Archive of Our Own

“Hey!” Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise as Wakatoshi pushes through the crowd towards you, smiling faintly. He looks wonderful in a suit, and you embrace him quickly before pulling back, holding him by the shoulders and inspecting him. 

“Why’re you here?” you ask curiously. “I didn’t—“

He ducks his head, pretending to fix something on your dress as cameras flash and you swallow.

“He’s not coming. You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” Wakatoshi whispers and you turn to face him, slanting your body strategically away from the cameras. 

Desperately not-so-heartbroken: “How do you know?”

“I saw the state he was in,” is the only answer you need. “Shimizu-san would’ve come, but—“

“It’s okay. I know the baby’s on the way,” you reply deftly, swallowing your injured pride. “I’ll try to get through this as quick as possible and get to the table.” Wakatoshi nods, complimenting you on your dress before offering his arm. Taking it, you plaster that smile for the cameras onto your face with superglue. Nothing’s sloughing it off tonight.

Of course he’s not coming, you think to yourself as the volleyball player escorts you down the red carpet. You guys look great together—everyone says so—but everyone knows, too, that there’s someone who should’ve been there, who would’ve smiled more, made more jokes. Ushijima is the perfect carpet partner in the sense that he makes sure you’re always comfortable, but you don’t love him.

But of course he wouldn’t come, you think.

It’s the day after a game. He likes to take those days all to himself.

Bitterness builds up in your throat.

Wakatoshi takes away the name card that displays someone else’s name before anyone catches it as they sit down at the awards show, and you silently note to repay him somehow. He hates these kinds of events, and yet he bares every single one of them just because you need someone and you wonder why he always drops everything for you. 

It’s honestly terrible. It feels misleading. It feels like you’re using him, and he lets you do so happily—or at least with gritted teeth because it’s you.

“Wakatoshi,” you begin, but he only sends you a warning look and a subtle shake of his head.

Don’t worry about it, the gesture seems to say.

Taking out your phone, you glance at your messages to see if Atsumu’s even bothered to read them.

Delivered stares back at you in cold grey letters.

.

Ever since you’ve gotten home, it’s been a match between you and Atsumu. Not quite screaming, but hot-tempered and full of serrated words that eviscerate anything they come into contact with. You feel like you’re less a person and more tattered ribbons of flesh and blood, with a throbbing head and aching feet, and you just want to eat, shower, slip into something more comfortable, but Atsumu won’t let up. He smells like beer, but his eyes are sharp, rich with annoyance, and his face is flushed with the incredulity of his expression.

Like you’re the one being unreasonable. Like your anger at him is unjustifiable.

But you’re not, and it is, and you are fucking done. 

So you whirl around, making him stop in his tracks. He’s still in his outdoor clothes—you learnt that he’d come home only minutes before you—and his hair is windswept and he’s so handsome it used to make your teeth ache, but now, it only fuels the pyre of your rage, and so you demand the answer to one question. The one question you feel needs to be answered.

“Do you even realize how you treat me?”

It’s a strong way to finish an argument. Sobering, at least.

For once, you feel as if you’ve said something that will actually sinkinto his thick brain and a terrible flash of triumph surges through you when Atsumu stares at you like you’ve punched a hole in his heart.

God, if only you could do it a hundred times over. You think you have enough sadness to fill a thousand graveyards.

By Atsumu’s silence, you know his answer.

“I called you eight times tonight, Atsumu. Eight. You promised me you would show up, and I wanted to know if you were even coming, but you didn’t even bother to let me know. If you were even safe, if something had happened.” You manage to keep your voice level as you turn to head into their bathroom so you can shower and slough off this day. You’re not hungry anymore. “I won fucking Best Actress, I dedicated it to you because you are my everything, and you were out drinking with your friends and driving like you’re the one out of a movie. Like your actions don’t have consequences on me, too. What if you had died? What if when you called me for the first time tonight, it was because you had wrapped your car around a pole?”

