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Glass is brittle.
From what Atsumu remembers of his science lessons, brittle materials break with no plastic deformation. When glass breaks, it splinters and sends small, glittering shards across the surface in a fraction of a second. It’s loud and jarring and immediate, impossible to ignore. The mess is always tended to with careful actions and a watchful eye.
Atsumu is not brittle.
When Atsumu breaks, it’s after a series of long, arduous series of stresses, like a frayed rope. The fibres are unravelled and they’ve been like that for a while, tears slowly appearing in formations so subtle that they could be ignored.
Until they can no longer be ignored. The rope snaps, sudden and destructive and painful as it rips itself apart. The weight that it’s been holding up is released and the mess that it makes is cleared up.
The rope is left alone.
The final fibre in Atsumu’s rope begins to fray on the way to the hotel. They’d lost to Karasuno in their first match at Nationals and nobody’s said it’s his fault, but they’re thinking it. They won’t make eye contact with him and their lips are tightly sealed, as if they’re trying to hold back the string of blame that will be rightfully directed at Atsumu.
He stops as they reach the hotel desk. “Kita-san,” he says. His voice comes out as a hoarse whisper and it’s fitting, because he doesn’t deserve to be heard. “I left my- my bottle of water by the side of the court. I’ll go get it now.”
It’s a lie. Atsumu’s water is buried somewhere in Suna’s bag because Suna had offered to carry it earlier, but Kita doesn’t know that. Atsumu leaves without waiting for a response and swallows the lump in his throat as he starts toward the stadium.
The foyer is brightly lit, with large overhead lamps, and their light dances around in the air, mocking Atsumu. We’ll illuminate your secrets , they seem to say. You can’t hide from the light. You can’t hide from the truth. You can’t pretend anymore.
Atsumu lifts a hand to block them out and carries on. His destination is the changing rooms where they had prepared this morning. It should be empty now.
There, no one will see him as he snaps.
The hand in front of his face blinds him to the reporter who appears in front of him without warning, wearing a bleached smile and flawless makeup. She holds a sheaf of paper, fastened to a clipboard, and in her right hand is a ballpoint pen which is poised and ready to write.
“Miya Atsumu?” Her words are sickeningly sweet and polite. She must have rehearsed. “Can I talk to you about your performance today?”
“Wait, can I—”
“Perfect!” she chirps. “As we know, Inarizaki gave up the final set to Karasuno, a relatively weaker team—”
Atsumu hates her phrasing. They didn’t give it up .
“— and the final point was scared after Miya Osamu’s spike was blocked—”
Atsumu hates how she’s bringing up Osamu, as if to insinuate that the loss is partially his fault.
“— but the onus is on you, correct? You had various other options in terms of setting the ball yet you chose to send it to your brother.”
Atsumu hates how she recounts the events. He knows. Better than anyone, he knows.
“Miya Atsumu, how do you feel knowing that if your actions had been different, you could be playing another match tomorrow?”
Atsumu hates himself.
He shakes his head at the question and mumbles something, a generic string of emotions like annoyed and upset that barely scratches the surface of how he feels. But his pain isn’t meant to be inserted into a video on the sports channel or translated into an article at the back of a volleyball magazine.
His pain is meant for him to bear alone.
Atsumu excuses himself from the interview with a wave of his hand and carries on down the corridor. If he remembers correctly, there’s a set of stairs on his left which will lead to the room where they had been earlier. He goes in that direction, avoiding camera crews and stares and pointed fingers because they’re a reminder that he is Miya Atsumu and he doesn’t want to be Miya Atsumu anymore because Miya Atsumu is a fucking failure and messed up the one thing he’s supposed to be good at.
He finds the changing room and pushes the door open. It’s clean and bare, nothing to remind him of the laughter and jokes that had been exchanged here a few hours ago. It’s been stripped of all mirth and now waits for another team to temporarily reside. A team that’s stronger, smarter, faster.
A team that doesn’t have Miya Atsumu.
Atsumu lets the door swing shut. He takes two steps toward the seating around the walls, sits down, and closes his eyes.
And he breaks.
Atsumu has always been called loud. Teachers have branded him as raucous. Oftentimes, his classmates and even Osamu will tell him that he needs to shut up and stop bein’ so disruptive .
