Archive of Our Own ^beta

Every morning the same big

and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out

You will be alone always and then you will die.

It is winter and Miya Atsumu is four months into his twenty-third year spent living and breathing in the polluted air of an uncaring city and he thinks, not for the first time, that the world is ending too slowly. Miya Atsumu is 23 years old and he thinks it’s a plague. Because if he’s the protagonist of his own story, then he’s a damn shitty one. Because his brother is two bus stops away and yet he cannot bring himself to visit him. Because he has no right feeling like he’s the last man on earth and he has no right wanting more than he already has. 

Miya Atsumu is currently freezing on his way to practice, because, five years after leaving Amagasaki, he has yet to invest in warmer clothing. His brother would say it’s his crippling fear of change. Atsumu would say he’s just busy. He insists it’s a stalemate. (He knows he’s lost)

He spots Sakusa Kiyoomi walking leisurely a good hundred feet in front of him, huddled up in his expensive winter coat and fancy cashmere scarf, and fights the little part of his brain that tells Atsumu to run straight to him. He scoffs at himself, tamping down the urge to bury his chin in the collar of his too-thin jacket, even though he knows there’d be no one around to see him do it. As if sensing something amiss, Sakusa turns around. Atsumu pretends he hadn’t been staring and plows onwards, refusing to meet Sakusa’s judging stare. He half-waves, half-shrugs in greeting, before finally falling in step with him. 

“If you catch a cold right before our match, I swear to god, Miya.” Sakusa holds back for about 30 seconds before getting on Atsumu’s ass, which, really, is much longer than Atsumu had thought possible. 

He grumbles something in response, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. Miya Atsumu hates winter. Correction: Miya Atsumu hates winters in Osaka. Correction 2: Miya Atsumu hates winters in Osaka ever since Sakusa Kiyoomi joined the Black Jackals. This is to say: This is the first winter Miya Atsumu has ever actively hated. 

Winters used to mean something else, back when Atsumu was still a kid. They were socked feet fighting under the kotatsu, Atsumu insisting on keeping Osamu in his sights at all times, out of a deep rooted need to make sure his brother wouldn’t magically disappear, in turn, borne of a story their grandma had told them, where she had turned Santa Claus into a many-legged, flying monster that stole children and terrorised villages. Young and impressionable and easy to fool as he was, Atsumu had cried and cried until he had had no tears in him left, yelling that he didn’t want Samu to go away, Santa should just take me instead! Osamu still jokes about it, as if he hadn’t done the same thing, as if Atsumu’s crying hadn’t triggered his own, as if he wouldn’t burn the whole world down to get to his brother. Osamu jokes about it and Atsumu pretends he isn’t a hypocrite. It’s a tradition tucked safely against Atsumu’s chest, though he would never admit it.

Winter with Sakusa Kiyoomi has brought on a different sort of anxiety, cloying and bitter with longing. Christmas had never felt lonelier. So, yeah. Miya Atsumu officially hates winter. Or maybe he just hates Sakusa. Hard to tell these days. 

Shivering in his track pants and sneakers wholly inappropriate for the weather, Atsumu takes out his earphones. It earns him another capital l Look. Sakusa refuses to wear headphones outside because it’s a “safety hazard” . Atsumu knows this already, and so Sakusa spares him the speech. He thinks perhaps making sure Atsumu heard it three times was enough, even by Sakusa’s impossibly high standards. He takes out his phone and suddenly Atsumu remembers why he vehemently refuses to walk to and from practice with Sakusa.

It would make sense for them to go together, seeing as they live in the same building (a fact which means absolutely nothing, as Atsumu has a small one bedroom apartment, while Sakusa resides in the penthouse, a world away from everyone else). The one fatal flaw in the arrangement, Atsumu very quickly realised, was Sakusa’s penchant for lectures at 7 in the morning. The topics varied depending on the day and Sakusa’s disposition (Okay, no, that’s unfair. The topics varied depending on whatever things Atsumu did to piss his teammate off). There had been The Earphone Lecture, as previously stated, The Phone Lecture (which touched, again, on safety hazards and the importance of vigilance while on the street) and many more Atsumu doesn’t care to remember. So, for his own mental health, he has opted for leaving earlier in the mornings and later in the evenings. After all, the extra practice could never hurt. 