“You’re overreacting—“

“No, I’m not.” Calmly, you take off your earrings and set them on the vanity, staring at your reflection and taking deep breaths so you don’t give in to the trembling feeling in your chest and begin to cry. Your makeup is too good to be smeared by anything other than makeup remover. “I’m not, because this is not the first time you’ve done this to me, and it clearly won’t be the last considering instead of enjoying myself tonight with my friends, I was instead worried to death over you. Again.”

“Baby…”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me. I have a headache and I’m going to bed.”

“C’mon. You know I’m sorry.”

“I don’t actually,” you inform coolly. “I never know what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling because you’re never actually here for us to communicate that.” Pulling off your fake eyelashes, you set them aside gently before sliding out of your dress, and Atsumu moves to help you with the zipper like you used to. Twisting to allow him access, you allow your molten gaze to rest on the tile of their bathroom. Once he’s pulled it down, he steps back.

He used to try to sneak kisses before you took your lipstick off.

You sigh and begin the arduous task of removing your makeup after moving the dress to your bed to deal with later.

“Baby,” he says. Your eyeshadow blurs, the sparkles smearing all over your face and you sigh as the eyeliner streaks too, leaving haunting black trails everywhere. When you look at him, you’re sure you’re quite a monstrous sight.

Bluntly (you think you don’t have the energy to care anymore): “What?”

“I don’t want us to fight.”

You scoff. “You think I want to fight on what’s supposed to be the night of my greatest achievement? Not that you would know. You don’t care about anything except volleyball and it makes me wonder, honestly, why are we even in a relationship?”

Atsumu stares at you dimly and you meet his gaze, the fight in you leaving all of a sudden. You just want to go to bed, you realize. Take back what you have left of the night. 

“You don’t mean that,” he whispers. You click your tongue when the remover gets into your eyes, squinting a bit and rinsing it out with water. “You know that the reason we are here is because we are in this together. It’s always been you and me, and that is all we ever needed.” The cold numbs your cheek and you wipe at your face gently, patting it dry before screwing up your face in the mirror and tentatively opening the affected eye. When your vision doesn’t blur, you glance over at your boyfriend. “Say something. Please.”

“It was you and me,” you acknowledge, ignoring the sinking feeling in your gut. “I don’t know when that changed, but it did, and I don’t care that you have friends. I don’t care that you go out with them because I love the Jackals, you know that, but it’s not fair that you treat me like this, Atsumu, like some second-class hook-up rather than your fucking girlfriend, and I’m not going to just lie down and take it.”

He nods and doesn’t say another word. You slip into the shower soon after, the bathroom door closing and blocking him off from you.

When you leave, the lights are dim and it’s quiet. Atsumu is sleeping on his side of the bed, in his pajamas and hair still a bit damp—he must’ve used the guest bathroom—and your dress is nowhere in sight. With a quick glance at the closet, you see it’s been hung up and you scurry to protect your fake eyelashes, sliding them back into their case. As you do so, you note your jewelry back on their rack sans the earrings which you hook on moments later, and there’s something warm as you slide into the bed.

Shifting, you look and find a heated pad switched on. With a gentle sigh, your heart wilts in your chest as you turn it off and tuck it in the shelf of your nightstand. Then, you reach up to switch off the lights and fall asleep with your back to him.

.

The morning after, you wake up before Atsumu and head into the kitchen just to grab yourself a cup of coffee while you scroll through your phone to find a suitable gift for Wakatoshi. Leaning on the kitchen counter, you nurse your headache as you check Twitter and Instagram, knowing the posts made on both accounts would’ve garnered a fair share of likes, comments, and the standard hate. There’s news article after news article about you and Wakatoshi about sparks flying, which you firmly ignore, before liking a few congratulatory tweets from fans and friends alike.

Your publicist has sent you the red carpet photos which you upload immediately onto Instagram, tagging Wakatoshi and the appropriate brands you were wearing along a witty caption. Your friend immediately likes it and you snort to yourself, sending him a quick text teasing him for being on his phone when he must have practice, but he only sends back a short response (‘they got my good side’) which means you caught him at the tail-end of his first waterbreak of the day.