So when Atsumu crumbles in the middle of a changing room with no one else to see him, he does it as silently as possible. He opens his mouth wide, the skin on his lips cracking with the motion, but no sound comes out. He keeps the scream caged in the back of his throat, sitting behind his tongue and it stings the inside of his mouth but it’s okay because it won’t sting anyone else’s ears. Atsumu doesn’t take out his frustration on the lockers around him and he doesn’t punch a wall, because that wouldn’t be fair on anyone else.
Atsumu presses his fingers against his legs instead, squeezing hard enough that marks will be visible when he releases the pressure. His nails roam over his knees, digging into the skin below his kneecaps and wishing that his knees were stronger, his fingers were more accurate, that his skin was thicker so he would be able to resist the forces threatening to split him in half.
He doesn’t cry. Atsumu makes sure that he doesn’t cry because he’ll inevitably have to return to the hotel and he’s too tired to think of an explanation for tear stains on his cheeks. When he sees the rest of the team, he’ll force a grin and inject as much enthusiasm into his voice as he can muster and he’ll laugh as they get onto the bus. He’ll pretend that he’s fine because they’ve never seen him any other way and he doesn’t want to distort their perception of him any more than he already has.
He’s about to stand up when he hears the door swing open. His back is turned, so he snaps open his eyes to see Suna, his hand resting on the door handle with a tired look on his face. Atsumu’s glad it’s Suna because Suna won’t pity him.
“You said you were getting your water.” Suna’s eyes are blank, like he’s looking straight through Atsumu, and that’s more reassuring than it should have been.
“Yeah, I—”
“You said it was by the side of the court.”
“Rin—”
“It’s in my bag.” Suna pulls out the plastic bottle and silently passes it to Atsumu. Atsumu unscrews the cap and brings it to his lips. It’s empty.
“It’s empty,” Suna says, and it sounds like an apology. “I’ve got some if you want.”
“No thanks.”
“Okay.” Suna offers a thin-lipped smile. “We’re waiting for you at the hotel. You need to pack up all your things before Osamu chucks them into a bin.”
Suna’s attempt at a joke isn’t funny and Atsumu’s gaze drops into his lap before Suna can see the tears shining in the corner of his eyes.
“Atsumu? You good?”
“I’m-” Atsumu tries and fails to form a coherent sentence. “I- It’s all my-”
“Oi,” Suna starts. “Don’t tell me that you’re upset ‘cause we lost the game.”
The words dry up on Atsumu’s tongue. He slumps forward where he’s sitting, back hunched with his fingers still trembling on his knees.
“Atsumu,” Suna says quietly, and he crosses the room until he’s in front of Atsumu, crouching down and with his face twisted in an expression that Atsumu doesn’t want to recognise. “Seriously? ‘Cause we lost?”
“We were supposed to win.”
“We were supposed to play volleyball, idiot. And we did that. We did that for three whole sets.”
“Ya don’t understand.” Atsumu’s voice cracks with the jagged emotion in his words. “We were supposed to win. And we woulda won, if I hadn’t—”
“Stop.”
“I coulda sent the ball anywhere else. It’s my fault and they all know it’s my fault. This reporter said-”
“Stop,” Suna repeats. “No one’s blaming you.”
“They are.”
Suna exhales and sits beside Atsumu, bringing his feet up to rest his heels on the seat. “Everyone’s frustrated that we’re going home after the first match—”
“I don’t need a reminder.”
“But no one’s looking for a scapegoat.”
“I am,” Atsumu says miserably. “‘Cause I have to find someone to blame. And I know that this time, it’s me.”
“Does blaming yourself make you feel better?” Suna asks.
“A little.”
Suna falls silent and Atsumu falls silent with him because the silence serves as a distraction from the words that echo around his head. They’re still there, but muffled behind the layers of uncertainty in the air between him and Suna.
“Kita’s waiting for us,” Suna says after a while. “I told him I was gonna look for you, ‘cause you’d be annoyed if it was anyone else.”
“If they saw me like this, they’d spew some bullshit about how it’s not about winnin’.”
“Mm.”
“And it is about winnin’. We didn’t come all this way for fun.”
“Mm.”
