks back into his chair. He feels like a warning has been sent out, telling him to get to higher ground. Like an idiot, Sakusa ignores the warning.

He stands alone in front of the sea, waiting for impending doom. With his arms outstretched, Sakusa waits for the tsunami to hit him and swallow him whole.

SCENE 3

When filming ends later that day, Atsumu feels exhausted. He wants nothing more than to go home—to take a nice, long shower before  tumbling into bed, trying to avoid another series of stilted silences and awkward pauses. He doesn’t speak as he leads the way to the car, but as Sakusa starts the car, Atsumu abruptly remembers that he’s supposed to be meeting Shoyo at a celebrity club downtown for drinks. 

It’s rare that Shoyo has time to spare, given his busy schedule, so Atsumu resigns himself to giving Sakusa the address of the bar and dozing off in the backseat of the car until they reach their destination. He squeezes through the crush of sweaty, filthy bodies in the main section of the club, whoops and hollers echoing from the dance floor, and doesn’t slow down even as Sakusa struggles to keep up. 

He had told Sakusa to stay in the car. From past experience, he knows that the front part of the club is always filled with drunk men and women sprawled over laps and tables alike, spilled alcohol dripping and pooling on the floor. It’s disgusting, even by his rather lax standards, but Sakusa had still stubbornly followed Atsumu inside, muttering something about how it was his job. 

“Suit yerself,” Atsumu had told him. “Just don’t come complainin’ to me that ya wanna chicken out and go back home. Don’t say I didn't warn ya.”

Tonight, the club is even more crowded than usual. He glances behind him and sees Sakusa seemingly trying to shrink in on himself as he trails after Atsumu, shoulders hunched in and hands pushed firmly into his pockets. It’s comical, the sight of a man a head taller than everyone else in the club looking almost scared as they shove past a group of rowdy drunk girls—right now, Sakusa looks like an overgrown child, and Atsumu can’t help but snicker.

They finally reach the VIP section, where the bouncers refuse Sakusa entry until Atsumu intervenes, but the moment they’re waved in, Atsumu catches Sakusa visibly relaxing. This part of the club is quieter, significantly cleaner than the previous section, and Atsumu leaves Sakusa behind to make a beeline for the table in the back corner, where Shoyo is waiting with a cup of orange juice.  

“Yo, Shoyo!” Atsumu greets as he slides into the cushioned seat. “One Aperol spritz,” he tells the waiter. He doesn’t intend on getting drunk tonight; all he wants to do is have a nice, lovely chat with his ex-co-star. 

Sakusa sits all the way at the edge of the booth. It places him at a distance, one almost identical to how he had been sitting in Atsumu’s trailer. “Who’s that?” Shoyo asks. 

“Personal assistant Kita hired for me. Don’t mind him. How’s everythin’ goin’? Got any new gossip for me?” 

Shoyo hums contemplatively. “Hm… not really. Oh! You know Kageyama? The one you said was really bad at showing emotions?”

“Yeah?” Atsumu scowls. 

“He’s gonna be working with me! He’s my partner in this new show that I’m gonna be filming soon.” Shoyo takes a sip of his juice. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone about it, so don’t spread it, ’kay?” 

“Wasn’t gonna.” Atsumu’s drink arrives and he picks up the glass, pouring liquid down his throat. He sets it down when he’s done, orders a refill, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t know how he managed to land a role with ya; he sucks so much.”

“It’s an action show, plus he’s good at stunts and stuff,” says Shoyo. “Oh, my friend’s coming later, if you don’t mind. She should be arriving soon.”

“The more the merrier,” Atsumu replies, leaning back against the leather seat. He wonders if Shoyo’s friend is hot and single. Maybe it’s the universe throwing him a bone—a one-night stand and some mind-blowing sex, good enough to make him forget about Sakusa and the confusing feelings he neither wants nor needs. 

Maybe the one night stand will turn into more. He might end up in a relationship, the perfect cure for this stupid, one-sided crush. Or, maybe, he’ll somehow convince Sakusa to hook up with him. He’ll get rid of every single thought of wanting to be railed in multiple positions by getting fucked senseless, and deal with the fallout in the morning. 

Kita would chew him out if he knew what he was thinking, but Atsumu can’t help it. Sakusa is hot—anyone with eyes can see that—but there is nothing more than that. The only thing he feels when he looks at Sakusa is lust. There is nothing like love in the equation. 

“Ah, Kiyoko, you’re here!” Shoyo stands up suddenly, interrupting Atsumu’s chain of thought. “It’s been so long!”

Kiyoko…?

Atsumu allows himself to follow Shoyo’s line of sight and his stomach plummets. His mind empties and whatever lame pickup line he was thinking of vanishes from the tip of his tongue. No, it can’t be—

But he is already thinking about the nightmares that have been plaguing him since he was a child. Of another child with unruly hair, dark eyes and pretty moles, of “Kiyo!”—

And it must be her, the friend he made when he got lost on that camping trip so many years ago. His memory is blurry, but the resemblance is too close to be coincidence. The name, the moles, the dark features—it all fits what little he can remember, the last remnants of an incident that happened over a decade ago.

“Kiyoko,” he murmurs under his breath. Stands up. Offers his hand. “Nice to meet ya, Kiyoko. I’m Atsumu.” 

Kiyoko takes his hand. Her palm is very warm, Atsumu notices. “Nice to meet you, Atsumu.”

“Kiyoko’s just returned from an overseas modeling gig,” Hinata says as they all sit back down. “I met her at a party and we’ve become good friends ever since.”

Kiyoko orders a strawberry limeade and Atsumu passes her his phone. “Could I have yer number?” 

He notices Sakusa stiffen from the corner of his eye, but pushes the thought away as Kiyoko taps away at his screen. In his head, Atsumu is already building up a dream of finally having someone to fill the empty space beside him when he sleeps, of someone filling lonely silences and dancing with him in the rain. 

Since the incident, Atsumu has been trying to find the friend he made and lost, hoping to reconnect, but he recognises the opportunity being presented to him now. Fate is lending him a hand to find the love he’s been dreaming of, and Atsumu is going to take it, no matter what.

Even if it means forgetting about Sakusa—if Atsumu can turn a memory into reality, this not-stranger into his lover, he will do it. It’s a great way of killing two birds with one stone, really—Atsumu gets the love he’s been searching for and the publicity that comes with it. Long-lost childhood friends reuniting by chance, rekindling their relationship as adults and celebrities; it sounds like something out of a novel, romantic enough to put them on the cover of every magazine, and as Atsumu coaxes Kiyoko into conversation, he ignores the gaze burning holes into his cheek.

Yeah. Forget about Sakusa, and focus on Kiyoko—on Kiyo. What he feels towards Sakusa is just physical attraction. There is nothing more to it.

