Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Love is patient.”

It starts like this:

It’s you in a room, an empty space on your finger, and the after effects of a goodbye dissipating far too quickly for you to get a grasp of what has happened. You think that maybe you should be staring at the walls, or perhaps pouring your heartaches into metaphors found only in poems, but you do none of that.

Instead, you’re angry.

There’s a flame you know was ignited all because of sin, so with that in mind, you validate all the reasons why you’re so angry. The room’s really just empty, and it’s just you sitting up in a chair, staring at the table with the final remnants of the love that once was scattered and torn at the edges in front of you. You tell yourself that you’ve got a whole lot of nerve opening pandora’s box like this again, but because love is patient, you tell yourself that this is what needs to be done.

It’s you, looking at your own situation from a third person angle and having to constantly remind yourself to breathe and take it slow, because a step at a time is all you can really do when the world weighs too heavy on you.

So you breathe, even if it’s a little shaky. You blink at the ring on the table, and the note with a past love’s handwriting scribbled across the page, and remind yourself that while love used to be that—right now it isn’t.

Endings come with the intention to remind you that forever is truly only a lifetime at best. You’re patient in the way you accept those thoughts, and patient, still, when you feel your own resolve shake a little. Today you choose to break slowly, because loving yourself in patience is letting the blood run too.

3pm turns into 3am, and it’s still like that.

When the day resets and Friday morning comes, you cancel a couple plans and sink back into your bed, blocking the world a little while longer because you can. The rest of the world moves like always, but in your own space, you choose to take today slow. One step means an hour more in bed, and two steps mean sitting up and brushing your hair before you slide out of your sheets. Three steps means squinting at the lights outside because it’s a little too bright, and four, is you deciding that though today may not be your day—you’ll work through it regardless so the rest of days to follow will be.

You smile soft, and love yourself slow.

There’s ingredients in the fridge that you can probably cook into a quick meal, but right now you want what you crave.

Love would have told you to take it the hard way just as strength would have pushed you to pick the option to serve you in the long run, but today, you suppose that life has broken you too far down to try to be too tough in the situation.

Today you take things a little easy.

You walk with careful steps to and from either ends of your apartment and plan out your day without too much of a solid outcome as a goal in mind. In the moment, what you crave is the kind of momentary peace you know will only pacify the turmoil in the moment, but you tell yourself it’s okay. With patience, you sit yourself down, sort through the mess left on the table from the night before. Once more, you remind yourself that at the very core, for it to be love, it must both be founded and treated with patience.

Maybe today, while the rest of the world will move with the purpose to breach through further than what tomorrow only promises—because for them the future means beyond what’s next—for you, tomorrow is enough.

On the table is a ring that still perfectly fits your right hand’s fourth finger, and a few photographs that solidify the reality that love was written where its beginning ultimately reached its end. An inevitable, you think. Endings have always been a part of life.

In the midst of the makeshift standstill, you think to yourself that getting to tomorrow is enough.

So you take a deep breath, remember that there’s more than just a fleeting sort of love that comes with patience, and let the tears fall. You sniffle a little, but you suppose that in time, it’s just one of those things that must be done so that you can heal a lot. It’s not fear that greets you after the initial hurt, but rather it’s reluctance to step forward and see if letting what’s only the what-ifs of love come and settle in once again.

Then again, perhaps that’s a question meant to grow with you before its answered in the space that’s only found after what will come with tomorrow.

Today, you’re letting yourself realize how it feels to be broken because of love.

Tomorrow, you’ll repeat the day and probably slip every once in a while, but you’ll forgive yourself regardless if you do.

Then, within the beyond that comes after tomorrow, you’ll think of the love that has passed as just love, and not feel it hurt you in that presence anymore.

So with that in mind, today, you sink in your seat, and tread around your thoughts lightly, just as you live through the rest of the day minute by minute, patiently.

-

Ever since he met you, the first thing Miya Atsumu decides, is that he wants to tell you that love is more than just accepting the idea that it’s there.

When you’re 24 and admittedly already rooted in life, some days, it’s hard to come into terms that this is your present.

You first meet him when you’re both 22 and just as lost as you, from a mutual friend at work. Strangers turned roommates because life has a way of connecting the lost in between, and it works.  He’s a little brash with his words at times, but then again, you suppose you appreciate honesty more than anything. To be frank, Atsumu works. He cleans up after himself and often is kind enough to always bring you back a few servings of onigiri when he does visit his brother in Hyogo some weekends.

Admittedly, it’s not just at the start where you don’t know much about him. To this day, you suppose you still don’t know anything other than the introductory pleasantries. From the tidbits you’ve picked up after being his roommate for a little over two years, at best, you know he prefers almond milk over whole. He wakes up every 6am and eats a cup of yogurt and some toast for breakfast before heading out to work for the day. He likes tuna over salmon, and on the weekends will either knock on your door asking for help with laundry or call his brother if you’re out for the day.

Atsumu’s kind, you suppose.

He bows his head and murmurs “Tadaima,” when he’s made it home, and waves at you if he sees you in the living room or the kitchen. On the days he feels like ordering something instead of cooking, he’d always knock on your door and ask you if you want anything—then even if you don’t, still leave a slice of something you like on your side of the fridge with a note that has a smiley face on it instead of words.

You don’t share a lot of words, but you suppose he’s patient.

Thank you, when you pick up his yogurt on your weekly grocery store runs if you notice he’s running low and has been a little too busy to take care of himself lately, then another thanks from his end, when you wake up to your favorite brew of coffee waiting for you in a mug across him on the dining table.

A sort of dance without music, because each step the both of you takes always seem to just sway in rhythm with the other. And it’s nice, because when you’re in your twenties and ask nothing of the world other than consistency within chaos, having a flow within the four walls you consider as home, for the meantime, is really nothing short of comfort.

In a way, having a stranger as a source of comfort is okay.

Little consistencies remind you that while uncertainties come with life, there’s still going to be a flow that’s bound to be with you even when you think you’re deep in the storm. Life rages, but in the eye, you’re steadied by what you know.

Love surrounds you, but a part of you still thinks it won’t be yours.

Atsumu’s patient, because even if he can see the footprints of a past heartache lay scattered across home, he doesn’t say a word. He moves beyond the boundary, and becomes a fixture you consider is constant within your clockwork. Kind of like the uncle that lives down the street and walks his dog from 5 to 6 every afternoon in the summer, he’s as familiar as he is just a stranger.

-

So the both of you suppose that it’s nice, to spend the downtime of the day with someone, even if it’s more like company instead of a companionship.

The moment dictates that your present is felt the most during winter nights.

Atsumu’s never been a fan of the cold weather, because the flush in his face makes it look like he’s blushing, but more often than not, he’s always been the type to give in easily towards curiosity.

He can’t deny that he’s curious about you.

It’s a Thursday night, frankly just another day, but he knows he’s gotta get up by at least five tomorrow if he wants to catch a quick run before heading to work. You’re seated on one of the two seats that came with the apartment out in the balcony, fleece blanket over your shoulders and a bag of m&ms on your lap.

There’s something about the domesticity of the situation that makes your company feel like it’s going to be more than just a presence in the room. Atsumu pauses, from behind the screen, mentally debating whether if he should grab a drink and join you or leave you be, but before he could think it through, you’re turning your head and smiling at him from your seat.

It only dawns on him once he’s taken his seat that he was already moving towards you before you could even invite him over. That, and as soon as he stepped out into the balcony, he could already feel his nose turning red from the cold air.

Regardless, it’s him who breaks the silence first. “I think this is the first time either of us sat out there.”

Keeping your eyes forward, you snicker, extending your arm to offer him an m&m. “I sit out here often actually,” you smile. “You’re usually asleep around this time that’s why.”

He laughs, settling into his seat before reaching into the bag to take a handful for himself. “What can I say? I think the age is getting to me.”

“You talk like you’re so old, we’re the same age,” you muse, blinking at starlight.