Now, as the snow falls quicker and harder by the minute, Atsumu can sense the coming of a brand new episode of Life Lessons with Sakusa Kiyoomi, and bristles. He closes his eyes and prepares himself for the speech.

“Why the hell are your eyes closed, Miya, do you want to slip on the ice?” Atsumu reluctantly looks Sakusa’s way. This close, he can see the way the tops of his ears are pink from the cold. Atsumu pinches himself. He pointedly stares at his phone again. He chooses the loudest music in his library and pretends Sakusa isn’t still giving him “The Look.” 

Miya Atsumu chooses to believe in a higher power the same way a kid believes in Santa: with the utmost conviction that they will be watching precisely when they slip up. 

Miya Atsumu chooses to trust the gods the same way a kid trusts their parents: fully until they realise no one holds all the truths of the universe. 

Miya Atsumu thinks that no god has ever deigned him important enough to watch over. 

The Sakusa Kiyoomi in Atsumu’s mind sits in his fancy penthouse and looks down at him. The Sakusa Kiyoomi currently walking beside him is staring like Atsumu is a sinner begging for forgiveness at his feet. If he shivers, Atsumu will blame it on the cold. 

~

They’re on the bus, somewhere near the San-yō Expressway. Atsumu has been watching Sakusa tense up and relax periodically ever since they left, like his body is not sure whether or not to just sit still and enjoy the view. He absentmindedly picks at the skin around his thumb. He keeps watching Sakusa’s strange ritual from across the aisle. Atsumu wonders about the type of music he’s listening to but is interrupted before he can come to a conclusion. Sakusa turns and catches his eye, ‘ Stop that.’ he signs.

Atsumu looks at him incredulously and signs back a quick ‘What?’. Sakusa flicks his gaze to where Atsumu’s hands rest in his lap. ‘You’re bleeding. It’s annoying. We have a match today.’ Oh. Right. Atsumu examines his cuticles, picked raw. Atsumu thinks, not for the first time, that he should really get himself one of those fidget toys. He settles on biting the inside of his cheek instead. 

~

Atsumu is restless. It’s 3 am and it’s somehow still snowing and Atsumu doesn’t know what to do with himself. Dive headfirst into the plush snow, maybe. Go to sleep, maybe. Wake Sakusa up and demand answers, maybe. He opens the balcony door instead and lets the cold wash over him. Atsumu takes one last look at Sakusa’s sleeping form before slipping out, feet bare on the freezing stone. The orange glow of the streetlights dulls out the view: a slumbering car park and the lone security guard shivering at his post. 

Atsumu lights up a cigarette and lets it burn to the filter, only taking the occasional drag to keep it lit. He drops the butt in the snow below and thinks perhaps he should finally quit. He had never meant to start in the first place, but one stolen cigarette turned into two then turned into more until he had finally bought his own pack. Atsumu doesn’t blame anyone but himself. It’s an annoying itch at worst and a passive addiction at best, yet he still feels choked by it. He still feels like the control he so desperately seeks is slipping through his fingers along with the smoke. He’ll just finish this pack and then he’ll quit— is what he’s been telling himself for the past two months. It takes 30 days to form a habit. How many more to break it? 

Atsumu lets out a world weary sigh. He thinks he can hear people laughing if he strains his ears. He thinks: If my life is a movie, and I’m the protagonist, Sakusa will wake up. If my life is a movie, he’ll wake up and he’ll open this door and he’ll tell me I’m stupid and that I should go to bed. Atsumu lets out a breath dangerously close to a laugh. 

Sakusa doesn’t stir when he goes back inside. 

~ 

Actually, you said 

Love, for you,

is larger than the usual romantic love. 

It’s like a religion. 

 It’s terrifying. 

No one will ever want to sleep with you.

It is summer and Sakusa Kiyoomi joins the Black Jackals. It is summer and Sakusa Kiyoomi joins the Black Jackals and brings with him the oppressive, heavy sort of weather that leaves you sluggish and sweaty. Sakusa Kiyoomi appears in still-22-year-old Atsumu’s field of vision like a prophecy. Like he’s a forest fire in the desert and Atsumu is two hours away from dying of dehydration. The rain bangs on the roof of the gym and Atsumu doesn’t hear his greeting. 