For some reason, it feels like the only person he’s trying to convince is himself.

Despite this, the rest of the night goes smoothly. Atsumu finds himself asking Kiyoko out to dinner over text, and they end up fixing a date for next Tuesday. Atsumu thinks that it works out better this way for both of them—Sakusa doesn’t have to put up with Atsumu as much, and Atsumu gets the space he needs to try and move on. He figures that Sakusa would be happy about it, right? 

Wrong.  

Come Tuesday afternoon, just before Atsumu is about to go  pick up Kiyoko for their date, he opens the car door to find Sakusa in the driver’s seat, waiting for him. “Took you long enough,” Sakusa says nonchalantly. 

“W-what are ya doing here? Don’t tell me yer gonna cockblock me and follow me on my date?” 

Sakusa taps his foot against the accelerator. “My job is to watch over you whenever you’re in public. Whatever you do in private is none of my business. You booked a private room, right? I’ll wait right outside.”

“B-bu-but—” Atsumu splutters. “What about ya? Dontcha need to eat too?”

“I ate before this. It should keep me full until the end of your date, or until I drop you and her off to, well, wherever you want me to drop you off.” Sakusa peers up at him. “Now, are you going to tell me her address, or are we going to argue here until the sun sets?”

Atsumu gives him the address.

And now, he’s staring out of the car window, in what has to be the most awkward silence he has experienced in his entire life. 

How did they end up like this? 

Kiyoko seems to take it in stride, looking entirely at ease. She is sitting on the other end of the car seat, dressed exquisitely in a dress that hugs all her curves and shows off her body in the best way possible—as expected of a model of her calibre. She looks straight out of a magazine cover, and Atsumu says a silent thank you to Daishou. He's in a knee-length coat over a navy blue dress shirt and black trousers, a perfect compliment to the colour of Kiyoko's dress, and the silver Rolex on his wrist matches her delicate earrings. 

They look like a perfect pair, and right now Atsumu should be saying something witty. Kiyoko should be laughing and telling him what a great sense of humour he has, how he’s different from other guys she’d gone out with before, but the atmosphere is so stifling that Atsumu can’t even think straight. 

Sakusa’s presence in the car feels much bigger than it is, almost as if he’s sitting between Atsumu and Kiyoko. The heavy pressure only lessens as they pull up to the restaurant, when Sakusa stops to let them off at the entrance; Atsumu steps out as fast as he can, feels the cool autumn air hit his face, and lets the fresh air fill his lungs. 

He is about to walk to the other side of the car to open the door for Kiyoko, but when he turns around, he finds that she’s already standing beside him. Smiling, Atsumu offers her his hand and they walk into the restaurant together.

The candlelit dinner inside the private room is nothing short of elegant. White linen cloth is draped over the table, topped with a deep blue overlay and the napkins are folded into crystal glasses. Their plates, Atsumu can tell, are all made of fine china, and the tabletop is illuminated by two tall candles burning brightly in gold holders. Kuroo was the one who booked this restaurant, and Atsumu concedes that his selection is considerably refined. Atsumu just hopes that food is just as good as the setup. 

Atsumu and Kiyoko take their seats at opposite ends of the table. A waiter comes in to ask them what wine they would prefer and tells them that the chef has already begun to prepare their meal. As Atsumu makes his selection, he prays that Kuroo has good taste in food. This particular restaurant allows customers to pre-order their meals along with their reservation, and Kuroo had refused to tell Atsumu what he had ordered. From the name of the restaurant, however, Atsumu guesses it’s something French. 

“What are we having tonight, Atsumu?” Kiyoko asks.

Atsumu forces a smile and tells her what Kuroo had told him: “It’s a surprise.” 

The “surprise” turns out to be a thirteen-course meal, one that includes duck, shellfish, and an artichoke soup with black truffles that even tastes expensive. The total cost of their meal ends up exceeding a thousand dollars, and Atsumu’s wallet feels much lighter, even though he pays by credit card. 

As their table is cleared, they continue the conversation as they finish off the last of the wine. Kiyoko talks about her time modelling overseas and Atsumu brags about his recent acting projects, albeit vaguely since the details are all confidential.

Kiyoko is a great person to talk to, Atsumu finds out. She’s a good listener, occasionally interjecting with some of her thoughts and opinions, but it all feels a little too… formal. Perhaps it’s because Atsumu is actually trying to leave a good impression for once, or that this is only their second meeting. Either way, when Atsumu realises that he probably shouldn’t make silly jabs or crack stupid jokes, their date gets pretty boring.

Still, Atsumu doesn’t lose hope of achieving his goal of falling in love. At the end of the night, after dropping Kiyoko off at her house, he asks the million-dollar question: “Would ya like to be my girlfriend?” 

Kiyoko blushes. Under a night sky full of stars, with only a streetlight nearby to illuminate her face, she says, “Okay.” 

Atsumu kisses her cheek, heads back to the car, and tells Sakusa to drive him home. 

SCENE 4

He feels empty, like something has been ripped out of his chest, leaving him hollow. Kiyoomi keeps a face of impassivity, bidding Atsumu goodnight before making his way back to his room.

Well. What is he supposed to do now? 

There’s no way out of this. He has heard all the rumours, knows Atsumu hooks up with and dates other people frequently, but he had a sliver of hope that maybe, maybe—

No, it was stupid. To think that just because there had been a paradigm shift in Kiyoomi’s feelings, it would be the same for Atsumu. They don’t live in a fairytale where everything always ends happily ever after, nor are they the protagonists of any story. There is no guarantee that Kiyoomi’s feelings will be reciprocated—he and Atsumu aren’t the main couple of a film, they aren’t like the characters who get together in Atsumu’s movie. 

The truth remains that life, after all, is not something that can be controlled by some outside force. It is not a play that can be rewritten over and over until a satisfying ending is achieved. The script is written with Kiyoomi’s own two hands—he is the director, cameraman, lead actor—an entire production crew rolled into one. And if he cannot dictate anyone else’s life but his own, then Kiyoomi decides that he will take the reins. He will get his life under control and he will forget about Atsumu and every other complicated thing that Atsumu brings with him. 

Kiyoomi sits on the edge of his bed and rubs at his eyes. Stupid Atsumu. 

Stupid, stupid Atsumu.

SCENE 5

Atsumu starts bringing Kiyoko home. In between filming days, he goes out with her. To the movies, to get ice cream, sightseeing—but throughout it all, it feels more like he’s spending time with a friend rather than a girlfriend. 

His PR team talks about not needing Sakusa anymore, but they agree to give it a little while longer. If Atsumu doesn’t do anything stupid in the next month, Sakusa will be dismissed and Atsumu will most likely never see him again. He doesn’t understand why it hurts so much to think of Sakusa being completely erased from his life—Sakusa is just another acquaintance that Atsumu may or may not have had a small crush on, but even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it’s a lie. 