Atsumu delights in the silence that settles after some more laughter was shared. Tokyo’s always looked the liveliest at night, so while there was an evident absence when it came to the stars in the sky, the twinkle of Shibuya’s skyline in the distance was company enough. A lot like you, he supposes. Company shared in the quiet, but the both of you feel welcome in the other’s presence. The bag of m&m’s sit in between the both of you on the table, while your breaths slowly fall into the same rhythm as his. You inhale just as he exhales, just as he does the same.

Atsumu knows you by your name, and thinks of you as more than just the roommate who knows the kind of yogurt he likes, but in a sense you’re still a stranger.

“Have you always liked m&ms or do you prefer something else?” he prompts, breaking the silence for the second time that night.

In response, you blink at his question. Turning your head a little to your left to look at him, first, you snicker at the red flushed across his cheeks before answering. “I don’t think about that actually,” you laugh. “I just kind of grab whatever’s there and go.”

“So what you’re saying is these aren’t your first choice,” he responds, nodding his head as if he’s searching for something deep in his thoughts.

You sit up, amused. “Since when did this conversation turn deep?”

Atsumu pops a chocolate in his mouth before reaching back in the bag and grabbing another handful, laughing again. “Since I’m finding out that you’re settling for stuff that isn’t your first choice.”

It’s kind of nice how it fills the silence perfectly too, you think. The sound of traffic muffled in the distance, some streets over; your neighbor’s radio looping another song from the early 2000’s drifting like white noise in the background from an open window; Atsumu’s shoes scraping over the concrete when he moves his chair, turning it to face you. There’s bits of the silence that clings within the moment, but given that winter’s never known to make too much noise, it fits.

You smile, then turn your chair to face him too.

Against moonlight, Atsumu’s pretty.

Across you, Atsumu thinks the same. You’re smiling like you would when he catches a glimpse of you when you see the onigiri he remembers you like the best in the fridge waiting for you. There’s a lot about people smiling that has him feeling like he’s done more than just won, so whenever you did, it always felt like a pat on the back plus an honest job well done.

He realizes that the kind of smile you wear when you’re happy looks the best on you. Perhaps happiness is just your best look, so with that in mind, he tries to string a few more words to get another laugh out of you.

“First choices,” you hum, leaning back in your seat as you cross one leg over the other. “Life would be nice if we always get to have our first choice with stuff wouldn’t it?”

“Sounds like you’ve got a sad backstory,” Atsumu comments, his voice a little more tender than you would have expected.

You shift in your seat, comfortable. “Doesn’t every 20 something year old have a sad backstory?”

Atsumu bends forward, supporting his chin with the palms of his head as he blinks towards you, a story you can’t quite decipher like starlight in his eyes. “So what’s yours?”

“Bold of you to ask me that when I’m still a stranger.”

“Exactly,” he laughs, his response next to immediate. “I’m asking so that you don’t become a stranger anymore.”

Quirking an eyebrow, you lean forward, challenging him. “If I ask you the same question after, are you gonna answer too?”

He smirks a little before a smile breaks out of his face. Charming. Leaning back, you laugh at the way he tries to maintain his suave persona even when he’s already sniffling at the cold, his nose beet red. “So,” he voices, tone rising as if he’s announcing one of his triumphs. “Is this you admitting you’re intrigued by me?”

Huffing in your seat, you lean back, slouching into a comfortable position as soon as your back touched the pillows you use to prop yourself up with. “Intrigued is a pretty big word,” you chuckle.

“I’m smart,” Atsumu nods, flicking an m&m towards you.

“I know you are,” you comment, then later move so you can unwrap the blanket around you to offer to him. “I also know you’re freezing as hell and you have a shit tolerance to the cold.”

Atsumu attempts to wave you off, rejecting your offer for a few moments, the look on his face in clear contemplation before eventually accepting it with a mumbled thanks of his own.

“Don’t mention it, pretty boy.”

“You see what I’m gonna do is ignore the fact that you just called me pretty because I’m gonna ask you again,” he responds instead, shuffling into the blanket. When you look at him, he’s staring at you from within the bundle, red nose looking bright against the light. Snickering, you decide to save him his pride by choosing not to comment on it further.

“What’s your story?”

“We really doing this?”

Atsumu nods his head, settling into his seat. The rational voice in the back of his head is telling him he should probably be fast asleep by now, but he pushes it down, the second he sees you exhale deep and shoot him a smile.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until you raise your left hand, wiggling your ring finger as you shrug. “I was engaged. I knew where I was headed one day, then got lost the next.” You pause to shrug again, before taking another deep breath to steady yourself. “It is what it is though.”

You watch, in mild amusement as Atsumu battles over which words to put beside the other in front of you. The silence stretches, but the company stays. Your neighbor’s song is probably going on its twentieth loop next door, just as the traffic a few streets over doesn’t seem to be budging. Really, it’s already a little over thirty minutes since the two of you sat in each other’s company, but at most, it feels like just a flicker and a half has gone by.

More than half of the chocolates in the bag have already been consumed by the both of you in handfuls, a solid testament to the time that evidently elapsed.

Atsumu sniffles anyway, before sitting up at the thought that solidified in his head. You don’t know whether if this is the kind of moment that needs any preparation, but because you like to be as sure as you can when it came to uncertainties, you steady yourself and wait for what he’s to say.

Like him, it doesn’t dawn on you that you’ve held your breath waiting for him to speak.

And it’s like waiting for the moment to rise and rise, only for it to come to a stop at the very top, before it rolls down slowly instead of plunge you straight down. As if to flow with the steadiness of the moment, Atsumu delivers his words slow. “Do you think you’ve taken a step back now or forward?”

 To be fair, you’ve always avoided those thoughts.

For you, heartache has always been the result that was bound to come after a trip down memory lane, where instead of reminiscing, you’re pulled back to ponder at the unfinished chapters of that story left to settle in open endings.

But truth is, deep down, you know that there was—no, is—an ending.

The fact that it’s done is the ending.

Then you remember that as much as love is patience, it’s also kind.

You allow yourself to think without the need to dub any of what you feel as hatred, so you choose to be kind. So with honesty, you flick your eyes to the stars with a shrug, answering, “Don’t really know. Sometimes I think I could have been starting a family by now probably or at least talking about it. I’d be living in my own house and waking up beside someone I know better than myself and I’ll think that maybe that’s what it means to say that life is good.”

“But I don’t know, Miya-san,” you add, pausing to chuckle when you realize that in the past 2 years you’ve been roommates with him, this is the first time you’re addressing him properly. “—some days I say it’s a step forward because how can I say I love somebody when I also say that I know them better than me?”

“I feel like there’s an afterthought you’re struggling with here,” Atsumu laughs, offering you a chocolate.

You’re not really hungry anymore, but you accept it without a hint of reluctance anyway. Quietly, you murmur your thanks.

“But other days,” you continue, sighing, “it’s like I’m taking a step back because what comes after this? What big thing do I look forward to now?”

Atsumu nods his head, closing his eyes like he understands. It’s a little funny, you think. His nose is still red, he’s basically a burrito in the blankets, and he’s sniffling at least a couple times right before he speaks. “Have you been living life like that? Big thing to big thing?”

He smiles at his own words. “That’s kind of lonely.”

You blink, curious. “What am I supposed to look forward to?”

“Every day that comes after today,” he shrugs, leaning back and popping another chocolate in his mouth.

After the moment of silent reflection naturally passes, for the third time, he breaks the silence. His eyes are on yours, and he’s smiling like he would a friend this time instead of towards a stranger when he speaks again. “Coach is going to fucking kill me when I’m half panting into my first lap tomorrow because of the sugar.”

“Also,” he adds after a lengthy pause. “Did you just call me Miya-san?”

“I was under the impression that we aren’t close enough to be on first name basis.”

“We’ve been roommates for two years,” he laughs. “I think we’re all good.”

“Let’s try it out,” he grins, upon sensing your slight apprehension. Holding a hand out, you catch yourself thinking that perhaps this could start a story. Though the words remain unknown, it doesn’t take much for you to smile along with him and take the hand he offers anyway.

“Hi,” he smiles, as if this hello’s the first.

