Work Text:
Atsumu had zero clue how long he'd been standing in the mirror, picking himself apart until he had 15 new ways his body was inadequate. All he knew was he came into the bathroom sometime around 2AM. It was quiet, which didn't help his racing thoughts in the slightest, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from the reflection long enough to put on music or a podcast. He couldn't stop searching, counting and recounting all the ways he was wrong and ugly.
He was tracing the scars over the top of his pecs when he distantly realized there were eyes burning into him that weren't his own. Those eyes still couldn't draw him fully out the trance of running his fingertips across the small white lines that forced him to always wear some kind of covering for his chest. The scars across his lower stomach and hips didn't help. Just like the faint lines marring his upper thighs, disappearing under his boxer briefs.
How long had it been since he last fell into that trap? Two years? Two and a half? Long enough for the scars not to be noticeable with an initial brief glance. They were faded, but still present enough to snag Atsumu's eyes anytime he dared to look in a mirror before or after a shower, or when his skin was flushed from an intense workout. It was part of the reason he hated that he tanned a bit in the summer. It only made them more prominent, bumped them higher in the ranking system of his notebooks.
He didn't jump when heard steps quietly echoing on the tile. When someone came up behind him, he didn't look away from his waist and hips as his fingers trailed to squeeze the layer of squish that hid the muscles built from god-knows-how-many years of volleyball. It still pushed out from his light grip, only getting bigger when he squeezed a little tighter. It made his stretch marks stand out more as the skin whitened under his hands and filled back in a light red.
"Do you think I'm pretty?"
It was soft, one of the many racing thoughts and questions that just happened to slip out. And he knew he feared all of the possible answers.
'Yes', you're lying to me to make me feel better.
'No', you're right, I'm hideous.
'Why do you ask?', come up with some joke and brush it off, hide the desperation to know I’m not a monster.
Most of the answers would’ve had some variation of the last response.
"I think you're scared."
An answer he’d only considered once or twice, something he wasn’t prepared for. Atsumu only hummed, unable to choose any number of evasive or explosive replies. He was too busy running his nails a little too harshly over the long lines across his lower stomach, watching the faint white turn brighter against the red skin. He was too busy filing away the familiar urge to scratch until he rips them open for later considerations and nightmares - though he knew it would be ineffective, just like the attempts of scratching would be; they were too old to be ripped open, they would only be covered with fresh wounds.
"I'm not pretty." He could tell he would just be running his mouth at this point. Oh well. "I want to be. Tsukishima, Kageyama, Akaashi - they're all pretty. Smooth, soft, small in their own ways.” Calloused fingers drew small lines under his left eye. “Tsukishima has the perfect eye shape; he doesn't look tired or sleazy or bored.” He brushed a hand through his disastrous sleepless-night, bleached hair. “Akaashi's hair is soft and shiny and a nice brown color that doesn't look dead and muted.” Both of his hands fell back to his waist and pressed in. “Kageyama's waist is so small and he doesn't have squish covering his muscles, he doesn't have marks on his thighs or hips." His semi-neutral expression finally turned somewhat sad, regretful. Though, he supposed he looked more angry with his scrunched brows and slightly wrinkled nose. "They didn't need to sleep around just to feel like they're worth something. They didn't walk away feeling worse than before or make an empty promise to never do it again. They know they're beautiful."
When Atsumu's eyes finally ripped themselves away from his bare skin, he found Sakusa's dark eyes narrowed in a confusing mix of emotions.
But, they were probably all negative. Sakusa probably knew Atsumu wasn't desirable. He was probably figuring out the best way to leak to the team the fact Atsumu had acted like a slut. He was probably comparing those three to Atsumu right now and finding others to compare as well. He was probably counting just like Atsumu did.
Atsumu wondered how many Sakusa had found in just that one moment, let alone in the two years they’d played together on top of the years they’d known each other since high school.
Sakusa interrupted his thoughts by stepping a bit closer. He was looking Atsumu's reflection in the eyes. "I think you're a different type of pretty."
Atsumu didn't bother hiding the deep frown and rolled his eyes. "So do lots of other people, apparently. Until I ask what they mean and they have to think way too long about it, or give bullshit answers like 'you're personality is awesome'."