Acquaintances do not have midnight talks about everything and nothing with the smell of fresh tea leaves in between; acquaintances do not go out on morning jogs every day while competing with each other over who can run faster and last longer; acquaintances do not watch sad movies together and pretend like they are not crying when Atsumu can see a tear at the corner of Sakusa’s eye, stop lying—

Not that it matters now. It's been six weeks since he and Kiyoko officially started dating—two weeks of Sakusa's silence presence, the weight of a heavy stare prickling his cheek. The press have finally caught wind of their relationship, and just as Atsumu predicted, they dominate the headlines of several major entertainment newspapers. Their relationship is largely approved of by everyone too; they agree that it is good for Atsumu to finally settle down, and Kiyoko seems like someone who might be able to tame Atsumu.

To keep the good publicity, Kuroo arranges an exclusive interview between Atsumu and Kiyoko and a famous entertainment magazine. Atsumu is a little wary when their interviewer introduces herself as Akane Yamamoto—he recognizes the name, a journalist who’s made it big by exposing a number of huge scandals in the industry. Contrary to the innocent and sweet facade, Yamamoto is exceedingly good at squeezing information out of her interviewees and finding loopholes in their statements, and careers have been made and broken through her articles.

There goes Atsumu’s plan of getting around the inevitable questions about the intimacy of his and Kiyoko’s relationship. Since their first date, their relationship has been limited to hand-holding and quick pecks on their cheeks. It just feels… wrong, somehow, to go any further, and since Kiyoko has never brought it up, they’re happy to keep it that way. 

The interview studio has cameras set up, crew flitting around, and three chairs in the middle of the room, separated by a table. The background is a simple white, with several lights pointing at the centre of the room. 

Yamamoto greets them after they have their makeup, hair and outfits done. “Good afternoon, Atsumu, Kiyoko. Thank you for coming today.”

“No worries,” Kiyoko says, reaching a hand out to shake Yamamoto’s. “It’s good to see you, Yamamoto.” 

Atsumu shakes Yamamoto’s hand next, exchanging a greeting with her, before they move to sit down. Atsumu and Kiyoko take their seats opposite Yamamoto, waiting a couple more minutes before the interview begins. 

MIYA ATSUMU AND KIYOKO SHIMIZU: THEIR STORY

By Akane Yamamoto

I first met them at a small cafe on the edge of town. The difference between them is immediately apparent—from the splash of colour on Miya’s more daring style versus Kiyoko’s elegant midnight blue dress, to Miya’s loud personality compared to Kiyoko’s milder character.

My interview with them, which you can watch here, gave me an insight into both their individual personalities, as well as the seamless way their relationship works. For one, they perfectly complement each other, weaknesses playing to the other’s strengths. Visual-wise, they are very attractive people, seeing how Miya is a popular actor best known for his roles in Midnight and The Foxes and Kiyoko is an internationally renowned model. 

The couple first met through a mutual friend after Kiyoko had returned from an overseas modelling gig. Miya tells me in a conspiratorial whisper that for him, it was love at first sight. At this, Kiyoko laughs and pats his arm. She confirms, “He asked me out on a date the night we met, and I agreed.”

The two have frequently been spotted in public ever since, and Miya confirmed rumours that they were dating when he posted a photo on Instagram of them holding hands, which you can view here. 

In a surprising twist that no one could have seen coming, Miya reveals that he and Kiyoko have actually known each other from childhood. When he was younger, Miya had gone on a camping trip with his family and subsequently gotten lost. He had met another lost child in the forest, whom he has recognized as Kiyoko, and they managed to survive together for two days until Miya’s parents found him. Although Kiyoko has no recollection of ever getting lost in the forest, she admits that she can no longer remember much from her childhood. 

“Did you know it was her when you first met her?” I ask him. 

“Of course,” says Miya. “I’d recognise her anywhere.”

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SCENE 6

Osamu knows something is up between Atsumu and Sakusa. One day, they’re bickering over something as stupid as the best ice cream flavour (Atsumu says chocolate, Sakusa says strawberry; they’re both wrong; it’s clearly mint chocolate chip), and the next day, they’re completely ignoring each other. And then , in the middle of their cold war, Atsumu goes and gets a girlfriend. 

Kiyoko is a great person, but Osamu can tell that in terms of compatibility with Atsumu, she doesn’t rank high. The newspaper tabloids aren’t wrong in saying that she’s capable of keeping Atsumu rooted, but Osamu knows better than anyone that Atsumu hates being tied down. When it comes to things that aren’t acting, Atsumu moves on the moment he finds something boring, a slave to his short attention span. He’s sprinting forward at a full tilt, so fast that almost nobody can catch up to him. 

Osamu is one of the rare few people able to keep up with his speed. Another person who can match his pace, Osamu has come to realise, is Sakusa. 

It’s hard to see at first, given how unalike they are, but for every stupid, unnecessary thing that Atsumu says, Sakusa always has something to retort with. Osamu can tell he doesn’t always say what is on his mind, but Sakusa’s tongue is just as sharp as, if not even more than, Atsumu’s. 

There is the difference between Kiyoko and Sakusa, Osamu supposes. Kiyoko tames Atsumu,  keeping their conversations sensible and slowly calming him down, whereas Sakusa keeps Atsumu in check by retaliating with just as much energy, enough to shut Atsumu down. 

“Sasa?” 

“Mm, I’m here.” Rintarou comes into their room, plopping onto Osamu’s lap where Osamu is sitting on their hammock chair. He closes his eyes and mumbles something incoherent as Osamu sinks a hand into his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Long day?”

“Had to talk to some annoying people, is all.” Rintarou reaches out to curl his fingers into Osamu’s shirt. “What were you thinking about?”

“Say, Rin,” Osamu slides his arms under Rintarou’s warm body, “remember the campin’ trip I toldja about?” In one smooth motion, he stands up, lifting Rintarou bridal style, and walks to their bed, dumping Rintarou onto the comforter. “The one where Tsumu wandered off on his own and got lost for, like, two days?” 

Rintarou beckons Osamu forward, and Osamu falls on top of him, slumping against his chest. “Yeah, why?” 

“In that magazine interview Tsumu did with Vague, he said he met another child lost in the forest when he was lost. Said the child was actually Kiyoko.”

“Seriously? That’s crazy.” 

“Right? I remember Tsumu tellin’ me about the kid, and Kiyoko does match his description, but there’s just one detail that ain’t addin’ up. The most distinct thin’ about the child, Tsumu said, was their moles. But… Kiyoko only has one mole.” 

“It happened over twenty years ago, Sasa,” says Rintarou. “There’s no way your memories are going to be perfect. I think I’m just happy that he’s finally found someone willing to put up with him.”