“Miya Atsumu. Nice to meet you. And before you call me Miya-san or some formal shit like that—“ he adds, pausing briefly to grab another handful of m&ms, splitting half of it by depositing the other half on your palm, “—just Atsumu’s fine.”

“Atsumu-san,” you voice out, but he shakes his head, crossing his arms over forming an X.

“Just Atsumu,” he chuckles. “No need for any kind of formality.”

“Okay,” you laugh. “Atsumu. Nice to meet you.” This time it’s you who holds out your hand for him to take, which he does do, almost immediately.

His hand’s warm, you think. Sort of like the residual warmth left on a mug even when you’ve finished your coffee. As you offer your name, you smile.

“Pretty name.”

You shrug. “I try.”

“Pretty too,” he comments as an afterthought, shooting you a quick wink as an attempt to lighten to atmosphere.

There’s a newfound silence that settles once again after another laugh is exchanged, and even if your neighbor’s already switched off his radio for some time now, none of this is lonely. Traffic’s dwindled down into a just a few cars passing by the street, but the honking’s gone. Atsumu’s still sniffling, but his eyes are still to the stars. You think to yourself that maybe he does that because he’s in search of something, but because you were never one to dive too far deep at the start, you leave it as a question and simply allow the moment to be.

And what you let be, settles just fine.

“You’re pretty too,” you laugh. “Even if you were the only one who tripped during that fan meeting.”

Atsumu groans. “You saw that?”

“Everyone did.”

“So I guess trying to give off a suave persona’s off the table now?”

Watching him sniffle again into his blankets, red nose and all, has you stifling another laugh. With a smile, you cross your arms one over the other and sink into your seat, feeling the warmth that comes with sharing company even if it is currently the dead of winter.

“You never know,” you smile. “People can usually surprise you.”

-

(Love is kind.)

-

Six months pass after the better hello, and Atsumu likes to say he knows you a little better than best now.

He takes pride in the fact that on most days of the week, he’s there, picking you up after work. You wave at him from the door, while he waves back from inside the car. He never admits that you’re why he’s a little red around the cheeks when you’d ask if he’d been waiting long so casually, because it’s such an everyday thing now. He blames it on the sunset while drives if you ask, while you on the other hand, would catch peeks from the rearview mirror and nod your head to make it seem like you believe it anyway.

They say that love is as patient as it is kind, so he decides, when it’s just another Tuesday night that he wants for love to bloom in soil that offers that.

Dinners are now always for two, and space in the fridge that was left empty with the purpose to separate what’s yours and his eventually was filled with the little nothings you found that you both had a taste for. Cookie butter, that special kind of peanut butter you could only order online, and the kimchi that he could swear to heaven and back is better than even natto.

The line that separated strangers and friends eventually blurred, because the both of you find that home is easier on the tongue now.

You don’t think of where you’ll be three years from now, or where you should have been had love not gone, while Atsumu decides to find purpose and little victories scattered within what he knows is every day.

Like the look of happiness etched with your smile when he walks in the door and raises a bag of your favorite takeout in his hand as a greeting that he’s home. Where the high that comes with victory stays, meaning to fill in the gaps in the atmosphere because he feels like he’s better than best when as a reply, you tell him welcome home, like you’re at your happiest.

Maybe you are, or maybe you’re just happy because he’s got your favorite takeout, but he likes how you’ve already set the table for two even before he came home.

Your room’s still down the hallway from his and the days are still rare where the both of you could sit down and share a meal together, but tonight he realizes that even if time isn’t available all the time, the in-betweens like this make up for it.

A couple cans of something iced and sweet, your favorite takeout, his favorite side dishes, and two plates emptied clean by the end of the night. Nine thirty rolls around and Atsumu knows he should be sleeping by now, but you’re still laughing as you’re scrolling through the contents of your phone and the moment’s far too tender for it to be broken.

So he lets it, because you smile pretty.

And it’s on that same night where he decides to ask you if you’re happy— a hint of what you suppose is a shy confession meant to stay hidden behind the words he makes known. The way you nod your head and offer him a smile reassures him that he’s not crossing any boundaries. And should the world betray him his secrets, Atsumu supposes that he won’t be able to bring himself to mind by even a bit.

There’s a part of him that wants to lay it all on the table gently, but he knows he’s got time.

You’re both 24 and a little off the path you thought you’d be walking by now, but the flowers alongside the road are blooming. He can only guess that in the back of your head, you’re probably thinking of a life where you’ve got a ring and a family on the way, while he’s busy signing deals and ending his days at 9:30 just so he can jog the next day—but the metaphoric flowers all the poems speak of manifest itself into the now.

You, laughing. Two plates in front of you, emptied. A slice of the dessert you picked up after work earlier to be shared between the both of you, half eaten on the plate in the middle of the table.

Now is nice.

Now, Atsumu realizes, is the rhythm that his heartbeat slowly mimics that sounds an awful lot like Elvis Presley’s ‘Can’t Help Falling Inlove,’ playing next door.

And it’s pretty how you’re smiling in the way that tells him you’re happy. Towards him, or maybe towards the taste of cookie butter he knows you appreciate lingering after the dessert’s long gone.

So once more, he remembers that love is kind.

Then with patience, he lets the moment be. Three heartbeats remain steady before it leaps at the fourth. There’s something about the number three that has people constantly tying it in with fate, but in this case, it’s the fourth that has him thinking that maybe there’s something more than just letting this stay in the now.

Along the side of the road, beside the path of life, the flowers bloom.

You smile like you hold spring, while Atsumu clenches and unclenches his fists, palms to the sky, and head alongside life’s bloom, because he’s remembering how warm it can also be to just let life flow. Gone are the winter nights where hello came as m&ms and shared stories, but here, enters spring like your smile.

Unlike before, it’s your voice this time that breaks him out of his thoughts.

“Oi.”

It’s not romantic.

He tells Osamu “Oi,” when he walks in his brother’s restaurant and eyes the platter of freshly made onigiri. “Oi,” when Bokuto highfives him after every lift session in the gym. “Oi,” for the occasions meant to be kept as casual—as fleeting little moments that will scatter come time. 

Nothing about the now, is particularly romantic, but at the fifth beat that jumps from his chest right to his throat, he has a feeling that from now on, you won’t be just a fleeting little piece of nothing that will scatter.

Your “eventually,” isn’t going to just be another memory he’ll look back on, Atsumu thinks.

By the sixth, his neighbor’s looping the song all the way from the beginning again, and though the moment doesn’t call for love, Atsumu thinks of the word “kind.”

He watches you gesture towards the last bit of the dessert on the plate. “You can finish it,” he hears you say. “I know you have a sweet tooth.”

You’re pretty, he thinks.

You smile pretty.

Your words are pretty.

Your kindness is pretty.

He does have a sweet tooth, he mulls over in his head. It occurs to him that he never really told you that, but thinking about how you must have arrived to that conclusion through slowly, getting to know him, has his heart catapulting to the seventh beat that’s got him floating on cloud nine.

Maybe this is what the poets mean by having your head in the clouds.

Maybe, just maybe, this is the great that comes after the good.

His whole life he’s been in a state of just being okay, because settling was what he was the best at. He does alright at work, and settles in the second seat after someone who hails the best in his field just fine. Atsumu admits that he whines when Osamu offers him salmon instead of fatty tuna, but he always says thank you after, because he always means it.

“Is this you admitting you love me enough to save me the last slice?” he teases anyway, knowing that the both of you have always communicated better through jokes than through honesty.

The eighth beat comes when Elvis sings the chorus, for seemingly the nth time that night, at the same time you lean forward, chin propped up by your palms, your eyes steady towards him.

And pretty, Atsumu thinks again. He reminds himself to exhale after he inhales. Not a lot has him holding his breath, but tonight, the sight of you in your hoodie and sweats he’s seen you wear probably a thousand times by now has him doing just that. Maybe later, he’ll ask himself the questions he probably doesn’t have the answer to just yet, but right now, he mirrors you, leaning in and blinking at you.

“Nah,” you mumble. “This is just me being nice and giving you the last piece because I know you’ll start training like crazy when season starts again. So while you can, I’m giving you the bigger slice.”