“And we coulda won, if I hadn’t messed up at the last-”
“Osamu was the last one to touch the ball,” Suna interrupts. His head turns to the side and his stare increases in intensity. “He could have hit it in a way that wouldn’t be blocked. He’s not beating himself up as much as you are.”
“If a hitter scores, it’s ‘cause of me. If they don’t score, it’s ‘cause of me.” Atsumu says. “And I messed up the last—”
“No one cares if you messed up. They just wanna know if you’re okay.”
“I’m not okay. I was meant to be perfect and—”
“Atsumu.” Suna sends an elbow into Atsumu’s ribs, hard enough to stop him from talking. “You weren’t meant to be perfect. You were meant to be human, and that means you’re gonna do things you regret.”
“Being human sucks .”
Suna laughs dryly. “No shit. Get up. I don’t wanna miss the bus.”
Shattered glass can be put back together. It will never be as strong or as flawless as it was before, but with time and care, with gluing or welding, a shell can be restructured and some semblance of the original is formed.
A snapped rope is replaced.
○
Atsumu gets back to the hotel, offering a silent apology to the rest of the team who are loitering around the reception. Atsumu’s red and blue striped suitcase is by Osamu’s feet, with the zip half done up and clothes spilling out of the gap.
“I had to sort yer shit out,” Osamu grunts. He doesn’t meet Atsumu’s gaze and Atsumu’s thankful for that because Osamu has an uncanny way of being able to see through whichever smokescreen that Atsumu puts up.
He wheels his suitcase away from everyone else’s watchful gaze and stuffs the contents inside properly, frowning a little as he sees the multitude of clothing items he had brought. He’d been prepared to spend over a week here, yet here they were, going home after a single night at the hotel because Atsumu hadn’t been good enough.
Atsumu’s eyes blur and he fumbles with the zip, struggling to get it pulled shut so he can be up and moving before anyone notices him. His fingers slip around the metal and just as he’s thinking that it can’t get any worse, the zip snaps and he’s left holding the rectangular end between his fingers. It falls downward and bounces against the wooden slats of the reception floor.
“Oi.”
Atsumu blinks. Suna is crouching in front of him, hands moving to press the teeth of the zip together and to fix the mess that Atsumu had made.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Suna mutters. He stands up straight and nudges Atsumu toward the exit. “Come on. Akagi says that the bus is here.”
Once they’ve stowed their suitcases away in the compartment underneath the bus, Suna directs Atsumu to the seats closest to the front, directly behind the driver. Atsumu takes the window seat and Suna sits beside him, stretching his legs out over the third seat in the row before anyone else can claim it.
“Why are we at the front?” Atsumu asks.
Suna pulls a pair of earphones on and adjusts them in his ears. “‘Cause I’m tired. And I know you’re tired as well. No one will talk to you if you sit at the front.” He pauses, an eyebrow half raised. “And I know you don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“Ya don’t hafta pity me.”
“I don’t care enough to pity you,” Suna answers. He reclines back, head tilted up toward the ceiling. “But you look like you’re gonna cry if anyone talks to you. I don’t wanna see you cry.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t wanna see you cry. ‘Cause I’ll start crying, too.” Suna closes his eyes, indicating that their short attempt at conversation is over.
Atsumu leans against the window and tries to sleep.
He doesn’t, though. He’s kept awake by the sounds of horns from passing cars and whispered voices from behind him and the knowledge that this silence won’t last. They’ll get back to Inarizaki tonight and immediately be shepherded into the club room. They’ll be asked to discuss what went wrong today and everybody’s fingers will turn to point at Atsumu because no one else other than him is a liar.
At roughly four pm, when they’ve completed half of the seven-hour drive, they stop. The bus rolls to a halt outside a service station. Coach Kurosu informs them that they’re stopping to eat and Atsumu leans over to shake Suna awake. Suna responds with a slap across Atsumu’s cheek, followed by an unconvincing apology.
They cross the car park and enter the restaurant. It’s deserted, which isn’t surprising, considering that it’s early afternoon on a weekday. Atsumu should be grateful for the fact that there are only seventeen other people inside, but that’s still too many. Atsumu had considered asking to stay on the bus, but that would mean having to speak and his throat is still too tender for words to come out without splintering in the chill of the air. So Atsumu says nothing as he sits at the end of the table and orders something generic without a proper look at the menu. He keeps his gaze focused on his lap as he waits for his food to arrive, hoping that no one notices his bouncing knee or his irregular breathing as he forces himself to not look anyone in the eye.