"Most of your personality isn't pretty. It's loud and obnoxious and draws ugly laughter from everyone." Deadpan tones were welcomed in the odd moment of their little bubble in time. The dark eyes dropped to look over Atsumu's chest. He had to fight the urge to turn and run; though, it wasn't much of a fight with how exhausted he was, in every sense of the word. "But, there are some parts I find beautiful. Like the fact you manage to make almost anyone you meet laugh at least once, usually more. Or seeing you pick up children and tell your awful jokes when they get anxious or overwhelmed.” That deadpan was melting away into something softer, more neutral. “And you don't think twice about being generous to our team and your friends; you've given up plenty of opportunities to enjoy alone time you'd been looking forward to, just to help one of them out of a bad mood, or go out for an activity someone got stood up for. You've even done that for activities you don't enjoy - maybe even hated, judging by how exhausted you’d look coming back." He paused. He searched Atsumu’s mild scowl. "There's more, but that's not the answer you're looking for. So, you won't care right now."
Even the irrational part of Atsumu's brain is able to acknowledge that Sakusa wouldn't lie about his opinions on others, especially people he knows personally. He never hesitated to tell Atsumu how irritating he was being, and he also gave praise where it was due. Still, he was right that Atsumu didn't really care.
Sakusa's hands were cold, but that wasn't the only reason Atsumu flinched when they were very lightly laid on his right shoulder and the left side of his neck. "But, if you're looking for physical traits, I have some of those as well."
"Don't give me any bullshit, Omi." He could hear the weakness of his own voice, how tired he sounded. He knew he wouldn't be able to handle it if the blunt and honest Sakusa Kiyoomi decided to make things up to keep Atsumu's physical performance up on the court.
Sakusa raised an eyebrow, his thoroughly unimpressed stare burning something in Atsumu's stomach. "When have I ever lied about all the things I find annoying about you?"
Atsumu didn't reply, just focused on the way Sakusa freezing fingertips were tracing the back of his jawline.
Sakusa sighed. "You're the type of pretty that isn't ethereal or graceful or obvious at an initial glance. Tsukishima, Akaashi, and Kageyama are a closer fit for those descriptions, I agree." The hand on his shoulder moved slowly towards his arm. A small drop of nausea joined the jumbled soup of chaos in his stomach. "No. You're a kind of a beautiful that you notice through experiences."
"Oh, really?" The line had none of Atsumu’s usual teasing or smugness. It was just flat.
Sakusa hummed an affirmative. "Your beauty is something that takes experiences to see, but once you notice it, you can never unsee it." Cold fingers slipped back down from the left side of his jaw to his neck and traced the tendon down the side towards the front of his throat. "When you wear necklaces, like your gold one with the small lightning bolt, it's obvious how well your neck is built to compliment jewelry of any kind." A pleasant splash of fondness was added to the pot as he thought of his matching necklace with Osamu’s silver thunder cloud. The hand on his arm had slowly trailed down to his right wrist, loosely wrapped so Sakusa’s nimble fingers touched. "And you start to notice how nice bracelets look on your wrists." It slid down to trace his fingers. "And rings always seem to fit perfectly on your fingers.
"Fingers that are a nice balance to the rest of your hand. Not too thick, not too slim. Calloused from hard work put into something you love more than life itself. But, they’re still soft in a way that makes them pleasant to feel against someone's skin when you're holding their arm to guide them through a noisy crowd. Or when you're holding onto someone's face and giving aggressive praise or weirdly sweet tough love."
Atsumu could tell Sakusa wasn't paying much attention to what he was saying anymore. His eyes were distracted as they roamed Atsumu’s body, voice relaxed and reverent in a way Atsumu's never heard before.