“Is this what they mean by that love is patient, love is kind thing?” Atsumu hums as a reply, cheeky grin already in place.

“Love is a lot of things,” he hears you say.

Atsumu looks at you. “What do you want it to be?”

You shrug, eyes like an anchor on his, steady against the waves. He sees your truth before you even say it. “I just want love to be mine.”

By the ninth beat, Elvis next door is still singing about love. Then by the tenth, Atsumu thinks that maybe—just maybe—this old love song has a point after all.

-

(It does not envy; It does not boast.)

-

Atsumu thinks that life’s sort of comparable to dancing in the middle of the subway.

Morning train rides with you, because when it’s Saturday and almost half the neighborhood has the same day off and same idea to go to the market for fresh greens, neither of you could really be bothered to drive through the traffic.

You’ve got a bag of kiwis in one hand, while on the other is filled with greens. Atsumu’s sitting beside you on the train, dressed in a loose white shirt and black sweatpants. From the corner of your eye, you can tell he looks happy. The season’s still a few months away, but because he claims he’s so disciplined, that’s why he’s dragging you out of bed only at seven in the morning to join him for a market run.

Really, you can just get most of what’s in your bags in the grocery store that’s a closer walk from your apartment than the thirty minute train ride you both took earlier, but then again, you remember that a detour’s always been nice.

So from the heart of the city to the outskirts of the provincial town right by the edge, you take a detour.

Saturday mornings before your present used to be spent still in bed, half awake, or under the blankets scrolling through your emails at least, but today is different. But then again, in its own right, you can admit that it is quite charming. Golden hour had always been pretty when it’s 5:30 and world begins dwindling, but now, only when it’s 9:27, the sight of the world blinking slow at the morning sun also is a sight to behold.

And it’s the word pretty, that comes to mind. First, when you catch a glimpse of Atsumu shooting you his smiling eyes from behind his cap and mask, then second, when you glance down and notice that he’s wearing the shoes you gifted him on his birthday the first year he became your roommate.

“Nice shoes,” you tease.

Atsumu blinks down, stretching his legs a little when the passengers priorly seated on the empty space across vacate the area. “Thanks,” he laughs, his voice muffled, albeit still unmistakably his.

You smile, realizing that you like how familiar his voice has gotten.

“I got it as a gift,” he adds.

Nodding your head, you bump his shoulder before responding with, “They must have had a really good fashion sense.”

Snickering, Atsumu bumps your shoulder back, his voice teasing. “Either that or they just got sick of me wearing socks with crocs everywhere and just grabbed the first pair off the shelf just so they could help me out.”

“You mean the Miya Atsumu wears socks with their crocs?”

The train’s empty, but he’s laughing with you already, shushing you with futile attempts to hide his evident joy at your comment. “Keep your voice down, the rest of the world still thinks I’m cool.”

Looking at you, once again, he’s reminded of how pretty you look when you smiled with happiness. Sparkling eyes, pretty smile and all. “So I’m just VIP, that’s what you’re trying to say?”

“We’ve been roommates for almost three years now,” he laughs. “You’re more than just VIP.”

“So I’m special,” you tease, not expecting much.

The train stops before it jerks, lurching forward again. Two stops till home, and while people are slowly trickling in, the world between you and him still feels like it’s quiet.

“Of course you are,” he chooses to say, when his mouth runs dry, the beginnings of another joke left as a draft in his head before it could even be fully thought of and finished.

When you smile again, he delights in happiness along with you. He likes how in a way, he’s a bit of the reason for why you’re smiling so pretty right now.

-

On the walk home, with his and your lunch and dinner in bags in his hand, Atsumu remembers the word envy.

There’s a promotional poster for the new recruits representing Adler’s in the up and coming season, with Kageyama’s face advertised as Japan’s number one setter on a billboard that frankly, neither of you can walk past without ignoring.

You break the silence first, soothing the crinkle in the atmosphere. The morning’s nice, and Atsumu looks like he’s meant to glow with the sun, so you take it upon yourself to shoo away the negativity should it even come.

“You know if you were up there, you wouldn’t even be able to walk out of the house because of all your fans hoarding you the second you’re out the door.”

He pauses in his tracks, raising his right arm with the potatoes towards you, the tone of his voice somewhere in between mock accusation and faux frustration. “I’m literally wearing a cap and mask when the heat could kill me right now just so I’m not recognized.”

“Ahh,” you laugh, raising your free arm, feigning surrender. “I forgot you’re the dude who faceplanted in his own fanmeeting. Kageyama? Could never.”

He huffs, reclaiming his place and walking alongside with you again. “Never,” he parrots in a serious tone, only to break out in another laugh again afterwards.

When you notice that he’s let the silence stay noticeably longer than the last time, you hop a little in your step, bumping your shoulder against his to grab his attention. “You sure you’re okay?”

You know you’re only asking because Atsumu’s only human.

He tells himself he’s fine, constantly, but you know even the person who sits behind the most victorious can have moments where they’re reminded that they’re a little less than that.

And you aren’t quite sure if the way he sighs only proves your point further, or argues against it. The sound of the bag crinkling and your steps flow with the steady sounds of cars driving past the both of you down this familiar street, becoming white noise.

Familiarity is grounding.

Atsumu’s never regarded himself as the king that triumphs over victory itself, but you know the part of him that’s the most human comes when he’s reminded of the obstruction that sits in front of his view of his passion.

But like always, he breathes deep before he answers. “I’m all good,” he laughs. “I can mope around shit like this when it’s 3am but it’s still 10 in the morning and I’m happy right now, so I won’t.”

“Want me to say you’re number one in my eyes to make you feel better?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, thinking that to be above someone, someone else has to be below me isn’t what I wanna do to make myself feel better.”

“You’re allowed to be petty you know.”

“I know,” he grins. “Just not my style.”

“Okay,” you nod your head. “What’s gonna make you feel better then? Anything I can do?”

“You can cook with me today,” he answers, falling back into step with you.

“By that you mean you’re gonna call your brother and have him walk us through step by step until he gets frustrated and curses you out after a solid two hours don’t you?”

You’re just cracking a joke and bumping his shoulder again, but Atsumu can’t help but find comfort in the way your steps fall just about perfectly with his, and how beautiful you look everytime you turn to look at him when you speak. Atsumu’s never been the type to shy away from the eyes of the world he knows constantly watches, but under your gaze, he feels the tip of his ears heat up and turn red.

Grasping at the rational thoughts he’s got left, he reminds himself that he’s never been shy, so with that in mind, he pins the blame on the heat instead.

“You underestimate me,” he responds, coupled by another round of laughter.

“I trust you then,” you laugh.

(It’s a little over 10:35 where the two of you realize that you’ve missed a turn sometime over 15 minutes ago and have been walking in the opposite  direction for more than just a couple of blocks by now. When Atsumu brings it up, you can only laugh, sighing in exaggeration before turning around and waiting for him to fall into step with you as you walk back to the main road again.

But what catches you off guard, is the fact that Atsumu’s the one pointing out the bloom of wildflowers on the side of the road. He stops for a while, telling you they’re pretty, before you let your eyes trail towards where he’s facing and admiring the bloom yourself.)

(“Pretty,” you comment, and with his eyes transfixed on yours, the billboard still visible from behind the both of you some distance away, he smiles. “Pretty,” Atsumu echoes, not thinking much of the wildflowers anymore.

In a way, he can’t help but admit that moments like these has him feeling like it’s already a step beyond victory.)

-

It’s almost funny how full your heart is now, even when there’s still a box under your bed with all the tangible memories love from the past has left you with all those years ago.

A part of you still begs with the world for the kind of love that brings home, you suppose. But then again, that part is tiny. There’s more of you that realizes your present holds love in even the crevices of a walk home, or along the city lights of the distant skyline of the city beyond that tries its best to mimic the stars.

On a clear night like tonight, you’re out in the balcony again, a bag of m&ms in between the both of you, and the conversation already settled in and comfortable in place—sort of like a third company.

Well, fourth, if you count your neighbor’s old radio playing again.