It’s been hours. He should have accepted the loss by now. He should be joking around, making paper airplanes out of napkins and teasing Osamu for taking five minutes to deliberate on his order choice.
Kita speaks first. He thanks the waiter for the food as it arrives and calls down the table as the plates are handed out. Atsumu prays that Kita will leave it there, he prays that they’ll eat in this stifling silence because being suffocated is better than having the air ripped out of his lungs, Atsumu prays that he’ll be offered a sanctuary in this dimly lit service station.
“We played well,” Kita says, and Atsumu’s heart inverts and slams against his chest because Kita’s words are empty and dull, as passionless as if he’s reading a weather report or reciting the alphabet. “It didn’t go the way we were hopin’, but that’s okay. All that matters is that we—”
“We fuckin’ lost,” someone interrupts, and it’s Ginjima of all people. Ginjima’s hands are tightly wrapped around his cutlery and his jaw is set, lips pouted as he stares at Kita. “That ain’t okay.”
“Hitoshi—”
“I know what ya mean. We can use this to improve or somethin’ like that. But it ain’t okay .” Ginjima forces the words through clenched teeth. “That was yer last game!”
“Every game is somebody’s last game,” Kita tells him. “It’s how volleyball works. Someone’s gotta lose. There has to be an ending.”
Ginjima shakes his head and says nothing else.
Kita continues. “I’m proud of how you played today. All of you.”
Not you, though . The thought rings clear in Atsumu’s ears. Kita knows it’s your fault. He knows that —
“Even you, Atsumu.”
He’s only saying it to be nice. As soon as you’ve left, he’ll start reminding everyone about the reason they lost the last set and —
“Oi.” Atsumu feels a poke in his side and turns to see Suna. “Shut up. Just eat.”
And Atsumu doesn’t have the strength to argue that he hadn’t said anything so he picks up a fork and prods at the plate in front of him.
Time passes achingly slowly. Atsumu eats half of his food and pushes the rest around his bowl with his fork. Suna spends the time on his phone, his thumb scrolling across the screen while his face remains passive. On the other side of the table, Osamu wraps udon around chopsticks and inserts them into his mouth with mechanical, monotonous movements. His eyes are glazed over and his back is hunched. He doesn’t look upset — rather, his expression is one of weariness. Like he’s tired of having to be on the same team as Atsumu, and he’s tired of constantly being compared to someone who isn’t worth it.
When they finally finish and return to the bus, Atsumu pulls the hood of his jacket over his head and curls himself into a ball before Suna, or anyone else for that matter, can talk to him.
This time, he manages to sleep.
○
Suna wakes him up and tells him that they’re back in Hyogo. Atsumu nods an agreement and wipes his eyes, hating how they feel red and prone to spilling over at any second.
But he won’t cry, because tears are harder to hide than a tremor in his voice.
Atsumu is the first one out, crawling over Suna’s lap and by the exit of the bus before it has even come to a stop, which earns him a sigh from someone, presumably Kita.
He takes his suitcase from the bottom of the bus as soon as it opens and he’s off, wheeling it across the car park. If he keeps up this speed, he’ll be out of sight before Kita can tell him to stop or Osamu can tell him to wait up or Suna can tell him anything. Any words said to him in this moment would surely be lost, because his head is clouded with memories of their match earlier and the intensity of his thoughts increases with his proximity to school. This morning, they’d been seen off by crowds of waving students, yelling wishes of good luck and telling them not to return unless they were holding medals in their hands.
Twelve hours later, they’ve returned, and the only thing that Atsumu holds is guilt.
“Atsumu,” a voice says. Atsumu recognises it as Osamu’s and he doesn’t turn around because the last thing he needs is to be confronted by a face that’s so similar to his own yet belongs to someone who he’ll never live up to. “Didja hear what Kita-san said?”
Atsumu shakes his head.
“We’re gonna meet tomorrow morning. He said we can go home for tonight. He told us to rest.”
Atsumu forces a grin so tight that the skin around his lips feels even drier.