Smiling to yourself, you continue to nurse your coffee as Atsumu makes his appearance for the day. His hair is messy and falling all over his face, and he’s still wearing his pajamas, feet shuffling in his slippers. You barely remember the last time you saw him wear them and you stuff down your heartache. The remnants of what you said still linger, and while you don’t regret it, it makes the air frazzled with buzzing tension. You just want to relax today, and you wonder if it’s even possible to postpone their fighting for one more day.

You can deal with it tomorrow. Today… today, you just want to see Kiyoko and talk to Yukie, and maybe pop in to Tendou’s for some treats. You want this to yourself. You want…

“Mornin’,” he says, disturbing your line of thought. His eyes brighten for a flash of a second upon seeing you still in their apartment before he dims again, shoulders slouching. Clearly he hasn’t forgotten either.

Good.

“Morning,” you reply as Atsumu pours himself a glass of water and chugs it down. You tilt the rest of your coffee down your throat and straighten up. “Going to practice? You guys probably have a debrief from the game yesterday today. You can’t miss that.”

“I was thinkin’ of taking the day off, actually,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck before flipping through his hair as if dusting something off his silky head. “We need to talk.”

“We can talk when you come back.” You set your mug down in the sink. Your insides are nothing but numb and any good mood you had dissipates like smoke. You don’t know when the prospect of talking to Atsumu felt more like a dreaded chore than the best way you could’ve spent your time, but it’s happened and the guilt is stronger than the hurt you know is on his face. “I’m not working today, so… you just go. Have a good practice.”

“What about a lunch date?” he proposes. You shake your head.

“No, thanks. I don’t feel like leaving the apartment.” A lie that’s starting to feel more true if Atsumu’s going to practice. Making your way to the living room, you bypass him but his hand shoots out to take a gentle hold of your elbow.

“Baby…”

You pull away. “What?”

“We really need to talk,” he says. You look at him fully, eyes searching his expression. He’s begging you with all his might, eyes wide, mein twisted into an expression he knows tugs at your entire being to bend to his will, but you shake your head.

“I think… I think what we need is time to re-evaluate what we want,” you reply carefully. Cleaning up the living room slowly, you pick up a few books and return them to their places on their shelves, examining the plants as you pass by. Atsumu stands by the couch, his arms crossed over his chest, and you step over his box of fanmail he has yet to get to. “And whether or not this relationship can continue down the path its heading.”

“What I want?” he echoes, incredulous. “I want you. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Well, it really doesn’t feel like it.” Returning to the kitchen, you fill up a watering can. “It feels more like a PR relationship, and barely at that, so it’s making me wonder why you even want to be here.”

“Because I love you,” he says it like it’s obvious. You shake your head. “You have to believe me: I have loved no one but you for the past five years.”

“Right.” You set the watering can down on the counter with a harsh clang. “So why did Wakatoshi have to come last night?”

“Baby—“

“That’s my first question. It really is. If you love me so much, why do you never show up?” A fire ignites under your heart as you speak, and a tightness balls up in your throat. You plant your feet into the floor, squaring your shoulders and taking a deep breath. “Why do I have to make myself look like a fool waiting around for you?” Atsumu’s face goes lax as you glare at him wretchedly. “You used to show up to every little thing, even when I said you didn’t have to, and now… now I don’t even deserve a text. Is that it?” The colour drains from his face but you can’t bring yourself to care. “I stopped being good enough for the great Miya Atsumu. Is that it?”

He gapes. “No! No, you are more than I deserve, I just… I love you. I love you so much and I try to give you everything! I swear I do. It’s why I take so many ad offers, too. I care about these brands, but the money’s good, too! An’ I swear… I swear you are enough—“

“But, I don’t need you to cover for me anymore!” Voice spiking, you cringe at how loud you are but sleeping on it has only made everything increase exponentially in how fucking angry you are. “Look, I really am grateful that I have you. You believed in me before anyone else did, and I love you for that. I loved that you knew what I had in me before I did, but I got such a big break. I’ve been working my ass off for the past year and it paid off last night. Not that you would know. How’d you find out that I won? Twitter? Did one of our friends text you?”