“I still think there’s somethin’ fishy. And I’m worried that Tsumu doesn’t actually like Kiyoko like that.” Osamu lets Rintarou press a kiss to his forehead. “I can tell.” 

“Have more faith in him. He’s a big boy, he can solve his own damn problems.” Rintarou frowns. “Now, can you stop talking about your brother? You’re ruining the mood for sex.”

“Who said sex is on the table?” 

SCENE 7

Atsumu is thumbing through the magazine with the Yamamoto interview when he hears a knock at the door. “Come in,” he says without looking up. 

“Ya got time? I need to talk to ya.” 

“Whaddya want?” Atsumu’s eyes follow Osamu as he moves across the room to sit at the foot of the bed. 

“I know yer still unhappy about me quittin’ actin’ to open my boutique and movin’ into the other room with Rin,” Osamu says, straight to the point. 

“So what?” Atsumu puts the magazine down. “Doesn’t matter whether I like it or not. If yer happy or whatever, I can’t force ya.”

Osamu sighs. “Knowin’ ya, ya probably went on some over-dramatic monologue about how abandoned ya feel and how much lonelier it is without me in yer room or somethin’.”

“Let me mope however I wanna,” Atsumu says defensively.

“I’m tellin’ ya, stop bein’ such a dramatic piece of shit. It’s not like I don’t spend time with ya anymore, I’m just busy with my business like how yer busy with actin’.” When Atsumu doesn’t say anything, Osamu continues, “Ya wanna know why I quit? It’s because I hate bein’ in the spotlight. But ya love it, and ya soak up the attention like it’s nothin’. I admire ya for that.”

“Really? Ya admire me?”

Osamu kicks Atsumu’s side. “Don’t let the praise get to yer head. But yeah, ‘course I look up to ya. Doesn’t every little brother?”

“Stop it, Samu, yer gonna make me cry.” 

“Yer such an idiot,” Osamu grumbles, and then quieter: “I love ya.” 

This time, when Osamu says it, it doesn’t hurt anymore.

SCENE 8

They’re watching a movie that Kiyoko picked out in Atsumu’s home theatre. Since their almost-kiss, Atsumu and Sakusa’s weekly movie nights have ceased, the spot beside Atsumu now replaced by Kiyoko. Sitting crossed-legged on the couch, Atsumu has his arms folded while he watches the movie. Beside him, Kiyoko has her hands placed neatly on her lap. 

“Hey, Shimizu,” Atsumu says, after the protagonist finds out her best friend has been cheating on her with her boyfriend, “wanna have a cushion fight?”

“It’s getting late, we should go to bed soon,” Kiyoko tells him. She smiles, dark hair framing her graceful features. “Besides, I’m not very good at cushion fights.” 

Atsumu pouts. “It’s only eleven…” 

“You have to get up early tomorrow for your meet-and-greet,” she says, standing up. “You said you like tea, right? Go back to your room first, I’ll make you some.”

Kiyoko comes in with a steaming mug when Atsumu is lying face down on his bed. He rolls over, takes one look at her hand, and notes that it’s a guest mug. Not Atsumu’s. The second thing he notes is that whatever is in the mug is not oolong tea. 

“This is chamomile tea,” Kiyoko says, setting it on Atsumu’s nightstand. “It helps you fall asleep at night, and it tastes really good too. I bought it from the store yesterday.”

Atsumu leans over to peer at the pale liquid. He’s hit by a smell that is so unfamiliar and strange that he almost recoils from it, but he picks up the mug and takes a sip anyway. The tea warms his throat and stomach, helps him to relax, but Atsumu finds himself missing the grassy, smooth taste of oolong. 

“It tastes good,” says Atsumu. It is not a lie. He leaves out the fact that despite being in his own home, surrounded by people he loves (or should love), Atsumu feels homesick. 

Atsumu places the mug back onto his nightstand when he has finished its contents. He feels sleepy, but not content. It is as if there is something missing, and Atsumu hates that he knows exactly what. 

There is a Sakusa-sized hole in his heart that Kiyoko cannot fit into, no matter how much Atsumu tries to force it. No matter how hard he tries to forget about Sakusa, no matter how hard he tries to make things work out with Kiyoko, it’s just not working. After all—Sakusa and Kiyoko are two very different people, and Atsumu cannot choose who his heart decides to beat for. 

Nothing about this makes sense. Why would he fall for someone as prickly and untouchable as Sakusa when he could have Kiyoko, who is kind and virtuous and everything that Atsumu should want? 

Atsumu huffs angrily. Stupid Sakusa, derailing his perfect plan of finding a nice, sweet girl like Kiyoko, getting married and starting a family with her, then retiring early to move into a cosy cottage where his kids and grandkids might visit him occasionally. At his funeral they would say he had lived a long and successful life, that he had died peacefully with no regrets.

Even without being actually here, Sakusa still manages to be a thorn in his arse. Atsumu wants to scream into a pillow. I hate him so much. I hate him so much. 

Maybe if he repeats it enough, he will come to believe it.

SCENE 9

“Omiii… it’s still early… why are ya such an old man…” 

“Why are you so whiny,” Sakusa says flatly. “Don’t you have to wake up early tomorrow?”

“Just another round,” Atsumu tries.

Sakusa firmly folds the board shut. “We’ve been playing Monopoly for the last six hours. You can make tea with me and then go to sleep.”

Atsumu’s ears perk up. “Make tea with ya?”

“You can make your own tea bag. I have a couple of spare leaves lying around. I’ll teach you how to make it so you can make it yourself next time,” says Sakusa as he packs the Monopoly board into the box. 

They stop by Sakusa’s room to get the bottle of tea leaves, tea tags and a stapler, then head into the kitchen. Sakusa digs out a couple of coffee filters, two pairs of scissors, and a ball of string before laying out all the materials out on the kitchen counter.

Sakusa takes a pair of scissors for himself and passes Atsumu the other. “Take one coffee filter and cut off the edges so it forms a rectangle.” 

Atsumu mirrors his movements. “Like this?”

“That’s right.” Sakusa pauses to open the container of tea leaves and pour a few out into a bowl. He screws the lid back on. “Now, grab a handful of tea leaves and place them in the center.”

Atsumu grabs a spoon and scoops tea leaves onto the filter. “Is this enough?”

“Yeah. Now, fold the two long sides into the middle,” Sakusa instructs. “Fold the filter in half to form a rectangle.”

“Hey Omi, did ya have anyone to make these tea bags with the last time ya made them?”

“Ushijima Wakatoshi. He’s the one who taught me how to make these, actually. Fold the two top corners down to create a triangle, then cut out a piece of string and place it in the center of the triangle. Have you met Wakatoshi before?”