He walks half a step in front of Osamu for the entirety of their way home, pretending not to hear Osamu’s half-hearted attempts at conversation starters. He knows that Osamu doesn’t mean it. Osamu’s trying to get Atsumu to talk so that he can force Atsumu to relive today’s events.
And Atsumu wants to save the inescapable second snapping of his rope for a time when no one’s around to be caught in the fallout.
When they go home, Atsumu stops at the top of the staircase, ready to go into the bathroom to sit on the floor and cry, when Osamu calls his name.
“‘Tsumu. Ya better not go into the bathroom to sit on the floor and cry.”
“Shut yer trap,” Atsumu whispers. He’s been holding back the tears for too long and his eyes are stinging.
“Why are ya hidin’ away? Why didn’t ya let it out and cry on the fuckin’ bus like Gin did? Like I almost did? Why are ya actin’ all proud, like you’re somehow too brilliant to admit that yer upset and- Jeez.” Atsumu’s lips tremble and Osamu sighs. “I ain’t even annoyed about the whole losin’ thing. It’s the fact that yer so damn stubborn that ya won’t talk to anyone and-”
Atsumu whips his head around, goes into the bathroom, and sits on the floor.
And he cries.
Unsurprisingly, crying doesn’t make Atsumu feel better. If anything, it’s an additional weight because the tears soak into his clothes and make him feel heavier. It would be comparable to drowning, except that Atsumu has all the air he requires; he’s just an ungrateful piece of shit.
He wishes that Osamu had blamed him. He wishes that the rest of the team had crowded around and said the words he’s been waiting to hear for hours, so that he can stop imagining them in his mind. It’s as if they had been tiptoeing around Atsumu, but the silence had only created a space where his thoughts could ruminate freely without interruption, and now they’re eating him from the inside out.
As stupid as it sounds, he wishes that someone had confirmed his suspicions, that the final point had ultimately come down to his reckless actions. He knows it already, but he wants to hear it from someone else so that he won’t be the only person grinding his heart into dust.
The tips of Atsumu’s fingers are tingling, intense enough that Atsumu can almost imagine the leather of the ball on top of them, as tangible as when he’d set the final play and he’d set it wrong , and now it’s like his fingertips are on fire, burning with shame and regret and he clasps them together before the shaking gets out of control.
He stops sniffling when he hears a knock on the bathroom door. The knock is light and unintrusive, so it can’t be Osamu, and their parents aren’t returning home until later this week. Atsumu entertains the possibility that their house is being robbed and the intruder is considerate enough to knock before they enter and do whatever it is that robbers do. It’s a pleasant thing to think about; it distracts his current train of thought for all three seconds before the knock is repeated and Atsumu is reminded of his predicament.
He’s sitting on his bathroom floor in a tear-stained volleyball shirt, with his knees brought up to his chest and swollen eyelids and he’s the definition of a wreck.
Atsumu pushes himself up and drags the door open.
“Hey,” someone says, and Atsumu has to grip the door handle to stop himself from falling forward into Suna’s arms because Suna is the one person who won’t remain silent in times like these, when all Atsumu needs is to hear a voice that isn’t his own.
“Rin? What are ya doin’-”
“Osamu let me in.” Suna’s hands slide into the front of his shorts and it’s a casual action, so Atsumu tries to achieve a similar level of casualness by smiling. His fleeting attempt at a grin is undermined by the way his breathing stops and starts but Suna won’t notice things like that, because Suna doesn’t care about things like that. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Suna casts a glance down the stairs. Atsumu can hear metal tinkering around in the kitchen and assumes Osamu's cooking, as is his custom whenever he’s annoyed.
“We could go on a walk,” Suna suggests, though it’s less of a suggestion and more of a lifeline that he’s holding out for Atsumu to latch onto.
Atsumu takes it, because outside is safer than the confinement of his bathroom floor with its white tiles that had gleamed with each tear that fell onto them. “Sure. Lemme change my shoes.”
Atsumu pauses outside the kitchen door as he and Suna leave the house and wonders if he should say something, but decides against it with a small shake of his head. That could wait until later. For now, he stays with Suna, who’ll tell him what he needs to hear without the slightest bit of compassion and maybe it will be enough to shake off the numbness that’s begun to settle on Atsumu’s skin.