“You think he’s ever gonna get sick of Elvis Presley?”

Chocolate with the lingering taste of peach tea from dinner earlier tastes pleasant, you decide. Absentmindedly, you shrug. “Probably not.”

“You think uncle’s got a sad backstory about the song or something?” Atsumu asks, not bothering to mask his curiosity.

“Maybe,” you laugh. “Come to think of it, I never knew about your sad backstory though.”

You see the smirk on his face form before you could get your words out, so to cut him off, you reach over and smack him on the shoulder. “Before you try to be witty yes, Atsumu, I am curious. You’re someone I care about so I wanna know what’s up with you.”

“I’m fine, honestly,” he laughs, raising his arms up in surrender.

“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming after what you just said,” you point out.

“Sometimes there is,” he admits.

“Ah, here we go.”

“Buckle up, girlie,” Atsumu chuckles. “This is where things get dramatic.”

You shrug, and he appreciates how your eyes are towards him right now instead of to the skyline. He feels steady. Nothing much in the moment has him swaying left and right, ridding him of his balance, but he’s always appreciated the presence of the anchor more than of the waves at the end of the day.

There’s a look in your eye that tells him to go on, and though there’s no danger, Atsumu feels safe.

“I’m one jealous son of a bitch,” he finally gives, huffing like he’s just let go of a huge weight off his shoulders.

In the back of your head, you think about the billboard from earlier, but more specifically towards the look on Atsumu’s face the more he voices his truth. When he smiles at you, in a sense, it’s like you understand that he means to deliver more.

So you listen.

What you do is offer him an m&m, clink your can of tea against his, and give him the floor. But across you, Atsumu only huffs, rolling his eyes at the way the atmosphere seemed to have dipped into seriousness.

“Stop,” he laughs. “I’m just a regular guy.”

Shrugging, you pause to take a slow sip of your drink as you keep your eyes on him. “I know.”

“I like to think I’m not a shitty person though,” he smiles, leaning back in his seat and popping a few chocolates in his mouth. Nodding your head, you hum out your silent agreement.

“I don’t think that you’re a shitty person,” you laugh.

Atsumu waves you off, finding the softness of the moment a little out of character regarding the nature of your relationship. Still, you take it upon yourself to lay your thoughts bare in front of him.

“You’re a good person,” you start. “I know that the media definitely has their opinion about you,” you add, then pause, turning to him and softening the tone of your voice as you continue, “—but do they know you?”

Atsumu knocks his head back against the rest of his chair, his legs propped up lazily against the edge of the bottom of the railings. “Pretty much my reputation is the bitchy setter who faceplanted during a fanmeet.”

You sit up. “There you go.”

“Was that supposed to—“

“Tsumu,” you laugh, cutting him off. He turns away, suddenly feeling his cheeks warm at the nickname. “You said reputation,” he hears you say some more. “—not personality.”

“What I’m trying to say is, you did shit in public and got shit from people because the public is a bitch, but that’s not your 100% you.”

Slowly, he turns to you, muttering a halfhearted comment about how the heat is staring to get to him when he raises a hand to his face, trying to fan away the red tint splashed across his cheeks.  “Nice to know that you know the 100% me then.”

“I don’t,” you admit. “I’m learning a bit more everyday though.”

“Being my roommate for this long and still not knowing me says you’ve got an awful lot of patience.”

“Love is patient,” he hears you say, in time with Elvis starting the bridge of that damned love song probably stuck in the back of his head by now.

“So you love me,” he points out, his words half meant.

You shrug. “There’s a lot that comes with love right? I love you like a friend. I love you like a brother. I love you, because I want to see you at your happiest.”

A nervous chuckle, then it’s him suddenly staring at you with eyes that hold more than just the stillness of the moment. A part of you wants to lean in, but before you could, he’s already taken two steps past halfway.

He’s close. You hold your breath.

Atsumu, on the other hand, breathes a confession instead, his breath fanning across your face. He smells like m&ms and a little mint, but you don’t mind. Staring at you, he slowly offers a side of his truth. “I cannot believe you just said that you love me as a friend when you’re not pulling away right now.”

Elvis sings, “would it be a sin?” and you shrug, because right now there’s a lot you can’t help. It’s not that the mood is right, or you’re pulled in because he’s right there, but then again, he’s singing that some things are meant to be, so you let it.

You take his hand, even if you don’t let him take your whole life just yet.

“Fucking Elvis,” is the last you hear him mutter, before he’s leaning in, closer.

And closer and closer until you taste mint on your lips.

-

(It is not proud.)

-

Atsumu’s never exactly been the type to kiss and tell, but right now, there’s a part of him that wants to scream at least something to the world.

The season’s kicked off with a game against the Adlers, and sure enough, the post game interview already is at the top of the list for why he’s got a headache so early in the day.

Regardless, when the camera pans towards him and he’s signaled to say something, he mentally just goes down the list of things management has had him, along with the rest of the team memorize to save both time and face during live interviews.

He reminds himself he’s got more than just his team’s reputation riding on his shoulders with how he chooses to present himself.

Expected, the usual questions come. A drawl, really.

2pm and he knows you’re probably at home by now. Along with that, he also knows that because you’ve never been particular with his games, you’re most likely either out on the balcony hanging laundry, or vacuuming the living room to pass the time.

So in order to pass his, Atsumu switches into auto pilot and lets his mind drift.

Ah, right, he thinks. Three months ago, he kissed you. Perhaps Elvis did have a point about how in love, only fools are the ones who rush in the quickest, then later fall the deepest. While the rational part of him argues that it isn’t love, just yet, the part that’s high on more than just life and the present urges him to see past that boundary and face the fact that in a way, love is there.

To his left is Sakusa, the microphone in front of him a good foot away from his mouth, as he speaks behind his signature mask. The words come in and out of Atsumu’s ear, as he’s not entirely present in the moment.

Today they secured a win, and today, the world saw him at his most victorious. Tobio along with the rest of the Adlers had been the first to congratulate him for the service aces and near perfect serves even before he could step off the court, while Osamu and his team in the locker room had been the second to give him praise.

He admits that it felt nice, but strangely enough, the medal around his neck and the sea of flashes, praise, and questions meant for him felt lacking.

Love was patient, he remembers, so he waits.

He nods his head and answers every question with ease—the words practiced, his stance poise. Love is kind, he thinks again, so he lets a couple of smiles slip here and there because he remembers that more than just the world is watching.

A part of him hopes that you are too, but the vision of you probably in the kitchen, looking through the pantry for dinner later has him feeling warmer than the hopes of you watching him. Because he isn’t center stage, Atsumu realizes. Never really has, even if in his youth being under the spotlight hailed as the most victorious was all he wanted.

But it’s okay, he realizes.

Three months ago he kissed you, and three months later, now, he wants to kiss you again.

A couple flashes to his left remind him that the world watches, but it still feels lacking. Last night before he turned in for bed, he had you trapped in between his arms by the kitchen sink, because

Under the kitchen’s spotlight, Atsumu holds more than just victory.

(But love does not envy, he remembers. It does not boast. It is not proud.)

The medal around his neck says he should be proud, and while he is, he wants to flick of the lights and go home instead. Home that now means you, three bags of m&ms in the pantry, and a few cans of iced anything in the fridge. Home that’s still your room down the hall from his, and texting eachother a subtle goodnight blended with what he hopes will eventually be an “I love you,” because boundaries were still present.

You’re home, he thinks.

You should be.

So when the lights shift towards him again, and a question unlike the others greet him, asking, “Miya-san, you played exceptionally well today!” first he nods his thanks, because his mother did always teach him to show his gratitude when it was called for, then second, smiles, as the interviewer continues with his queries.

“Is there a reason why you’re so pumped up today?”

Another flash comes, a little blinding. He feels more than just his teammate’s eyes on his and the world’s attention to him. Through the crowd, the haze, the lights, and the noise, it’s almost poetic how his eyes seem to zero in the corner and meet yours through it all like he’s known you’re there all along.