“Atsumu-kun! Why don’t you stay after practice with Sakusa a bit today?” Meian claps him on the back as he finishes talking. 

Translation: “ You’re not allowed to say no.” 

Translation 2: “ You two have to get along or else.” 

Miya Atsumu from six months ago nodded. He doesn’t think he can utter any words that won’t make the team stop and point at him. He thinks he’s having a religious experience. Sakusa Kiyoomi continues to glow in the horrid fluorescents of the gym, impervious to Atsumu’s internal struggle. Miya Atsumu would like to know which god he’d have to pray to, to be able to get out of this, because Sakusa is getting dangerously close to him and he’s convinced he’ll see Atsumu’s heart dripping from his fingertips. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi bows. 

“I’ll be in your care, then.” 

Miya Atsumu thinks the gesture is sacrilege. 

“Polite doesn’t look good on you, Omi-Omi.” He can salvage this, maybe. Meian glares at him. 

Sakusa straightens his back and glares at him. Ah, that’s better. 

~

Atsumu has always thought of summer as his season, not by blood (having been born smack dab in the middle of autumn), but surely by choice. Amagasaki was torrid and humid and utterly awful during the summer months, but not for Atsumu. He was tanned and sweaty and happy. By mid October the weather always inevitably turned, and with it, his mood as well. His brother called it “The Sads” in an effort to avoid the real truth of the matter (and to make Atsumu feel better) and Atsumu was lucky enough to get at least a couple sunny birthdays growing up. This current one was not one of them. 

Atsumu often finds his cure at the bottom of a bottle, with an accompaniment of a beautiful person besides him. It’s how he’s coped ever since he turned 20 and he’d be hard pressed to say he really gives a shit how it makes his teammates feel. It’s never affected his performance. 

“Are you smoking?” Atsumu’s head turns towards the source of the voice too fast and too slow at the same time. He doesn’t like what he sees when his vision finally settles. 

“What’s it look like?” 

“Do the others know?”

Atsumu scoffs. “Duh.”

“That’s not good for you,” Sakusa’s confusion bleeds into worry. Atsumu’s skin begins to itch. “Do I have to start listing all the possible health problems you might have to deal with because of those, or are you just pretending to be stupid?” 

“What about you, Omi? Is yer spine the spine of the righteous?" Atsumu wonders, "Are ya tryin’ yer best to step on my toes because yer feelin’ the tragic weight of the holier than thou?" Atsumu takes a long drag out of his cigarette, holding the smoke in longer than necessary. He turns towards Sakusa and blows it in his face.

“Asshole,” Sakusa mutters, coughing, and Atsumu can’t help but grin. 

The club music behind them thumps a beat intoxicating enough to almost make Atsumu forget that it’s really Sakusa Kiyoomi that’s stepped out of there and into the cool air outside. Almost. He’s genuinely proud of himself for getting Sakusa Kiyoomi at a club.

“What are you doing out here anyway?”As Astumu scans his teammate’s figure, he notices just how out of place he seems. His silk shirt even got a little crumpled. This is not Sakusa Kiyoomi’s definition of a fun time.

“Getting some fresh air. Well,” he says, wrinkling his nose, “Trying to at least.” 

Atsumu laughs at that. Sakusa glares at him and all feels right again.

“There he is,” Atsumu coos, then pauses to light another cigarette, “I like ya better mean.”

“A man can only have so many issues,” Sakusa says, wrinkling his nose again. Atsumu smiles, all teeth.

“Yer funny, Omi. Ya should’ve gone into comedy instead.” 

“I suggest you stop killing yourself, Miya.” 

The door bangs shut behind Sakusa before Atsumu can reply. 

~

Miya Atsumu turns 23 and it’s raining again. Miya Atsumu is 23 now and he’s late to practice. He announces his presence in the form of a small puddle around his feet. He says his excuses and hopes that Sakusa will spare him today. 

“You don’t have an umbrella.” It’s not a question. 