“Couple of times.” Atsumu doesn’t know why he says it so sourly, nor does he understand the ugly feeling that registers in his gut. “Guy was a real bore, though.”

“Like you’re any more interesting,” Sakusa counters. “Fold the point of the triangle down and pull the string up, like this. Wait, no, not like that.” 

Sakusa leans over and presses the fold down. He is close enough that Atsumu can smell his breath when he exhales, a mix of mint and something sweet. His pale hands are a sharp contrast beside Atsumu’s tanned ones. 

Atsumu shoots him a dirty look. “I’m very interestin’, excuse ya. I’m the most entertainin’ person in this whole house!” 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Sakusa snorts. “Staple the string down and staple the end of the string to this tea tag, and you’re done.” 

“Cool!” Atsumu holds his tea bag up, watching it dangle back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock. 

Sakusa takes their cups and fills them with water from the kettle. He slides Atsumu’s cup across the counter to Atsumu; Atsumu slowly lowers his tea bag into his cup and watches the colour of the coffee filter darken as water seeps into it, soaking the tea leaves.

After about five minutes, Sakusa tells Atsumu to take the tea bag out of his cup. Atsumu does as he’s told; he blows on the surface to cool it down before he takes a sip. It tastes good, and he accidentally lets out a satisfied purr that Sakusa raises an eyebrow at. 

Like Sakusa had told him before, the smell sticks to his hands. After he is chased to bed by Sakusa, he still can smell, very faintly, the tea leaves. Atsumu closes his eyes and revels in the fact that the smell belongs to Sakusa. 

SCENE 10

Atsumu waits until he is sure that Kiyoko is completely asleep before he creeps down to the kitchen. With the store-bought oolong tea leaves that he purchased last week and tea tags that he printed out, Atsumu begins to cut off the edges of a coffee filter. 

There is no one to laugh at him when he struggles to fold the sides of the filter over the leaves, but it is nice to imagine. 

ACT 5

I am one who loved not wisely but too well. 

(Othello, Act 5, Scene 2)

SCENE 1

“We need to talk,” Kiyoko tells him, two months after they have started dating, a week before Sakusa is due to leave. This is a sentence that Atsumu should dread to hear, but he finds that he agrees with her. 

They sit facing each other on Atsumu’s bed, a tense silence between them. Silences with Kiyoko, lately, have always been tense. Everything feels like the string of a bow pulled taut, ready to snap and let an arrow fly. 

“Atsumu,” Kiyoko begins quietly, “let’s break up.”

Atsumu has been expecting this, but it still feels surreal to hear. “Are ya unhappy with me? Do ya want me to change?”

“You can’t change your heart, Atsumu.” Kiyoko laughs, then, but there is no humour in it. “Ever since we started dating, I know that you’ve been comparing me to someone. I’m not an idiot and I’m not blind—anyone can see that you like your assistant.” 

“I like my assistant?” Atsumu thinks he has heard wrongly. “No, no, ya must be all mixed up. There’s no way I like Omi.” 

“Oh, Atsumu,” Kiyoko says, a little sadly. She lifts a hand to cup his cheek. “I love you like a little brother. Listen to your heart and follow where it carries you. You’re in love with the idea of being in love, but you never have loved me and you never will.”

Atsumu clutches her hand desperately. “Please, Shimizu, give me another chance, I’ll learn—”

“You cannot learn to love someone,” Kiyoko says gently. “And there’s something else you should know; I kept quiet because I didn’t want to disappoint you, but I see no point in hiding it now. After the interview we did for Vague was published, my parents called me. As a child I was quite sickly, and my parents kept me home most of the time to protect me.”

“What do ya mean?” Atsumu asks, although he can feel his stomach dropping. 

“I mean,” Kiyoko explains, “that I’ve never gone camping in my childhood. Whoever you were talking about or trying to find… it’s not me. I’m sorry.”

For a while, he doesn’t feel anything. It is like someone has injected him with a numbing serum and frozen his blood cold; how could it be possible? Atsumu had been so sure she was the one, had bet his future on it, but—there is a ringing in his ears, so similar to the ringing of the bell after a boxing match, only this time Atsumu is defeated, beaten bruised and bloody. 

Who is the victor? Is it fate, toying with Atsumu like he is a puppet at anyone’s disposal, existing only to entertain and discarded after use? Like some sick mockery of Atsumu’s career, having him play out a script that he has never read before, manipulated like a string puppet. Having Atsumu move to someone else’s tune, dance to music he cannot recognise. 

If this were a play, Atsumu would be the jester. A fool that the audience would point, shake their heads and laugh at. 

Kiyoko leaves his room shortly after that, saying she will give him some time alone. Atsumu knows that she is never coming back. He is back to square one, back to the starting line in a pointless race he cannot hope to win.

It is at this moment that there is a knock on Atsumu’s door. 

“Atsumu.” There is fear in Yachi’s eyes. “Please come and see this. Now.” 

SCENE 2

There are a few days left before Sakusa leaves. Just a few days more, and Atsumu will most likely never see Sakusa again. Why now?

“We tried to do as much damage control as we could,” Akaashi says, staring numbly at the tablet screen in front of him. “This will not affect any of your casting roles, but you…” Akaashi sighs. “You should’ve been more careful.”

Atsumu turns to wink at Sakusa. “Paint me like one of yer French girls.”

And then the fifteen seconds video loops back to the start. It replays. Again and again and again. This video itself would not have been a problem—it could have been some lame inside joke between two friends—but the issue is that one of those friends is an A-list actor and the video has eleven million views. Atsumu refreshes the page. Twelve million. 

Who could have followed them to such an obscure location? The bridge was so far away from civilisation Atsumu had been making murder jokes all the way back home. 

His phone, lying on the dining table, is blowing up with notifications. Atsumu wonders if Sakusa has seen the video, and then laughs at himself. Of course Sakusa has. Sakusa probably already has his bags packed, doing his best to change his plane ticket to the earliest flight out of here. Far away from this mess and far away from Atsumu—the further the better.

Atsumu picks up his phone and skips straight past the messages from his brother and his brother’s boyfriend and Kita. He heads directly to Twitter and clicks on where his name is trending under someone called Albedo and—is Kageyama trending? For real? 

Already, pictures of Atsumu and Sakusa are beginning to surface. There is one of them at the celebrity bar, another of them at a convenience store buying tea leaves, and—Atsumu saves this picture—a close-up photo of Sakusa with his forehead wrinkled and his hand in a sharp middle finger, directed at a grinning Atsumu. 

The people on the internet are terrifyingly fast. They have managed to dig out Sakusa’s identity, his affiliation with the Ushijimas, and his job as a personal assistant to Atsumu. Atsumu reckons these people should put their skills to better use instead of digging up dirt on celebrities—like contributing to society instead of deducing that Sakusa’s favourite colour is blue. (It isn’t; Sakusa likes yellow best.) 