You tried to stay hidden—you did. You bought your tickets three weeks early and sat on the seat furthest from the front of the bleachers, because from what you picked up on the recorded games you never told him you watched alone in your room, he always looked to the left side briefly before serving.

You snuck in the post-game interview area from the back and tried to conceal yourself with the flurry of people going in and out of the room. Within the light, you saw him first. Something akin to pride burst in your chest, but eventually settled into the semblance of what you think at this point could only be love when he’s given the medal and presented as victorious.

You hear the question, and see the smile break out of his face the second the interviewer asks him why he’s happy, so you smile along with him. There’s a lot of happiness you find from staying backstage too, you think. You’re happy when he’s happy, and you feel the weight of his victory and can treat it like it’s just a medal instead of a burden.

Atsumu’s glowing, and he’s beautiful.

Whether it be under the glow the brightest moon, the dim kitchen lights that looks warm against the golds of his everything, or right now—on center stage, under the brightest lights of victory.

He’s beautiful, and though you say it isn’t love, you think to yourself that perhaps it could be.

Perhaps love could be the something you hold in between your hands, where you accept it as it is, and feel it in its entirety instead of look at it for a couple of seconds before deciding that it isn’t for you.

“What’s got you so happy?” you listen to the interviewer prompt him again.

From your spot through the crowd, he keeps his eyes locked on you, and he doesn’t budge. There’s a whole lot of stubborn in Atsumu’s head and you know that by now, so even as the cameras flash brighter and the microphone is seemingly shoved more aggressively towards him to push for an answer, Atsumu stands his solid ground.

It’s in his silence, you think, on the other hand, where you can always hear him best though.

To the world he screams: in both his trials and his triumphs, and moments of frustration and euphoria. They hear him when it’s a scream, because that’s his loudest.

To you, you hear him when he’s quiet.

A gentle voice from the door that announces he’s home on the weekdays, and the same that asks for you to share a little more of your heart when it’s 9pm and the world outside’s beginning to wind down. In moments as such, it’s as if the city breathes just so it can exhale. In the room, and in the silence, it’s just you, and him. A couple bags of m&ms in between, conversation shared, an old uncle’s radio drifting through the open window of your apartment as Elvis sings the same song about the same love, and the taste of a kiss on you and his’ lips.

The world could burn, Atsumu thinks.

But he looks at you.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy; it does not boast.

(It is not proud.)

The medal on his neck hangs heavy, but he remembers the taste of victory on his lips at the sight of your smile that stretches as wide as his as you meet his eyes halfway through the haze of the crowd.

“What’s got you so happy?”

All his life, Atsumu’s always had a nagging thought in the back of his head that’s told him in order to prove his worth—he had to show his pride. His victories. To prove his place in the world. But looking at you, he feels like he’s got nothing to prove.

“Just feel like some things are finally where it’s meant to be, that’s all,” he answers, leaning close to the mic and giving his truth.

His eyes are on you.

(Love is not proud.)

But it is gentle, he thinks.

It’s your eyes, steady on his, like home within the mess of the lights and this world. Gentle eyes and lips that taste like chocolate and tea on a good night when the world finally starts to wind down. The medal, hanging off of a shelf that’s meant to keep slices of his victories on a wall, while he’s on the couch, beside you, and in place.

Maybe love is you, he thinks.

(A voice in the back of his head says that it is.)

And strangely enough, he can’t seem to find an argument to try to convince himself otherwise.

-

(It is not self-seeking.)

-

The first thing you eventually conclude about Atsumu ever since you began to see each other in a new light, was the fact that despite everything the media paints him as—you can confirm that he’s not, in any way, selfish.

He asks you a total of seven times before going as far as undressing you. You watch him, patient. Though the lights in the room remain are dim, you see him through everything but sight.

As soon as you close your eyes, you feel the way his hands ghost over your skin before his palms press down and touch you. And warm, you think. You see how he’s so warm. Even with your eyes closed, you see the way he remembered to pick up your favorite brand of everything during his grocery run just last week.

The way you like your coffee made, eggs cooked, and on which side of the table you enjoyed eating breakfast the most was where you’d always see your mug sitting on in front of a plate every morning.

Atsumu’s palms are warm on your skin. Callouses from the years’ worth of hustle rough in some places, but the way he touches you makes you feel more valued than fragile. He’s tender, too, when he cups your face in between his palms and holds you close. In the dark, you hear every exhale and every breathy, “are you sure?” and “are you alright?” that has you feeling like you could cry.

Maybe it’s the way his “are you okay?” sounds like there’s an underlying question that truly means to ask if he’s the one okay for you, that has your heart beating so loud, you feel like it’s about to break.

So through the dark, you hold him.

You take his palms, and press them to your chest. Skin to skin, you’re bare in front of eachother in the dark, and you’re vulnerable. It isn’t scary too, you think. There’s a whole lot about the world that’s always been scary, but not this. Never love, never him.

Atsumu holds on to you.

Love is patient, he breathes, so he waits until he feels you exhale before he takes your other hand and mirrors you, pressing it to his chest.

Love is kind, you remember, so you hold him as tight as he holds you, and in the dark you feel how your heartbeat slows into the same, steady, perfect rhythm as his.

Bare skin against the dark, you see the trickle of moonlight flood into the room from the cracks of the walls, but the world isn’t watching. It’s a starless night, but the moon glows. It comes into your space as if the secrets of your world are meant to be illuminated as much as it is meant to be kept as just yours.

Inside jokes, m&ms, and the contents on the fridge that now has no side that’s specifically yours and specifically his, because the word ours has blurred the line between strangers, friends—and left you as just lovers. Inside these four walls, Atsumu recognizes home in the scattered notes on the walls and in you.

Love is kind, he could almost weep, because at the end of the day, he realizes that it truly is just that.

It does not envy, you smile, because even though there’s still a lot about the world and life you wish you had lived through or can call yours, realize there’s no solution in envy. When Atsumu kisses you and holds you in the way that has you reassured that he knows you far more than words—or just the faintest of touches—nothing in you has the drive to prove something to the world.

There’s always been a part of you that begs for victory to be yours. For you to look in the mirror and list out what you’ve done, or look at the photos on the wall and have them retell a story that you could have lived through by not had the past love not gone.

While the urge to cry remains, because Atsumu gives you patience, he holds you close and breathes his truth, in soft whispers, like a confession he means for the moon.

Vulnerable, true, and yours.

Love is not self-seeking.

He touches you like all he’s meant to do is just know you, and you feel it.

His heart beats steady, falling in and out of the rhythm like yours, so while he holds you, you hold him. An unspoken ballad between two people who strip themselves bare in the dark and lay the wounds of their heart on their hands, the mess scattered, but the blood running—yours—his—and love’s.

And like the flares of the sun, it blooms. From the distance, you know that within its flames it burns, but the way it scatters is beautiful. On your fingertips do you touch what feels like infinity, not because the moment serves you—but because it finally puts a tangible definition to what you craved for love to be.

First, it was just love as a friend.

As company when you came to the world feeling more lost than found again. On the side of the road you stood, staring at the path that ended up as a dead end instead of the rest of the journey. A ring in the box that’s hidden under your bed, collecting dust, like the photos of what used to be the initial definition of love. Love as a friend, because it reminded you of patience. The presence beside yours that reminds you the house isn’t empty, even if the door to your room is shut.

Patience, because you let yourself grieve the pain that came with one-sided goodbyes, before you even entertained the thought that letting it go is only the natural second step. Patience, when Atsumu only went as far as keeping you company before even reaching forward and holding your hand.

Then love, that came as a friend wanting to be more.

Like him, and like this.

Love that’s been patient and kind from the start, because what it is now—is something that is never self-seeking.

So the first time he tells you “I love you,” isn’t when you’re both in the heat of the moment, and at the peak of the high. It’s not when you’ve finally kissed him back, movements hurried, but never desperate. Not the seconds in between the moments where you’re bare and panting, holding onto each other as you chase the high that’s guaranteed to come with the flow of the night.

The first time he says “I love you,” is when morning finally breaks, where from midnight, slowly emerges the dawn.