“No.” He fidgets under Sakusa’s sharp gaze, shifting from foot to foot and looking anywhere but at him. The rest of the team has already shuffled out. Atsumu bites his cheek and waits. 

“You’re an idiot,” There’s a beat of silence that stretches and pulls at the space between them until it pops. Then, “Let’s go.” 

Atsumu watches as Sakusa exits the gym, opens up a neon green umbrella and turns around expectantly. He follows, stunned into submission.

They’re halfway home when the reality of the situation hits Atsumu like a kick to the shin.

“I didn’t think this was allowed.” His words stumble and fall at their feet, upsetting the rain-slick sidewalk.

Sakusa offers him a sideways glance, carefully avoiding the mess Atsumu made. “We live in the same building. It’s common courtesy.” He pauses, considering, before getting a twinkle in his eyes that looks dangerously close to mischief. “Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t know what that was.”

Atsumu squawks in protest. “Excuse you! I’m plenty considerate! Plus, you’re the one hogging the umbrella right now!” 

Sakusa was not, in fact, hogging the umbrella. Atsumu makes a move to take it out of his hand, which in turn makes Sakusa move it out of reach, effectively leaving Atsumu to the elements. 

“See, I’m getting soaked over here, Omi! I’ll get sick and it’ll be all your fault, you bastard!” Atsumu tries and fails to take control of the umbrella. Again. 

“Stop being a child, Miya.” He says, holding the umbrella only for himself. Like a child. 

“Well, now you’re just being petty for the sake of it.” Atsumu stops walking, crossing his arms. He thinks Sakusa looks amused if anything. 

“Does one need any other reason to be petty?” 

“You’re an asshole.” 

“And you’re stuck in the rain without an umbrella. It must really suck to be you, Miya.” Sakusa doesn’t laugh, but it’s a close thing. Still, he approaches Atsumu so that they’re both protected from the rain once again. 

  (“I don’t think it’s raining anymore.”

 “It clearly is, just look around us.” 

 “Yeah, but I can’t hear it on the umbrella anymore.”

 “Wha-”

 “Shh, Omi, I have to listen to the raindrops.”)

They arrive home and Atsumu watches Sakusa’s retreating form and thinks: Time to wake up now. He watches on as Sakusa turns around to face him once more.

“Happy birthday, Atsumu.” 

The elevator doors close and Miya Atsumu startles. He is somehow still awake. 

~

Childhood nostalgia. A sense of guilt and want and rolling on the floor screaming. A double invitation only meant for one and the sudden realisation that Miya Atsumu is not enough.

Baby, baby, baby. 

Baby, why would you make me breakfast? 

Baby, won’t you pay for my cab?

Oh, baby… 

~

If love is a feast, then Miya Atsumu was not invited. If love is a feast, then Miya Atsumu is the beggar waiting for the scraps. If love even exists, Miya Atsumu doesn’t think he’ll ever experience it for himself. 

Miya Atsumu knows desire. How it looks, smells, feels. How a glance can mean: Let’s get out of here . How a nod will then mean: Your place or mine? Meaning… Mean like every person he decides to bring home. Miya Atsumu only deserves mean. 

Want. He wants. He is in a cab and he wants… something , anything, hell, he’d take just about anything right now. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t let himself. Miya Atsumu flicks his tongue across his teeth, assesses his gums. He can still taste the blood in his mouth and he isn’t sure whose it is anymore. 

The cab. The cab and him. The cab and him and desire. Desire. He licks his lips and he tastes the desire. He flares his nostrils and he smells the cheap air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. The cab driver doesn’t seem to notice his existence. 

~

A familiar figure looks at where Atsumu is splayed on the ground, guts and all. A familiar figure looks down at him and sneers and Miya Atsumu has never felt shame before. They watch him bleed on. If he still had a tongue, maybe he’d say something. If he still had a tongue, he’d stick it in their mouth. A familiar figure crouches down and delivers the final blow. 

A phone is ringing. A phone is ringing and Miya Atsumu is in someone else’s bed. They come out of the shower in a yellow towel and yellow teeth peek out when they smile and Miya Atsumu wants to puke, maybe. Or maybe he just wants to eat. 

Miya Atsumu is not ready to brave the world. He answers his phone.