Slack-jawed, Atsumu says nothing besides a hoarse answer of ’TV.’

A beat. Two.

You had prepared for it.

You had really prepared for it. But hearing it is a whole other story. 

He had watched you win and even still, he didn’t rush to your side, the invite you’d given him stored in his pocket?

Are you just not the effort?

You wonder why Wakatoshi even bothered to come, then.

“Live?” you press on quietly, just to be sure.

“The whole thing,” he confirms in a whisper. “You looked gorgeous, baby.”

Quiet sounds like the wrong word for the moments that follow. It’s more akin to a dead, mournful silence, and it’s enough to choke the life out of you as you stare at Atsumu incredulously, your mind buzzing with so much, yet, at the same time, a blur of nothingness. You don’t know what you want to say—too much at once, that’s for sure.

“So you remembered,” you say at length, evenly and apathetically, “that I had something last night, something important to me, and you still decided to be elsewhere because I just wasn’t a priority for you.”

Atsumu takes a step forward. “That is not what I meant.”

You remain rooted by the sink. “That is exactly what you meant.”

.

Atsumu doesn’t go to practice. You water the plants and busy yourself until there’s nothing left to do.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asks quietly as they sit on the couch in tense silence. It’s been like this for the past thirty minutes as you sit on the couch alone, on the seat farthest away from where Atsumu is perched on a stiff beanbag, leaning forward on his knees. Your own feet are propped up on the coffee table and you rest your arm on the armrest, resting your cheek against your fist and staring blankly at the black screen of the TV.

You don’t know what you’ve been thinking. Probably a vicious cycle of the same thoughts that continue to stab at your heart—the idea that Atsumu’s finally bored of you and the only reason he keeps you around is to hype himself up. It’s a wretched thought, but you can’t shove it out of your head.

“Babe?” he prompts, and you blink, turning to look at him. “You want any breakfast?”

You get up at his question, and his expression lifts hopefully.

“I can do it,” you tell him. It’d give you something to do and to firmly pack those thoughts away. “I’ll make something. What do you wanna eat—“

“No. I’m doing it,” he insists, springing to his feet and walking after you, surpassing you quickly and getting to the fridge first. Your shoulders fall at his eagerness, and you feel a bit of stiffness leave your body as he pulls out eggs, scallions, and tomatoes before humming to himself. “I can make us some omelettes. Whaddya think?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” You watch him for a moment. Atsumu’s a great chef—as a professional athlete and with a chef as a brother, there’s no doubt he would be—so you leave him to his devices, heading back to the couch. You pick up your phone, scanning for any important texts. Congratulatory texts from most of their friends who you’re not as close with and probably only found out this morning, plus a few from your manager asking how you’re doing.

You reply with a quick fine and an update on what you’re doing for the day (a day at home, soooo tired) which is only half-truth but it seems to to be the theme today, and then the thoughts slowly inch back, crawling with terrible claws that dig into the folds of your brain.

“Babe, you want peppers in yours?” Atsumu calls over the chopping of his knife.

“No, thank you.”

And so it continues. You continue scrolling through your phone, through Twitter and Instagram until you’ve had your fill. The mouth-watering promise of breakfast floats through the air and you glance into the kitchen, hopeful. 

When Atsumu finally calls you over, you can’t help the urge to put a spring in your step—you don’t humour it, but it’s there. It’s been so long since you’ve had Atsumu’s cooking, but even the notion itself weighs down in your heart as he pulls out your chair and sets cutlery down before heading around the table and sitting down.

Atsumu has his phone on the surface, and his screen keeps lighting up with notifications, yet he resolutely ignores it. Your eyes keep flashing to it against your own will, and you duck your head, stabbing at the omelette unhelpfully as they begin to eat after their murmured prayers. 