In the colors of twilight, you still feel warm. You see bits of the sun trapped in hazel through the dim lights of the room, and love shifts, where it’s not just from you to him nor from him to you—but rather, love, like it just is.

The anchor that keeps the both of you in place, and home.

There’s still two rooms of a house that’s become home for you and him, but space in between that, beneath the image of a distant venus in the twilight, love is found.

(And love is this.)

“I love you.”

Three, little words, whispered in the dark, like it’s just an observation captured in candid instead of a thought out confession. It’s comforting, though, you realize. What makes love feel the most true is when it’s found, caught in the moment instead of dragged out and edited over and over again to the point where it feels like it’s shoved in a box instead of held as just yours.

Atsumu tells you “I love you,” with his skin still bare beside yours, where under the sheets you feel his fingers sift around blindly until it meets yours. You smile, because while he seemed frantic in trying to find you, once he finally did, he stopped at just a hover. He says his words to convey his love, like it’s just there, out in the open, because what’s the use of keeping it a secret if it’s love?

But because to love is still more daunting than you are brave, before you reach and squeeze his hand in the midway point, you turn to him, just wanting to be sure.

Against twilight, you think you see the flares of the sun in hazel, while against the dark, he just sees you.

(As love; as home; as the friend before the lover; as his.)

“You love me?”

Atsumu shrugs, his voice as quiet as yours in the dark. “Of course I do.”

“Why?”

And your heart could only bloom as it inhales, just to rest tender when it exhales, as soon as he answers with, “If I can list out a reason with why, then it’s not enough. I love you because—“ he pauses, shrugging as he shifts in bed and turns on his side to face you, where in his eyes, you’re assured of his truth, “—because I just do.”

“Nothing else,” he adds. “I just love you.”

Though you’re silent in the first few minutes before you reply, Atsumu doesn’t mind. It’s your hand, that he feels eventually holding his and squeezing, that tells him you feel the same.

A heart that lays still, before it beats, gentle. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast. It is not proud. It is not self-seeking,

-

 “It is not easily angered.”

-

As much as euphoria that “I love you,” brings, it also brings about a newfound clarity you never could have guessed was valid before this.

Love isn’t easily angered.

The hard truth to swallow after the high that comes post of the peak, is that in comes the fall. But because love is present, instead of plunging back down, the descent moves slow.

Compromise.

It’s not an ugly word, but it’s foreign. While you’ve always thought of the other as somebody who was selfless above anything else, to relearn the flow of life after you’ve been so comfortable alone for the entirety of your life is different.

The two bedroom apartment turns into a one bedroom space. The living room’s a little smaller, and the balcony hanging are yours and his’ laundry in the same space. There’s still your mug beside his in the cabinets, and his slipper kept by the front door next to yours.

The photos on the shelves are different, because they don’t just show his victory along the years, but also yours.

Home becomes comfort, where eventually comfort too becomes another face of love.

Atsumu’s face is familiar, but the moments where he looks uncertain about the outlay of home isn’t. Compromise looks like learning which steps to take and when to take them; where words are meant to be spoken and when they’re meant to be kept; how to love so there’s no loss.

Love isn’t meant to be easily angered, because it’s realizing that love is also the tangled limbs and the pauses that won’t always be peace. In bouts of anger, love isn’t lost, but rather, it’s what holds things together.

“I love you,” was solidified in the night when he held you, as you held him, so with that in thought, the thought of compromise comes easier.

To relearn who the person becomes after love, and choosing to be patient, and kind when anger sparks. The flaw in love, Atsumu realizes, comes from the ugly that’s part of being human.

“No,” has always been a word Atsumu never liked.

It’s a little childish, and he knows that much, but there are some things he just can’t help. Living independently, though not alone, lessened the amount of times he had to hear that word, so the change after making two become one was evident.

At the start, the silences that came after everytime he’d say “I love you,” he took well, but eventually, it started to change. He reminds himself that to love someone, you have to know them.

It’s just knowing someone as well as you know yourself doesn’t come out of the blue, happening overnight. The thing with love is that it’s a tangled dance as much as it is just a give and take. You lose, so you can love again. You love, so you don’t have to lose.

He knows there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to do that because you’ve known what comes after the loss. The broken pieces of you aren’t as scattered in the room as they used to be, but in a sense, though on the surface you don’t bleed, he can sense that some nights the wounds beneath the skin still sting.

There’s still an unopened box under the bed that held a love that wasn’t him, and he understands.

There are still mornings that come where you turn from daylight and ask for five minutes more. He wants to poke your cheek and tug you towards him to ask if you’re really happy like this, because of choice, or if because you just settled.

At the end of the day this is the side of the road that diverged pretty far from the original path.

He understands.

But then again, love isn’t easily angered. Love triumphs over the hurt, Atsumu thinks, so while this is a battle he knows he has no business drawing his sword in, he gives you patience, kindness, and understanding.

A year into “I love you,” he’s sitting in the driver’s seat of his car that’s parked outside the apartment building. He’s been parked here for a little more than fifteen minutes now, but he’s deemed the thoughts in his head far too scattered to come home just yet.

This morning, he felt that you pulled away a lot more evidently than usual.

Days come where your thoughts drift, because you’re only human he reasons. To be human is to hurt and to heal—but at the end of the day, it’s also to remember. Beneath the surface level wounds do you carry what scars you to this day underneath it all. In the shape of a ring that had been on your finger, and the silhouette of a life that ended in a ‘could-have-been’, Atsumu knows that he has no place in that.

It stings, on his part, but he understands.

On the way home, he drove in circles, missing the turn at least four times over, trying to come to a conclusion in the silence of his car.

He’s not angry. He has questions he wants answers to, but he’s not angry. Two more stoplights till he’s got to take a turn to the right to head home, but he misses it again. The thought, one more can’t hurt, like a temporary bandaid that soothes the ache of the moment and satiates the urge to stay out of the space a little longer placates the child in him, but it doesn’t heal.

Answers don’t come because he’s driving in circles, and because once more, he remembers that love isn’t easily angered, he sighs and flicks on the signal to the right the second the lights turn green, and he’s switching lanes.

In the silence, he thinks about why anger was sparked in the first place. But it’s only like that, until his thoughts blank.

In front of him, he sees a polaroid of both you and him messily tucked in between the flap of the visor. A corner reveals the image of him smiling—looking his happiest, and as easily as that though things don’t necessarily click like a resolution is an out of the blue experience, rather, it slides into place.

Softly, and slowly, he comes into terms with his truth.

5:21 pm and he’s in the parking lot, sitting in the driver’s seat contemplating the hiccups that come with life as one. One, because while neither of you are halves of the other, love has a way of letting two whole souls fit into a puzzle where the outcome looks like it’s just one.

The groceries in the trunk are still snacks that the both of you individually like, while a majority are some that the both of you found that you liked together. A compromise between the both of you was made from the start, because to build a home the photos on the walls had to be half of you and half of him.

In the same minute, he decides that the key to nurturing love, was learning how to love that person everyday. It’s choosing to wake up beside them and pull them close even if they turn away. It’s letting himself ponder the invasive thoughts, so they don’t grow, and giving himself time to drive in circles before coming home, because to acknowledge that he’s human too is also a way to prove that love being patient as it is kind also applies to himself.

So Atsumu thinks.

From plan A to plan B, he thinks of how to tackle this like he would strategize a game, because like always, he wants to stay victorious.

And victory, for him in the present, is defined as home.

An apartment on the fifth floor of the building with one bedroom, a kitchen, and a living room. A balcony that had the best views of twilight instead of the sunset, and the genkan with his slippers waiting by the door because he’s yet to come home.

Staring at the polaroid has him remembering that he loves you, instead of diving into anger.

There’s slice of his day that’s still left unanswered, but he supposes that because you’re more than just a part of his home, that can always be resolved.

Today, he learns to love you through staying.

With his head back in the game, Atsumu unbuckles his seatbelt and takes one step before the other, because really, where else would he find love if not home?

-

(It keeps no records of wrongs.)

-

The first thing you do is forgive yourself.