Someone slides into the seat beside him and Atsumu doesn’t have to look up to know it is Osamu. Together, they watch the video still replaying on the tablet, before Osamu wrinkles his nose and proceeds to give the back of Atsumu’s head a hard slap. 

“Ow! The hell didja do that for?” Atsumu rubs the (sore) back of his head. His hair has been growing out; perhaps he should go get it cut again. 

“Dumbasses get thwacked. That’s the rules.” Osamu flicks the side of Atsumu’s forehead, earning him another pained grumble. “And currently, yer bein’ a giant fuckin’ dumbass.” 

“What’d I even do?” Atsumu protests.

“Maybe if ya grew a pair of balls and talked to Sakusa about whatever’s goin’ on between the both of ya instead of wallowin’ in a sad sea of self-denia,l I would’ve held back from hittin’ ya the second time.” Osamu turns the tablet screen off and folds his arms. “Yer both real painful to watch, ya know?” 

“What would I even talk to him about?” Atsumu flops onto the dining table, pressing his cheek against cool marble. “Besides, hasn’t he already left?”

“He’s been cooped up in his room. Hasn’t come out since this mornin’.” Osamu punches his shoulder lightly. “I’m not surprised ya haven’t noticed, ya self-centred prick. ” 

Atsumu stands up, swaying slightly on his feet, Osamu’s subsequent words filtering through his brain like white noise. He needs to get out of here. He wants to forget Sakusa and Kiyoko and every failed thing that Atsumu has done ever since Sakusa came into his life. That was the catalyst, was it not? 

The push of a finger to set off a chain of dominos. (My name is Sakusa Kiyoomi.)

The drop of a stone into water to create ripples that expand across the water surface. (Paint me like one of yer french girls.)

The single flap of a butterfly’s wings to set off a tornado. (Let’s seal our deal with a kiss.)

One by one, pieces of the puzzle are beginning to come into place. Atsumu resigns himself to having to wait for the other pieces to form that perfect picture that he has been chasing after all along. When he finally steps out of the house into the courtyard, he feels a weight lifting off his chest, leaving him lighter and with one less burden to worry about. 

When he first moved into this house, Atsumu used to play hide-and-seek in the garden with Osamu, basking in the simple pleasure of having no burden on his shoulders. Now, the garden has become his therapy space where he escapes to whenever things get too much, too loud. Plants cannot speak or judge him, and Atsumu appreciates them for that. 

On his way to the garden, he passes by a small pot of purple hyacinths. Atsumu remembers the trauma Sakusa seemed to have with the hyacinths when Atsumu was bringing him around on the house tour, and then curses internally. Dammit, the whole purpose of getting out of the house was to get away from Sakusa. Yet here Atsumu is, foolishly remembering insignificant details about Sakusa. 

The whole situation seems rather laughable, so Atsumu chuckles out loud to himself as he bends down to pick a hyacinth, uprooting it from the soil. It fits in the cradle of his palm, a deep violet that balances delicately on top of his fingers. The flower smells sweet and heady; Atsumu brings his hand closer to his face and inhales, the intoxicating scent filling his nostrils.

Atsumu suddenly remembers first smelling this scent on Sakusa the first night he had met Sakusa in the kitchen, when Sakusa had passed him on Sakusa’s way out of the kitchen. He has occasionally smelled it on Sakusa, since then, but the scent had always been too faint for Atsumu to recognise. However, Atsumu’s memory has always been relatively good and he now remembers this scent. 

Why would it be on Sakusa, though? Does Sakusa have some strange negative association with purple hyacinths, or does he not?

Atsumu debates between going to Sakusa to investigate exactly what is going on and dropping the matter, like he has been constantly stepping around every landmine that stands in the path to Sakusa. If he chooses to pursue the issue, he risks losing whatever scraps remain of their relationship. On the other hand, he might never get an answer to all the questions he’s had. 

Eventually curiosity wins out, and Atsumu goes back into the house, heading for Sakusa’s room. He is about to barge in before he realises that the door is locked. “Open up,” he shouts, banging on the wood. “I know yer in there, Omi!” 

He waits for three seconds before he starts furiously hammering on the door again. 

On the fifth slam of his palm, the door swings open and Atsumu nearly slaps Sakusa, who’s scowling and dressed in a bathrobe that exposes his sharp collarbones. Atsumu swallows. 

“What do you want,” Sakusa asks monotonously. 

“I wanna know what’s going on in yer head. Ya never tell me anythin’ and when some problem pops us, ya just run away. Stop runnin’ away from me.” Atsumu steps closer; Sakusa backs into his room. It feels like a dam has broken, letting loose every question Atsumu has been holding in. He feels them surging to the surface, spilling from his mouth. A small trickle from a tap dripping, dripping everyday into his cup, and now everything is overflowing. “Tell me what’s going on. Stop runnin’ away from this,” Atsumu gestures between them, “or whatever the hell we are.” 

Sakusa stares at him for a good five seconds while Atsumu tries not to crumble, until Sakusa finally sighs and turns back into his room, heading for his desk. Atsumu takes this as a sign to follow him, and closes the door behind him. 

Sakusa is rummaging through a drawer when Atsumu sinks down into a leather chair at the table. He watches as Sakusa pulls out a small ziplock bag with a silver hand-woven bracelet inside and places it on the table gently, as if afraid of damaging it. Beside it, Sakusa sets down a yellowing photograph that is so old Atsumu can barely see the two people depicted.

Wordlessly, Sakusa sits down beside Atsumu. 

Atsumu picks up the photo and startles—a younger Atsumu and Osamu stare back at him. In the background is a campfire, and though the lighting is poor, Atsumu can see a glint of silver on his own hand in the photo that is unmistakably the bracelet. He looks back up at Sakusa, mind full of static. “But how…?” 

“My birth parents were too poor to raise me,” Sakusa begins quietly. “When I was six, they drove me deep into a forest and abandoned me there. I spent several days surviving on my own, and then I met you. You said got lost because you wandered off on your own even though your mum told you not to. You were the first friend I ever made. We spent three days in the forest on our own until your parents found you and brought you back home. After that, I hid in a truck and made my way to the city where an orphanage found me and the Wakatoshi family took me in.” 

Sakusa says all this as if talking about the weather or what he wants to eat for lunch—detached and emotionless. And Atsumu has been so stupid, so fucking stupid because of course—

Kiyo, not for Kiyoko. 

Kiyoomi. 

“When you came to work for me… did ya already know?” Atsumu asks numbly, even though he already knows the answer. 

“I asked Wakatoshi to recommend me to you because I’ve been working for the Ushijima Corporation most of my life,” Sakusa tells him. “But what does all this matter? I’ll be leaving soon. You have Kiyoko. I have no place in your life.”