So Atsumu shuffles behind Suna as they walk. It’s early evening; the air is cold and carried along by a light breeze that leaves goosebumps along Atsumu’s skin. He’s left his coat at home and the prospect of going back for it is dispiriting. He rubs his hands together and hopes that the friction will be enough.
Suna stops when they reach the park at the end of Atsumu’s street. His head turns to look at Atsumu and the expression in his eyes is unreadable, half due to the darkness and half due to the fact that Suna’s always been hard to read. Tonight is no exception.
“Sit down,” Suna instructs, as he points to the bench by the park gates. “I wanna ask you something.”
Atsumu sits and Suna joins him, swiveling around until they’re facing each other.
“What are you scared of?” Suna asks.
It’s a strange question. Atsumu is scared of many things, from centipedes to excessively loud noises and sometimes he’s afraid of himself as well, that he’s not moving fast enough or that he’s going too fast and it’s like he can never find a balance.
But what haunts him, is the knowledge that eventually, he’ll have to change. He won’t always be Atsumu, the best high school setter in the nation. He won’t be able to maintain a perfect streak in everything that he does and at some point, he’ll lose and he’ll lose his sense of self, because all of his confidence is built around his achievements. Today has been his day of reckoning.
No one, not even Miya Atsumu, is able to resist change.
And that’s what scares him.
He doesn’t know how to explain that to Suna, so Atsumu shrugs as a response.
Suna nods. “It’s okay. I just wanted to know.”
“Hey, Rin?”
“Hm?”
“What are you scared of?”
“Uh.” Suna’s eyebrows lower as he thinks, soft lines appearing on his forehead. “The future, I guess. Change. And I’m scared that I don’t care enough.”
“Ya don’t care enough?”
“Yeah,” Suna says. “I know we lost today. And it doesn’t bother me as much as it should, ‘cause I wasn’t expecting us to twin. And then—” His mouth curves, forming something that might have been called a smile if the circumstances were more pleasant. “I watched you walk off the court with your face looking like it was gonna crumple in on itself.”
“I didn’t—”
“And I realised how much things like this mean to you. And they should probably mean more to me as well, but they don’t. I’m always ready to let go of things before they can get to me.”
“Seems nice, living like that.”
“Yeah. It seems nice.” Suna straightens, brushing his hands over his clothes as he adjusts his position. “But I looked at your face, and I looked at Kita’s face, and I looked at everyone’s face and I figured I should probably look more upset, even though I wasn’t.”
“Oh.”
“I saw you in the changing rooms, holding onto your legs like you would die if you let go. It wasn’t losing the match that annoyed me. It was watching the effect that losing had and not being able to empathise with you.” Suna sucks in a slow breath, resting his chin in the palm of his hands. “I don’t care about the outcome of the game. But I care about you.”
“That’s why ya came back?”
“That’s why I came back,” Suna acknowledges.
“Cause ya felt sorry for me.” The words come out harsher than Atsumu had intended and he bites his lip before he can say anything else.
Suna is silent for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. “There’s a lot of things I feel about you,” he eventually says, his voice quieter than it had been before. “Sorry isn’t one of them.”
Atsumu doesn’t respond.
“Can I tell you something?” Suna asks.
“Go ahead.”
“You fucked up the last play. You and Osamu both did and I’m not gonna tell you that it’s okay, ‘cause you already know that it’s not.”
Atsumu lets out a low laugh and it tastes bittersweet in his mouth.
“But that mistake doesn’t define you, idiot, unless you spend three hours moping over it.”
“It’s what they were mentionin’ in the interviews,” Atsumu blurts. “I fucked up in front of thousands of people and they’re gonna remember that for the rest of my career—”
Suna twists forward and clamps a hand over Atsumu’s mouth, shutting him off completely. “You are seventeen years old.”
Atsumu squirms out of Suna’s grip. “Exactly! I’m almost an adult and—”
“You are seventeen fucking years old,” Suna hisses. “You have your whole life in front of you, asshole. You’re gonna do so much more and you’ll probably end up being crazy and joining the national team, and by that time, no one will care about a mistake you made when you were a child .”
“I’ll still care.”
“Why? If you think about it—” Atsumu opens his mouth to interrupt again and Suna’s fingers move threateningly close to his lips. “You’ve barely started. You’re gonna make a shitload of mistakes. You’re gonna fail a serve while the other team is on set point. You’re gonna forget a basic rule and end up costing the match for whichever team you’re on.”