You wait to see if he’ll take it, but when his phone buzzes and he still keeps staring at you, you shake your head.

“Just check your phone,” you tell him flatly. “It’s whatever.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Atsumu, seriously, don’t play cute. I’m not going anywhere.” You’re quickly losing your appetite, but manage to keep your tone civil. “Just check your phone.”

So he does, because with any one else, it would’ve been a trap, but that’s never how it’s been between you two. He is only on there for a few minutes anyway before he’s setting his phone down, eyes downcast and face considerably paler than before.

You want to ask what he’d seen to make him look so ghostly, but you’ve had a gander on what the press are saying already.

After all, it’s one pro volleyball player taking the place of another pro volleyball player, and Ushijima, notorious for his tight-lipped courtesy and short answers regarding his privacy to the press, does not help matters. You’re sure if you had to step foot outside your apartment, papparazzi would be swarming you the instant they spotted you on the streets.

You eat quietly while Atsumu soaks in the headlines blasting you and Ushijima Wakatoshi, more famously known as the Schweiden Adler Southpaw, as the newest, hottest couple-to-be, and the silence is insufferable.

“They’re speculatin’ that you left me for Ushijima-san,” Atsumu informs at length. Your omelette’s three-quarters gone and you’ve been stabbing at a stray piece of scallion for the past two minutes. “The pictures of you two look real cozy, so I don’t blame ‘em.”

Your head jerks up. “Are you blaming anyone else?” you inquire icily. 

Atsumu shakes his head. “No. If you want to be with someone else, that’s no one’s fault, but if you’ve thought about breaking up with me, I think that’s something we should discuss.” A beat. “So… have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Thought about breaking up with me.”

Your chest cramps. It feels like it’s been doused in ice-cold waters. “Yes,” you admit, “but not really the breaking up. More the idea of being alone and not being disappointed all the time.”

He deflates. It makes you sick to your stomach how good it feels that he’s finally feeling the damage he’s inflicted on you. “I see.”

He better, you think resentfully. Out loud, you continue: “And it wasn’t just last night, you know, or all the nights before where you just decided to be a flake. It’s every time you don’t listen to me when I’m worried about you, or even text me back and then just show up and pretend it’s okay. You won’t always have me, Tsumu.”Atsumu looks up at you, eyes half-mast and inconsolable, but you only stare back devoid of emotion. “You know that right?”

He looks as if he’s never considered the possibility. 

Now, it’s staring at him in the face.

You stab at the end of your omelette, watching the egg fall apart. Scooping it into your mouth, you watch him and rest your cheek against your fist, chewing slowly. 

The distracted sound of his fork against porcelain continues to scratch the edge of the quiet that has fallen over them until Atsumu asks if you’re finished eating because he’ll do the dishes, and then maybe they can talk, and—

“Yeah, I’m done,” you cut him off mid-sentence. 

It feels like it means more than breakfast. 

Your boyfriend takes the plate from in front of you as you wipe your mouth carefully, and he pauses beside you. You eye him. It’s hard to feel the anger that wracks your entire soul when he’s standing beside you. Instead, you just feel tired, and empty, and you miss him more than you can breathe.

“I’m in love with you.” He’s begging with everything he can. It won’t be long before he falls to his hands and knees, but you think they both know it’s too late for that.

“I know,” you answer, standing. Muted brown eyes find yours, soft with surrender and you step back, chair thumping against the floor. “I’m going to head out. I just… need to clear my head. I think we both do.”

This time, he does not fight you. You change quickly, and gather your bags, and when you leave, he presses a soft kiss to your temple. His hand grasps onto your bicep as if, when he lets go, you will disappear from his life forever. Your chest is hollow, and your heart wilts like a flower, drowning in a rainstorm.

Who knows what the future holds?

“Goodbye, Tsumu,” you say, and wonder how he will answer.

He only gives you a limp smile. It hangs off his face awkwardly, and his eyes are shining. 

“Bye, love.”

You can’t help but bitterly agree. 

Goodbye, love, indeed.