“Yes?” He hopes his voice doesn’t give him away. He hopes he can salvage this. 

“You’re late. I’m leaving without you.” Right. Today is the third Saturday of the month. They have their mandated doctor’s appointment. And he had promised Sakusa Kiyoomi that they’d go together. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you should go without me. Sorry.”

“Whatever.” 

The call ends and Miya Atsumu is learning what shame feels like. 

~

“C’mon, Omi, I already said I’m sorry,” He pouts and hopes Sakusa takes pity on him. Or punches him, maybe. He deserves the second one more.

They’re in the waiting room together. Atsumu made it in time by sheer luck alone. There are hickies on his neck from the previous night. He thinks he saw Sakusa stare at them when he sat down, but he can’t be sure. 

“And I already said it’s fine.” Sakusa is frowning now, hunching his shoulders and digging his hands in his jacket pockets. 

“Well, ya don’t look fine.” That makes his jaw tick. Still, he says nothing. Atsumu whiddles on. “Omi. Omi-Omi. Omi. Omiiii.” 

He finally snaps. “What? What do you want , Miya?” 

Atsumu should be pleased. He got a reaction out of Sakusa. He asked for it, he wanted it. But why is his chest contracting, then? Why does he feel like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar?

A nurse pokes her head out of a nearby door. 

“Sakusa Senshuu? Watanabe Sensei is ready to see you.” 

They disappear inside the doctor’s office before Atsumu can reply. Not that he’d have known what to say. What do you want, Miya? He wants Sakusa to punch him. He is self aware enough to know this is hardly the first time he’s been an asshole. So why, then, does Atsumu suddenly feel like the scum of the earth? He thinks it’s Sakusa’s fault. The way he looks at him, the way his stare sticks to the back of Atsumu’s head and to the roof of his mouth, waiting. Waiting for him to fuck up. Sakusa and his straight teeth and fancy clothes and perfect fucking everything. Miya Atsumu wants to mess him up beyond repair. Miya Atsumu thinks that this is what pure devotion looks like: complete and utter destruction. 

He finds Sakusa waiting for him after he’s done with his own appointment, like a saint. Or an executioner, maybe. 

“Bottlin’ up yer feelings isn’t healthy, ya know?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Tsk. 

“Aww, c’mon now. Ya can comment on it,” Atsumu gestures to his neck, “I know ya want to. Yer always soo eager to let us all know yer opinions. What’s so different today?”

“Despite what you might think, Miya, you are not the center of the universe. I don’t care who you sleep with or what you do in your spare time.” If Sakusa is mad at him, nothing about his body language portrays it: his shoulders are relaxed, hands by his side, head held high. 

Atsumu takes his time observing him. It seems to rattle Sakusa, if the barely there frown is anything to go by. In the end, his teammate is the one to break the silence again.

“What do you hope to achieve by riling me up, exactly?”

“Aww, Omi, Omi, Omi. Don’t you get it? It’s fun, this little back and forth of ours. Maybe I’ll even get a reaction one day. Maybe I’ll get you to punch me.” 

“Your idea of fun is making me nauseous. Is your life so boring that you feel the need to make a confrontation out of everything or, are you, perhaps, under the false impression that every bad deed needs to be punished?” He stops in his tracks and levels Atsumu with an inquisitive look. His gaze itches. 

“Fuck you!” 

“No, thank you.” 

Atsumu doesn’t know what makes him lunge at him. Maybe it’s his self-satisfied smile. Maybe it’s the way he effectively dismisses him like Atsumu is a child throwing a tantrum. He takes one purposeful step towards him before Sakusa is on him, fisting his hands in the front of his jacket and keeping him in place. 

“I still won’t punch you,” he sighs. “Even though you deserve it.”

“Why?” Atsumu snarls, fighting in Sakusa’s grip. 

“I am neither your keeper nor your god. My retribution would not absolve you of your guilt.”

“Fuck you!” 

Sakusa Kiyoomi laughs like a headache. Miya Atsumu’s nose starts to bleed.

~

His hands keep turning into birds and flying away from him.

Him being you .

Yes.

Do you love yourself?

I don't have to answer that.

