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That morning was just like any other. Sakusa had woken up and checked his hands to see if they’d grown wrinkles overnight, if he’d suddenly fallen into the body that his thoughts belonged to.
Sakusa often had to remind himself that he was only eighteen years old, despite his random back pains, the fact that he got sleepy after eating fried food, the socks he’d gotten as birthday presents for two years in a row (and enjoyed), and his permanent frown that looked exactly like his grandfather’s.
His grandfather had died years ago, alone on his porch. If a nosy neighbor hadn’t come over to check on him after a few hours, then his body could have rotted there for weeks.
Sakusa’s phone beeped. Hadn’t he already shut off his alarm? He shifted in bed, grabbing his phone off his nightstand.
[Text from: Motoya] hey :3
[Text—delivered] What do you want?
[Text] are u getting ready?
[Text] don’t tell me u forgot our plans!
Of course he hadn’t forgotten. It was the only social event on his near-empty calendar. The only other dates containing his scrawl were for essay deadlines or exams.
[Text] I’m getting ready.
[Text] good. and look cute because i wanna take a LOT of photos
He groaned. Motoya was in some sort of Instagram phase lately, and wanted to take pictures of everything. But as grumpy as he was, it was hard to say no to Motoya, so he typed out an affirmative reply.
Sakusa got out of bed, dragging himself to his closet. He didn’t know what “looking cute” meant, because Motoya often criticized his fashion choices. He often said things like “you look like a highlighter” and “that shirt is going to give someone a seizure.”
Sakusa didn’t understand fashion trends at all, but he did have some pieces that Motoya had picked out and definitely approved of, so he threw an outfit together with those: a button down shirt, a royal blue sweater tucked into jeans, and some chunky sneakers. (The sneakers were one trend he could appreciate, because they were quite comfortable.)
He tried to imagine where Motoya would be taking him today. It would be somewhere aesthetically pleasing (for Motoya), not too crowded (for Sakusa), and with good food (for the both of them). Maybe a cafe with cute cat-themed desserts? Though Sakusa didn’t like to admit it, he had a sweet tooth.
As he smoothed out his clothes for the fifth time, he wondered if they’d come across any good-looking boys. Motoya had told him before that blue was his color. Sakusa argued that he could pull off any color.
“Y’know, Kiyoomi-kun.” Atsumu had said with a grin over a year ago. “Not many people could pull off that neon Itachiyama uniform.”
Sakusa blushed. Why was he remembering that now? Stupid Atsumu Miya. Better to get the idiot out of his thoughts. After all, it wasn’t like they’d see each other any time soon, with Sakusa at university and Atsumu already a pro athlete.
By the time he arrived at the train station, he’d forgotten all about Atsumu.
The station was the same as always: crowded, people rushing past, squeezing into cars, too close even when they were two feet away. The air became hot and wet, the humidity choking him, but whenever Sakusa complained about it, no one else seemed to know what he was talking about. He’d learned to wear a mask and keep his mouth shut.
“Kiyoomi!”
Motoya was the only person allowed to call him that. He turned.
And sure enough, it was his cousin, wearing his usual bubbly grin. “Wow! You look great.”
“You told me to dress up.”
“I know, but I didn’t think you’d listen.”
He frowned, and despite the mask obscuring the view, Motoya sensed it and laughed. “Come on, we’re gonna miss our train.”
They found an empty corner of the train, holding on to dull silver poles. They were probably full of germs, but that didn’t bother Sakusa much. What could you do? Just about everything had germs. As long as no one was breathing near him. (Motoya often joked that Sakusa should become a mortician for this reason.)
He looked over, finding Motoya typing on his phone and smiling.
“How’s that boyfriend of yours?”
These days, Motoya spent all his time with Suna, even once canceling a movie date with Sakusa. He had already gotten to the theater, in the middle of buying a soda when Motoya had texted him, “sorry! cant make it.” And he’d said it was fine, and sat in the back of the dark theater, the laughs of other audience members echoing in his ears.
“What?” Motoya blushed. “He’s fine. Didn’t I send you that picture of us at the mall?”
Ah, right. The one where Motoya looked all sparkly-eyed, Suna grinning with his arm around him. A perfect happy couple.