You think. You reflect. You look in the mirror and stare eye to eye at the patches of you left unhealed all along.

The part of you that’s held yourself together the past few years tells you to slap on another bandaid, close the box, and shove it under the bed. The angry part urges you to burn it.

But gold doesn’t burn, says the voice of reason.

Gold melts, and can be molded into something, but in the fragments carried is the memory of the love that was lost.

Staring at the remnants of what had passed lay in scattered pieces in front of you,

His coming home is signaled by the click of the door, the sound of him shuffling into his slippers, and grocery bags set down on the counter.

It’s not unnatural, because silence has never been, but the lack of shared presence is what makes the 30 second silence feel odd. The room is odd. Atsumu’s hope, but something’s amiss, and though love is there, the fact that there’s no words to bridge it together is what feels missing.

(Out of place.)

You suppose that a lack of communication has always been out of place between the two of you.

Not so much that you’ve got a heavy heart, but you turn to Atsumu first, with the conclusion that if not now, then when. If the pain’s beneath the surface, you rationalize, then when will it heal unless you rip off the bandaid that doesn’t even need to be there and fix what was below the surface first?

 But it’s him, saying, “I’m sorry, ‘Tsumu,” that cuts you off before you could even string together some words to try to say.

You turn to him, perplexed.

“You were going to say that, weren’t you?” he adds, but he doesn’t seem like he’s lost. There’s a tale old clarity found within the swirling pools of his hazel, and there’s no haze. While you’re floating with the fragments of what already came and went, Atsumu stands across you, solid like he’s always been. More than just clarity is what you see when you glance at him, and like the lost ship that’s guided by the lighthouse on the stormiest nights—you find your light to guide your way back home.

“What else am I supposed to say?” you exhale. “I’m sorry I shut you out.”

He listens. His eyes stay steady on yours, patient, and his presence remains calm, like kindness. You take it as an invitation to let your truth spill out not just for him, but in a sense, also for you.

It’s liberating. It’s frustrating. You’re in love, then you’re afraid. You’re afraid, because you’re in love.

The truth consumes you.

“There’s too much of me still in this box,” you admit. “What right do I have to say I love you fully if I’m not full yet?”

Atsumu pauses: eyes blinking, and steps towards you suddenly stopping midair. Step one to step two, he stops in between and just looks at you.

It takes a full thirty seconds for you to realize that he’s not angry.

Love keeps no records of wrongs, because Atsumu steps forward, pushes the mess scattered across the table to the side, and looks you in the eye, his honesty as raw as the truth spilling from your five year long pain.

Beneath the surface, you try to hide it, but Atsumu’s here—his love, a raging storm, the thunderclouds evident and strewn across the sky in full colors.

Then in the eye of the storm, the calm passes over, and in his broken voice, he asks you, pleading for your truth. “You love me?”

You nod your head, heart a little distraught, but it’s the love you realize that’s always been blooming that keeps it held fast together. In careful steps, Atsumu approaches you, but before he gets to you, you’re taking steps of your own and meeting him halfway, finally solid with your truth that has been coming to you in steady, solid, waves.

Like a lighthouse, he beckons you to shore, and just like that you’re home.

(Love is patient, love is kind.)

Atsumu is patient, and Atsumu is kind.

(It does not envy; it does not boast.)

You hold no envy for the world even if it moves in the direction you thought you would have moved in. Love came, but Atsumu kept you as a blessing instead of a trophy.

(It is not proud.)

Love became love, because it was not the face to fuel pride. Within these four walls lies what has become home, because as much as home was you—home was built on the foundations of love.

(It is not self-seeking.)

He supposes that though the world tells you time and time again to have your own back and that you’re all you’ve got and that’s how it’s going to be until kingdom come—the word loneliness can still be defined as the image of watching yourself heal and break, again and again alone in a room that has only photos of you.

Atsumu knew victory as a trophy, a medal, and his name on a billboard.

Eventually, victory was redefined into the feeling of hanging that piece of metal signifying his title beside a framed picture of the love that held his hand while he was still on the journey towards there.

Love isn’t self-seeking, because what he learns is that while love is rooted from the self, it blooms with the world. And what came with the world, he realizes, is you.

Home, and love, and the midnights with the starless nights and glowing moons. Conversations that start as passing jokes, but eventually dive deeper the more he yearns for truth. Your truth, his truth, and the world’s. It comes as a puzzle that seemingly won’t solve itself, but little by little he connects the dots like he would the stars.

And it’s not self seeking, because despite the starless nights that he always marveled at with you, he realizes that even if the moon were to disappear and the sky would blank into a dull grey—he would always find more than just the infinity of stars reborn again and again in your eyes.

A simple “I love you,” a passing “hello,” or a joke shared in whispers.

You, just you.

Love blooms because it’s beautiful, he thinks. And you’re more than even the grandest garden.

(It is not easily angered.)

Because what is love, if it isn’t compromise and understanding?

You realize that as much as he does.

You suppose that in life, while your purpose is to live and to learn, it’s also to love and to lose. One day, you’re angry at yourself because you’re more than just some ways drifted from the main road, but another day, you’re appreciating the bloom along the side more than the signs pointing where home could have been instead.

(It keeps no record of wrongs.)

Where the world softly reminds you that, because even though you’ve pulled the mess out from under the bed and stared at the bleeding pieces of you once again, Atsumu meets you half way—again—and holds your hands before he says “I love you.”

Soft spoken, gentle, and true, because your Atsumu always has been.

To the eyes of everywhere else but home, he’s brash, but here, you know he’s yours. Atsumu is the face to your pancakes for breakfast, m&m’s and conversations near midnight, and your every day sort of love.

Love isn’t fleeting, nor is it a big show of the summit before the slow descent till you hit the plateau. Love is everyday, and love is home.

Love is patient, and love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast. It is not proud. It is not self seeking. It keeps no records of wrongs.

(Because “I love you,” Atsumu says again, even though it’s a slice of his truth you hear everyday now. He’s holding you, under the kitchen lights, at 6 near the evening, when the scarlet in the sky dips to grey as the sun switches places with the moon.

Somewhere in between hurting and healing, you’ve made it in the opposite direction of where you thought you would have been by now, and you’re appreciating the flowers on the side of the road instead of the image of the final destination.

You’re swaying left and right in a kitchen with the lightbulb that needs fixing, and the white noise of traffic is heard from outside the walls. Atsumu’s sniffling in your ear, because love has always struck a chord with him more than he cares to admit, while you’re doing the same. Against your ear, is his chest, where you hear his heartbeat slow into the rhythm of a slow melody.

Atsumu laughs, because your neighbor’s playing that old Elvis Presley song again, and though the mess of the past can be scattered across the table at times, he’s at peace because he knows that you’re solid on the thought that you’ve made it home.

With the lighthouse, you make it to shore, but Atsumu does more than that.

He jumps down and takes your hand, pulling you further inland because even the shore has its ways of slowly pulling you back under.

There’s a hurt in your eyes he knows can’t be fixed in a day, or by the flowers on the side of the road, but he waits.

Love is patient.

And he wants you to be kind to yourself. He sees a ring in a box, but he does not envy. He can hold you in his arms and show you to the world but he will not boast. You love him, but it doesn’t fuel his pride. Your heart’s done far more than just find a home in his palms,

He chooses not to act in anger, nor be easily angered, because what is love if not two individuals learning what it means to be together without giving up too much of what gives you your own identity? Your hurt is yours as much as his hurt belongs to him. Your healing, on the other hand, is something he can hold your hand through—

So with that in mind, he keeps no record of wrongs.

He smiles at you before you could say “I’m sorry,” again, and instead, reassures you that he’s got you, and that he loves you.

There’s more than just love that blankets the room, like there’s more than just the black that covers the sky after the last bits of scarlet fade with the sun. In the distance comes the moon, and the remnants of the stars. Beyond your pain, comes healing, because in the present is the truth.

That love is this, and it is yours as it is his.

Because as love does all of that, love also never fails.

And because you say “I love you,” right back, with your palms over his heartbeat that comes steady, he knows this is one of yours and his’ forever victories.)

-

“Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”