“Kiyoko and I broke up,” Atsumu says, picking up the silver bracelet. Unconsciously, he slides it onto his wrist, letting a familiar weight settle into where it had originally belonged. “What’s the deal between ya and purple hyacinths?” 

Sakusa runs a hand through his hair. He pushes his fringe up with his fingers as he does this, and Atsumu catches sight of the two moles standing out starkly above his eyebrow. Atsumu remembers being strangely obsessed with them—he finally knows why, now. 

“I almost forgot you have no filter whatsoever,” he hears Sakusa muttering under his breath. Louder, Sakusa says, “My parents left them with me when they abandoned me. They symbolise forgiveness, which is pretty fucking ironic, becuase every time I see those flowers it makes me madder.” Sakusa leans back in his chair, exhaling. “I tried to get over it by picking them from your garden and staring at them, displaying them in my room, but—” He laughs harshly and kicks at the waste bin by Atsumu’s feet. It topples over and several shredded flowers spill out, wilted and grey. 

Atsumu ignores the uneasy feeling the dead petals are giving him. “And the faint accent that ya have…?” 

“Because I’m not originally from around here,” Sakusa confirms. “If you’re done interrogating me, please leave. It would be best for us to never see each other again.”

Atsumu panics. He has to find some way to salvage this, to fix their relationship somehow , and maybe finally admit to himself that yeah, maybe somewhere along the way he has fallen in love with Sakusa. 

Without thinking, because he never does, Atsumu blurts out, “Let’s date!” 

The air in the room seems to freeze. The crease between Sakusa’s eyebrows disappears. As if someone has pressed a pause button; there is an infinitesimal shift in the energy in the room. Almost immediately after he says it, Atsumu wishes he could swallow his words. But if there is anything Atsumu has learnt, is that unlike filming, there are no retakes in life. 

All he can do now is hold his breath and pray.

“No,” comes the reply, voice like stone. It cuts through the air and silence, hard and firm. There seems to be no room for argument, but then Sakusa continues to speak, and if Atsumu listens hard enough, there is a small tremor in his words. “I will not be your replacement for Kiyoko. I have had enough of whatever game you have been playing with me. I have had enough of you toying with my feelings like I’m just another puppet for you to toy with, and—” 

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says, “what are ya talking about? Do ya—do ya like me back?”

Sakusa crumples back onto his chair. “I don’t know when it started, but—but having to watch you date Kiyoko was so painful, and every time you and her were together it just—hurt so much, but I thought you two looked good together and everyone was saying that too, so I tried to forget about you, and it’s been working so far—don’t you dare tell me that you like me—not when I’ve loved you for so long!” 

Hearing Sakusa’s words are not like getting hit with a truck, or punched in the gut, or kicked in the stomach. No, it’s more like a splash of water in his face that wakes him up from his daydream and forces him to come back to a much harsher reality. 

“Give me a chance,” Atsumu starts, desperation clear in his voice, but Sakusa is already standing up and pushing him out of the room.

“Leave me alone,” Sakusa says, before he slams the door in Atsumu’s face. 

SCENE 3

Kiyoomi taps his fingers on his laptop as he scrolls through plane tickets. Due to the scandal that had unexpectedly surfaced, he’d been given the option to select his own departure date, the earliest choice being to leave today. Kiyoomi wants to go back home right away, but something is stopping him from pulling his credit card out of his wallet to pay and get the hell out of here.

Let’s date!

Atsumu had said it like it was so simple and obvious, but Kiyoomi knows better. He’s being used as a replacement, and he'll be thrown away after Atsumu ultimately realises that Kiyoomi is nothing like Kiyoko. The truth hurts like a bitch, but there is nothing that Kiyoomi can do about it. 

If even the newspapers and magazines could see it, there was no way that Atsumu couldn’t  have seen how perfect he and Kiyoko were together. Looks and personality wise, they fit like puzzle pieces clicking into place; Kiyoomi was just an extra piece, meant to be discarded.

Dammit, this should have been easy. Of course Atsumu had to complicate matters and make everything infinitely more difficult. 

Kiyoomi picks up his credit card from where it is lying on the table, beside his laptop. He glares at the sixteen digits on the front, fights a small internal battle, then types the numbers into the box on the website.

SCENE 4

“What d’ya mean, he’s gone?”

“Packed his bags, cleaned out his room, left an hour ago for the airport. I think I heard him say ‘Terminal Two’ to the taxi driver.” 

Atsumu doesn’t want to go out right now. The press are probably swarming at his doorstep from the video that went viral—he has no idea how Sakusa managed to escape. 

But which is truly more important to him? Facing a couple of strangers whom he doesn’t know, or facing Sakusa Kiyoomi, someone who is the furthest thing from a stranger right now?

A red string hooks on Atsumu’s pinkie and tugs him to his car. It pulls him to start the ignition, to take the wheel and go where he wants. All the time he has spent with Sakusa—with Omi—with Kiyo—has taught him that there is so much more to himself than a pretty face or acting skills. That beneath all those layers, there is only a lost boy waiting to be found.

Atsumu has never been one to pursue. His short attention span doesn’t allow for it, and neither does his pride and ego. But as Atsumu guns the engine and races towards the airport, the speedometer climbing at the same rate as his heartbeat, Atsumu discovers that there lies a thrill in chasing after the unknown. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi, Atsumu thinks, is not just a thrill. 

He is adrenaline itself. 

Atsumu pulls into a parking lot and starts to sprint towards the entrance of the terminal. His feet carry him across gravel and asphalt, seeking out a head of dark curls; praying fervently to every greater being willing to listen to let him reach before Sakusa leaves. 

Only when Atsumu steps foot onto cold marble tiling does he realise that he is searching for a needle in a haystack. Without knowing which flight is Sakusa’s, or even which airline, there is no way he is going to be able to find Sakusa. He hasn’t even factored in possibly being seen by his fans, Kita is going to kill him if— 

“...Atsumu?” 

Atsumu whirls around. There he is; the one face Atsumu would recognise in a sea of people. It is like Atsumu’s dream all over again, except this time Sakusa is real, concrete, something tangible that Atsumu can hold. 

One breath, one step. Two.

It feels like he’s leaving an imprint behind with every move, embedded in the floor. He thinks they might look quite comical now—Atsumu wearing all black, a cap under the hood of his jacket and sunglasses on his face; Sakusa wearing a long, hazel coat, pale blue scarf wrapped around his neck. Truth to be told, Atsumu has no idea how Sakusa recognised him in his getup.

Truth to be told, Atsumu doesn't care.

Three steps, four steps.

Atsumu breaks out into a run, crashing into Sakusa as he envelops Sakusa in a bone-crushing hug. He just needs to know that Sakusa is here, and real, and— 

“Don’t leave,” he whispers. Furiously: “Don't leave.”