“Anyway.” Sakusa decided to change the subject. “Where are we going? You didn’t tell me anything over text.”
“I reserved a table at a restaurant.”
He raised an eyebrow. Planning ahead didn’t really sound like Motoya.
“What? I thought it’d be nice.”
Sakusa frowned. “I guess.”
Something was off.
And this superstition proved to be right when they arrived at the restaurant and found two extra people at their table: a head of white feathers and a dehydrated-piss-colored monstrosity.
Sakusa yanked Motoya back, hissing, “What are they doing here?”
He didn’t really mind Hoshiumi, but Atsumu Miya was also present, which meant that he’d automatically have a horrible day. Atsumu Miya was good for two things: playing volleyball and being obnoxious, and there was no ball to pass around.
The fact that Motoya had so obviously planned for this to be a group thing was the biggest betrayal of all.
“Okay, okay.” Motoya held up his hands in surrender. “They asked to have a small reunion for the All-Japan youth squad. And they didn’t think you’d come, so they asked me to convince you. But I knew you wouldn’t agree! So...I lied to you, hehe.”
He glared. “This isn’t funny, Motoya.”
Motoya let out a frustrated sigh. “Well maybe if you willingly took part in a social gathering, I wouldn’t have to trick you.”
He thought about his empty calendar. How the situation was so carefully crafted—a small group of people he already knew, in a public place that didn’t have many people—Motoya had designed it for Sakusa’s comfort.
“Fine.” He folded his arms. “But if I get annoyed, I’m going home.”
Motoya’s bothered expression melted into a pleased smile. “I can work with that.”
Sakusa rolled his eyes, approaching the table.
“There ya are! I was just gonna text Motoya-kun.”
But Sakusa didn’t hear. All he saw were freckles.
Dusted across Atsumu’s face like powdered hot chocolate, almost imperceptible, except they somehow brought out the brown of Atsumu’s eyes, leaving Sakusa rooted to where he stood. He didn’t know any Japanese people with freckles.
“I know I’m handsome,” Atsumu said with his sleazy grin. “But aren’tcha gonna sit down, Kiyoomi-kun?”
He scowled. Ah, right. This was Atsumu he was looking at. “I told you not to call me that.”
Sakusa was just about to sit next to Hoshiumi when Motoya took the spot, forcing him to sit beside Atsumu. Well, at least now, he didn’t have to look at him.
Except he couldn’t stop looking. At the glimmer of Atsumu’s eyes when discussing a set, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he spoke, the richness of his laugh like a mug of creamy hot cocoa.
He looked away, hiding the red in his cheeks. Who gave Atsumu the right to be so hot?
And what made Atsumu Miya so special anyway? Even now, Motoya and Hoshiumi hung onto every word he said. It was the same thing at training camp, with all the players gathering around him, pleading for a set, asking about whether or not he had a girlfriend.
Sakusa couldn’t charm a friendly kitten even if he was covered in catnip. Meanwhile, Atsumu was never alone, always in a crowd. And even when he wasn’t, he had his brother Osamu beside him.
Sakusa’s closest sibling was five years older than him and lived in America. They’d grown up in each other’s orbits, always going around and around, never touching. No one to carry him home when he scraped his knee, to steal homework answers from, to giggle over inside jokes and secrets with.
Well—he had Motoya. But these days, Motoya would rather spend all his time with Suna than him.
Sakusa had always been alone. Some twisted part of him wanted Atsumu to know what that felt like.
But it wasn’t like Atsumu would ever be interested in a guy like him.
What was he thinking anyway? Atsumu Miya shouldn’t be occupying his thoughts at all. Maybe he just needed to wash his face.
“I’m going to the bathroom.” Sakusa stood up abruptly, only then realizing that he seemed to have interrupted Hoshiumi mid-sentence.
It didn’t matter. He walked off, passing a series of doors until he found the men’s room.
It looked clean, at least. Almost clinical. White walls, white tile floors, white lights hanging from the ceiling. Underneath them, he looked yellow, the shadows under his eyes making him resemble a bruised banana. At least the royal blue of his sweater remained untouched.