“Rin?”
“You're going to do things that some people won't forgive you for. You're going to forever live in the knowledge that someone out there hates you and there's nothing you can do about it, but it doesn't matter if people forgive you or not if you learn to forgive yourself.” Suna releases Atsumu and retracts back to his side of the bench. “Forgive yourself, idiot.”
“Then how am I supposed to improve?”
“I’m not an expert,” Suna says. “And I’m not particularly interested in the psychology of sport. But I don’t think clinging onto something that you can’t change is hardly conducive to growth.”
“Conducive?”
“It means—”
“I know what it means.” Atsumu grins. “It’s not the sort of word you use often.”
“I gave you a whole ass speech and you know how much I hate talking. I’m branching out of my comfort zone.”
“Thanks,” Atsumu mumbles. “But I still feel like I’ve let the third years down—”
“Nah. They’re proud that they’ve got a kouhai who can accept when he’s done something wrong. But they wouldn’t be proud if they knew how hard he is on himself.”
If Atsumu is a rope, he allows the tension he’s accumulated to release. The weight on his back is gone and all of a sudden, it’s like he’s no longer being stretched past the limits of what’s feasible and he finally fits into his own skin, where he’ll stay until he feels comfortable enough to move again.
Atsumu wonders where Suna fits into his analogy. Suna isn’t like glass, and Suna isn’t like Atsumu either; Suna lets the stresses of the world pass through him without paying them any heed because he knows that they won’t hurt. Suna doesn’t break and Suna doesn’t tear and Suna doesn’t mind when something goes wrong, and Atsumu doesn’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.
“Rin?” he calls.
Suna lifts his head.
“You really don’t care that we lost?”
Suna speaks after a pause, “I don’t know. I’m not disappointed in myself or anything. But I would have liked to stand on the winner’s podium with you.”
“Thanks,” Atsumu says, and he doesn’t need to say anything after that because they’ve said all that can be translated into words.
“You’ll be okay,” Suna whispers into the night after five minutes of silence, and Atsumu knows that Suna isn't talking to him because his voice is barely audible above the hum of the wind, but Atsumu responds anyway because Suna's voice is warm and maybe this is the reassurance that Atsumu's needed all along.
“Yeah. We will.”
If Suna is surprised that Atsumu answers, he doesn’t show it. He nods instead, a movement so small that it could have been missed. “We will.”
Atsumu thinks that there’s a cruel beauty in ripping himself apart, because he’s fulfilled the desire to be shattered and rebuilt and constructed as something stronger, something that won’t scratch or smudge, and something that will be able to restore itself when the need arises.
Something elastic.
Atsumu glances at Suna, the person who’d watched him break and hadn’t tried to deny that he was broken, the person who’d dragged him outside and created a silence that spoke reason, the person who’d reminded Atsumu of the future laid out before him. Atsumu doesn’t know how to say thank you in a way that matters so he stretches out and holds Suna’s hand, tentatively brushing their fingers together and Suna grips it back. Suna grips it tightly enough to let Atsumu know that he’s not letting go but not so tight that it hurts, and Atsumu’s fingers forget about their mistakes from earlier and focus on the warmth that engulfs them.
“Hey,” Suna breathes, his eyes almost glowing as he looks at Atsumu. “I don’t know if it’s any consolation or if you’ll believe me when I say this, but I think you’re perfect, and you’re perfect ‘cause you’re you.”
Atsumu opens his mouth to tell Suna that he’ll never be perfect and that he’ll never live up to the idealised version of himself, to tell Suna that he’s too flawed and bold and human to ever be worthy of that adjective.
And he closes it again.
Because perfection isn’t nailing twenty service aces in a row and perfection isn’t living a life without mistakes and perfection isn’t something that can be calculated or judged and handed out, because perfection is subjective, and Atsumu understands that he can be perfect while being incomplete.
For tonight, perfection is sitting on a metal bench at half-past eight while Atsumu holds his best friend’s hand, and it’s a little dark and it’s a little cold but Atsumu doesn’t mind that. He’s still young and the universe will still be waiting and the future is some far-off concept that’s abstract and unknown and his to own, when he’s ready.
For tonight, he can just be Atsumu.