Those soft hands glided to his hips. He ignored the way his skin absolutely crawled with the contact, how half a bottle of prickles dropped ungracefully into the soup. "And your 'squish', as you call it, keeps it from being uncomfortable to be shoved way too close to you in a bus packed with huge athletes in their mid-twenties.” An amusing hint of distaste for the way the MSBY bus filled added something sweet to Atsumu’s pot. “They're not bony, they don't dig into my hips or hurt." The fingers were warming up as they moved to the upper sides of his thighs. A thin trail of scorched skin followed. "It fills out your figure well. You don't look overly muscular, like a caricature of what strong men are 'meant to be'.” Sakusa always disliked the models in the athletics magazines Hinata and Atsumu read. Atsumu had always wondered why. “It's a pleasant contrast to your defined face and arms; there's a balance so aesthetically pleasing that I've rarely seen before. A unique satisfaction only captured in art."
Sakusa's voice took on a contemplative tone, like he was trying to solve the riddle that was Miya Atsumu. "And you somehow make it difficult to find you unattractive in most clothing or styles. Femininity suits you in a way that's different from men like Akaashi, or even Osamu, for all that you’re natural carbon copies of each other." He tilted his head just a bit as his warm hands finally settled on Atsumu's waist. "You find ways to accentuate your typically-masculine features while still drawing out the familiar atmosphere and energy I've found in a more common femininity, like Bokuto's." Bokuto Koutarou, flower-crown expert and sundress extraordinaire. He did suit femininity well in the most-common sense of the word - and he was an incredible outfit consultant.
A soft sigh brought Astumu’s attention back to the outside world. "You're the best of so many worlds. You have flaws and near perfections that are able to compliment each other and even out into a comprehensive attractiveness and gorgeousness. There's plenty of beauties if you're given the chance to have the experiences." He stepped even closer, and Atsumu became faintly aware of the fact Sakusa had no shirt on, allowing a small sense of comfort for the craving Atsumu always had for skin-to-skin contact - which someone remained even during his repulsed moments. And he didn't linger much on how he had this comfort despite not actually having any more actual contact than the hands resting on his waist. Just that Sakusa was near enough to feel the slight chill of his skin.
"A balance so difficult to find at times but the moment you see it, it's nearly impossible to look away. There's no way to find the mix of beauty you have in anyone else, at least not in anyone that I've met. And I've spent plenty of time trying to figure out just how you manage to have such a... roughness about you, while still keeping an incomprehensible air of beauty and prettiness and gentleness and so much more. And I'm confident there's more to discover."
Finally, silence fell over the pair. Atsumu spent some time replaying parts of Sakusa's trance-like words. He tried to see the parts of him Sakusa found pleasing; and while he couldn't see for his own opinion, he could sort-of see how Sakusa would feel that way. He knew Sakusa was regaining clarity of himself when Atsumu finally moved on his own. Atsumu ran his fingertips over Sakusa's left hand, feeling the thin veins that always lingered under his pale skin, noticing a tiny scar on the middle knuckle. Reluctant to break the serenity, but craving more contact, more comfort, a way to push past the insecurity of the fact he'd started silently crying at some point - which, how had he noticed something like that before? He hadn’t even registered the soft sniffles during the moment, the slight salty taste on his lips. He wasn't even sure why he'd been crying - well, more like he couldn't discern the taste from his soup - so he left it at being overwhelmed by the whole situation.
And Atsumu was struck from lightning with the possibility of Sakusa being so disgusted by the rare open display of sadness and fear, the tears that fell and the way he was shaking, the way shame was slapping him over and over and turning his face and neck and ears red. That he would be repulsed by Atsumu's touch and desire for comfort from a man who wasn’t by any means openly affectionate.
But, the disgust never came as Atsumu watched his face with wide eyes. The most discomfort he could find was heat turning Sakusa cheeks red, and that embarrassed little huff he did while he looked to the side at the ground when he was flustered by a comment from someone on the team. His hands never left, just hesitated with a barely-there squeeze. Then, Atsumu was pulled into a hug from behind, letting out a little gasp. And Sakusa was hiding his face in fading-blond hair, and his grip was tight and calming, and his heartbeat was a similar jackrabbit pace to Atsumu's. His breathing was slow and even, unlike Atsumu’s little hitches and sniffles.