His eyes found the reflection of the stall doors. Just how many people had made out in this bathroom? How many couples had tumbled in, pulling at each other as though to meld their skin together, panting hot breaths? How many people had bruised their knees, did things that made them sweat, made them feel good and battered and ashamed and euphoric and like they never wanted to tell anyone else what they’d done?
He’d bet that Atsumu made secrets worth keeping in a bathroom before. He wondered with whom.
The door opened, making him jump. Right, he’d come in here to wash his face. Quickly grabbing a paper towel to turn on the sink and get away from whoever had walked in here, he splashed his face with icy water and dried it, hurrying out the door.
Only to immediately walk into a wall.
A chuckle. “Where ya runnin’ off to, Kiyoomi-kun?”
So it wasn’t a wall. It was even worse—Atsumu.
“I was—”
“Let’s have a chat.” Atsumu stole his hand and before he could say anything, they went through another door.
Darkness.
“Atsumu—” he stepped forward, meeting an actual wall this time. “Oh my god—”
“Shit—”
“It’s a broom closet.” He couldn’t believe this was happening.
“It’s okay, we’ll just walk right back out.”
The sound of a door handle jiggling.
Atsumu cleared his throat. “So we’re locked in…”
Sakusa pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course you’d get us locked in here.” He felt around for his phone, pulling it out of his pocket. “There’s no signal.” He groaned, torn between kicking the door open and hitting Atsumu. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“I dunno...wait? They’ll realize we’re missing eventually.”
“Where’s the light?” Sakusa felt along the wall, but couldn’t find it. His hand did accidentally find Atsumu’s chest.
“Woah there.” He could hear the smugness in Atsumu’s voice.
Sakusa immediately retracted the hand, regretting the touch with every fiber of his being despite how it made his fingers tingle. “...It was an accident.”
“I know.” Atsumu stuck out an arm, pinning Sakusa to the wall in the already-cramped space. “But I’ve been noticing you lookin’ at me all afternoon.”
He was grateful for the darkness hiding the deep shade of red he’d become. “I—I haven’t been—”
“Oh, yes you have.” Atsumu chuckled, the sound low and smooth like a cello and oh my god Kiyoomi did you really just think that—
Atsumu was so close. His hand on Sakusa’s waist—a setter’s hand, strong, fingers lightly calloused, nails perfectly filed. Smelling of the peppermint candy that he’d stolen from the front of the restaurant. And it was too dark, but Sakusa could imagine those freckles right in front of them, glowing and drawing everyone in like moths to flames—everyone, including him.
If he leaned a few inches forward, they could be kissing, hands all over each other in this dark closet, their own little secret until someone came to get them. Like seven minutes in heaven, only riskier, because it wasn’t the luck of a spinning bottle that decided this, but Atsumu himself. And what would it mean if he pulled away?
Time moved slowly. He could feel Atsumu coming closer—their noses were touching.
Was he really going to have his first kiss in a dark broom closet with a huge jerk? Was it worse that he kind of wanted to?
Atsumu’s breath vapored over his lips, warm and wet.
“What are you doing?!” It sounded more like a parrot’s screech than his own voice. His arms shoved Atsumu off, sounding off a “thud” as his back hit the door.
“What the hell—”
Sakusa didn’t know what the hell. He’d thought he wanted this, wanted Atsumu. But his mind pulled him in ten different directions: want it here and now, want it but not here, want it but not now—do I want it with him? Does he want it with me?
“It’s not like you actually like me, so what do you want with me?!” Before he could stop them, the tears poured down, over his cheeks and into his soft blue sweater.
“Sakusa—”
Before Atsumu could say anything else, the door was pulled open, and he stumbled backward. Light flooded in, putting Sakusa’s tears on a stage.
Atsumu’s mouth fell open.
Sakusa bolted. Out of the restaurant, down the street. He thought he heard people calling his name, but ignored them. Gray gray gray—blurs of concrete buildings and sidewalks.
Eventually, his feet came to a stop in an alleyway. Finally, he was alone.
Tears fell onto the white of his shoes.
All at once, his legs gave out. He crouched down, hugging himself in the middle of the afternoon as groups of strangers passed the alley.
A few feet away was a rotting trash bag, so foul that it made his eyes water in a completely new way. It smelled like Sharpie ink and rotten bananas.
The trash bag sat there, alone in the alley, its wrapping the color of royal blue.