Atsumu is sick and tired and done with people entering his life and exiting as they pleased. He doesn't want to be a phase that Sakusa remembers when Sakusa is old and wrinkly, like oh yeah, I used to be this really famous star’s PA. He wants to be standing beside Sakusa when Sakusa is old and wrinkly, and it terrifies him. The feeling of wanting to fight for himself and a chance for them is exhilarating and new, but if he is fighting with Sakusa, Atsumu thinks that he might not mind too much.

Something wet stains the side of his face and Sakusa is shaking, trembling in Atsumu’s arms. “That’s all you needed to say,” he gasps out, heaving. 

Atsumu has always loved acting because he likes seeing bits of scenes and everything come together to make a movie. He likes throwing himself into every character he portrays, bringing words and paper to life. He puts on characters like a second skin to hide his own personality away.

But now, burying his face into Sakusa’s warm scarf, he feels stripped down to his core, bared for Sakusa to judge. There is a sort of charged energy coursing through him that holds him up on his own two feet and prevents him from collapsing.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t care about looking the best or being absolutely flawless. It doesn't matter if Sakusa thinks that Atsumu and Kiyoko look perfect together, because Atsumu doesn't want perfect. 

Atsumu just wants Sakusa, plain and simple. 

SCENE 5

Kiyoomi wants to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks, but he cannot. It’s as if his tear glands have stopped listening to him, just as his heart has—sternum beating fast and steady against his ribcage, traitorously loud in his ears. 

What has changed between wanting to escape just two hours ago and wanting to stay forever now? Honestly, Kiyoomi doesn't know. As hard as he’s tried to understand it, love has always been a foreign concept to him. It makes people do things they usually would never, an invisible force stronger than any other. 

It races through Kiyoomi’s veins and sets his blood on fire. 

Atsumu’s hands on him feel like red hot iron, burning against his skin, feverishly branding him. Kiyoomi doesn’t pull away; he welcomes it, keeps going back to the fire, willingly letting himself be marked to feel the pain he craves so desperately, just for those mere seconds.

Kiyoomi wants to receive everything Atsumu is prepared to offer. He thinks of lighting a candle, lips separated by a piece of cloth, and maybe he is ready to keep the fire burning. 

Maybe he is ready to stop running.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi breathes into the curve of Atsumu’s shoulder, “kiss me.” 

“But—”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi repeats, this time more urgently, “kiss me.”

With fingers that refuse to still, Atsumu reaches for the bands of Kiyoomi’s mask. “Is this okay?” 

Kiyoomi nods. The fingers tug, then the mask is coming off, cool air hitting his face. Exhale, inhale, breathe. When his chest doesn't feel like crumbling in on itself, he nods again. 

Atsumu’s gaze is darting over his features, drinking him in. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and then their lips touch.

There are no fireworks exploding behind closed eyelids, or passionate tongues moving together in tandem, and overall the moment is much more anticlimactic than Kiyoomi had anticipated. All he can feel is cold, chapped lips—it feels like kissing a fish. 

But this is Kiyoomi’s first kiss, so it’s okay. He can learn. 

They pull apart after an awkward minute, and Atsumu starts laughing, raspy and raw. Kiyoomi gives in and laughs along with him, bending to press their foreheads together. The gentle curve of Atsumu’s eyes, pools of swirling, liquid gold, stare back at him.

Then a click of a camera. 

Kiyoomi lifts his head sharply to find that they are surrounded by blinking red lights, flashes of white, something he should have expected, but now that he is actually seeing it he doesn't know how to react. 

He should have been prepared to be thrust into the spotlight like this. It’s something he has been getting used to, still working on everyday, but facing the public like this just isn’t his forte. 

Atsumu, fortunately, seems to be much better at handling the situation. “Put your mask back on,” he says, drawing a phone out from his pocket. He dials a number, then: “Kita, I’ve got Omi with me. We’re coming home now.” 

One messy hour later, they finally reach home. Kiyoomi has almost no online presence at all, so he is thankful for that, but Atsumu does. A very large one, in fact, and that is why his phone has not stopped vibrating ever since they left the airport.

Atsumu shuffles into his room with Kiyoomi following behind, switching off his phone and tossing it onto the couch. He crowds Kiyoomi against the bed, awkwardly placing his hands on both Kiyoomi’s shoulders. 

“So.”

“So?” Kiyoomi tilts his head in question. 

“Are we gonna… talk about us?” 

Kiyoomi pulls his mask down with a hand. “I think I’ve done enough talking and thinking for a lifetime, thanks.”

Atsumu grins, foxlike. He gives Kiyoomi’s shoulders a light push. Kiyoomi lets his knees buckle, sinking into the mattress. “Ya prefer if I do a live demonstration?”

“I’d prefer if you shut up,” Kiyoomi says, but there is no real heat behind it, and he lets Atsumu crawl onto the bed, on top of him.

“That can be done,” Atsumu whispers sultrily, shifting to pin Kiyoomi’s wrists above his head just like how he had done to Atsumu so many nights ago in their cushion fight. Only this time, the tension continues to rise, and Kiyoomi doesn't run away. 

He arches his spine, reaches up, and kisses Atsumu with all the fervour and passion of a starved hunter. The faint smell of cologne lingers on Atsumu’s skin, Kiyoomi’s fingertips dancing alongside the scent. He gives a tentative lick at the hollow of Atsumu’s throat, tasting salt on the flat of his tongue. Atsumu’s subsequent moan is so obscene it should be illegal , but it is not, so Kiyoomi keeps going, encouraged by hands that stutter and still in his hair. 

Fingers clutch at silken sheets, clawing at air for sweet release; shadows move in synchrony until daybreak and all movement ceases, save for the gentle snores of limbs entangled together on a bed made for two. 

The space beside Atsumu has finally been filled. 

TWO YEARS LATER

A sleek, black limousine pulls up to a carpet made of velvet, throngs of adoring fans and media waiting to pounce on the feast inside the car. A pair of Louboutins steps out of the sedan to deafening screaming. 

“Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.” He cannot tell if the crowd is chanting or howling his name. 

“Atsumu,” another voice, “what if—” 

He turns around, lips stretching into a genuine smile, devastating and kind. “Come on, Kiyoomi. Don’t ya dare chicken out on me now. They’ll love ya—I know I do.” 

The shutter of cameras going off are like thunderclaps echoing, flash like lightning bolts—a storm is awaiting Kiyoomi outside of the car. It’s only the movie premiere of the movie Atsumu had been shooting when they first met, but this is the first time they are making their appearance together in public. It feels like a turning point; it feels like coming home. 

Atsumu offers a hand to him, an anchor to shore. 

Kiyoomi takes it and steps out into the limelight.