And Atsumu couldn't help but get greedy, turning in the man's arms to hide his face in the warmed, flushed neck. He tucked his arms under Sakusa's to wrap around his middle and squeeze, mindful not to put too much pressure. There was a brief moment of stiffness - probably shock at Atsumu continuing to be vulnerable instead of brushing off the moment with a joke - before his arms moved to wrap around Atsumu's shoulders, further shielding him from the suffocating world around them. And he could tell Sakusa wasn't pleased with the way Atsumu kept sniffling, but allowed it since Atsumu was extra, extra careful not to get snot on his skin.
Eventually, Atsumu's shaking slowed to a slight tremble and his hiccups evened out for the most part. He was getting sleepy as he felt blunt nails slowly going over his undercut, soothing the hurricane of thoughts for now.
"It's probably very late, now."
Atsumu stiffened a bit and tried not to seem too insecure of himself, tried to hide the fresh wave of intrusive thoughts - how selfish, of course he’s exhausted, you should’ve dealt with this on your own, don’t drag other people into your bullshit, quit begging for attention - as he pulled back from the hug. He kept his gaze down to Sakusa's chest as he forced out a laugh, knowing damn well he was starting to close up again, shoving a lid over the bubbling pot, but unable to stop himself. "Ah, yeah, you're right. Sorry for being so annoying with all my bullshit, Omi Omi. I'll have to buy you lunch or something to make up for it." He shoved out another weak chuckle as he wiped at his eyes and grabbed a paper towel to quickly blow his nose. Some rational part of him showed the image of Osamu’s sadness at how genuine the apology was, how Atsumu truly believed he was just being a burden. It was resolutely ignored as he tossed the paper towel into the trash.
When he happened to glance in the mirror, he froze when he found Sakusa frowning at the real Atsumu. There was that familiar slight-irritation, but also a bit of worry in the way he was crossing his arms after his hands twitched towards Atsumu, nails digging into his biceps.
"It's not bullshit, Atsumu." The stern tone made him flinch a little. "You shouldn't be bottling all of this up. This is called helping your friends, and actually talking about your problems. And you should likely seek professional help as well."
How many times has he heard that since junior high?
Atsumu's grin took on a tiny sliver of genuineness as he looked up to the real Sakusa. "Aw, you think of me as a friend, Omi-Omi?" It was teasing, but it withered a little at the borderline glare he got for his evasion. He sighed quietly and looked back at the man's chest. "I know," he mumbled.
And he did know. He was honestly more self-aware than people gave him credit for. So many counselor had come and gone, each of them commenting on what an ‘old soul’ he was, how he knew himself so well, how his self-awareness was so rare and pleasant to see. But, it honestly felt like a weight on Atsumu’s shoulder; to constantly see his own flaws at work, to know so many problems he had, it created a compulsive need to analyze every little behavior he had, every little quirk and trait had to have a reason, had to come from somewhere. Because if it came from somewhere, he could fix it. He needed to know the whats and whys and hows of every single thing or it would cloud his thoughts for months before his mind latched onto something new. It was so horrible because even though he knew - oh, he knew how terrible he was - he could never figure out how to fix himself. If he did figure out a solution, it was either unhealthy, he took it to an extreme, or he couldn’t force himself to commit to it. He fell back into that pit of writing down every little thing, every answer he could possibly find, every theory he could cook up on why he was such a bastard, so broken.
Atsumu despised being so self-aware.
The silence probably didn't stretch too long before Sakusa reached out and took Atsumu's wrist, jerking him out of the thought spiral. He was being led out of the bathroom and was understandably thoroughly confused. That was normally what he did to Sakusa when they were in a crowd and Sakusa was getting anxious and stuck in his hea-
Oh.
Maybe Atsumu shouldn't poke at this one. Just accept the silent offer for comfort when Sakusa pushed their mats together and straightened out some of Atsumu's blanket nest to make it easier for the two to lay down together. Atsumu gratefully clung to Sakusa through the night, half on top of him with a leg hitched up over the man's waist and his head tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder, one arm wrapped around his torso to hug him. The strong arm laying on his waist provided a weight to focus on while a warmed hand rested on his jaw, nails slowly running over Atsumu's undercut. Hidden from the world, tethered to reality.
Atsumu slept like the dead for the first time in a long time.