It should matter . He has a body but it doesn't matter, clean sheets on the bed but it doesn't matter.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Atsumu can feel sweat travelling down the planes of his body. He itches all over and he wants to take a shower. He wants a nice quiet place where he could smoke a cigarette and forget about their loss. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. 

Suna Rintarou rolls his eyes. “Sure. And your phone has somehow been broken for a full month, right?”

“I’m a busy man, what can I say?” Atsumu shrugs with only one shoulder and dons a smile that he knows has too much wolf in it to be considered properly sheepish. 

Suna straightens his back. Uh oh. “Okay, what the fuck is your problem?”

“ Excuse me ?” 

“Do you know how many fucking times your brother has called me asking about you? I had to get Motoya to ask Sakusa fucking Kiyoomi if you’re still alive or not since you just can’t be bothered to send him one measly text.” 

Well, shit. Not only had he not known that, but he also has no idea how to escape from under Suna’s raging eyes. Atsumu lets his gaze wander around the gym, hoping for salvation. Speak of the devil… Sakusa catches his eye and lifts a questioning eyebrow. He signs a quick ‘help’ and hopes the gods are feeling merciful today. 

‘No’

‘Please?’

‘You owe me dinner’

Suna catches on fairly quickly, but late enough that Sakusa is already making his way over. 

“Omi! What joy, we were just talkin’ about ya! Sunarin was complainin’ about yer freakish serves!” The “Sunarin'' in question is now seething beside him. 

“You’re not getting out of this that easily.” 

Sakusa nods his head at Suna before turning to Atsumu. He doesn't even try to sound apologetic.

“We should go shower now, sorry.” 

“Sorry, Rin-Rin, ya heard ‘im, catch ya later, gotta go mope over our loss now, bye!” He catches the hem of Sakusa’s shirt and scurries away. 

“Call your brother!” is Suna’s last attempt, shouted at Atsumu’s back. He picks up the pace until they’re finally in the locker rooms. 

“I wasn’t kidding about dinner. I want donburi and okonomiyaki.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, ya never joke about anythin’,” Atsumu mutters. He’s glad Sakusa hasn’t commented anything yet, but he knows he’s riding on bought time. The other shoe has yet to drop.

~

Miya Osamu’s greeting punches Atsumu across his left cheek. And by greeting he means fist. Miya Osamu has always had a mean right hook. 

“Shit…” Atsumu gently touches his face before exploding. ”What the fuck was that for, ya fucking asshole?” He has Osamu’s collar between his fists now, snarling in his face. 

“You know damn well what it was for, ya scrub!” Osamu grips Atsumu’s forearms and forcefully shoves him away. 

In the periphery of his vision, Atsumu notices Sakusa curiously eyeing the two. He sends him a pleading look, hoping he’ll whisk him away yet again. The gods have shown enough mercy for one day, it seems, as Sakusa imperceptibly raises his eyebrows at him in a silent You’re on your own.

“Raincheck on the dinner, then. I’ll leave you two to it. Oh and, Miya, please don’t injure yourself any further.” Sakusa smirks at Atsumu, then turns towards Osamu, nods at him, and promptly takes his leave. 

“I fuckin’ hate ya.” Atsumu glowers at his brother. 

“No, ya don’ get to be the pissed one right now. We’re gonna go upstairs and we’re gonna talk and maybe, maybe, then I’ll let ya off the hook.” 

The elevator ride is painfully silent. Atsumu’s cheek smarts. He doesn’t want to be here right now. 

As soon as they enter the apartment, Osamu whirls on him. “Ya have two minutes to explain yerself or I’m sockin’ ya again.” 

Atsumu weighs his options. On the one hand, he could tell the truth and suffer the mortifying ordeal of letting his brother know about his… feelings , and on the other, he could just bullshit away and risk another punch. It doesn’t take much deliberating. He knows which one would hurt less. 

“What? I’ve been busy,” Atsumu huffs and crosses his arms across his chest. “The life of a professional athlete is a very demanding one, not that you’d know. Plus, my phone really is broken. I accidentally dropped it in my bathtub.” The phone, as if summoned, pings in his jacket pocket. Traitor. 

Osamu pointedly looks towards the sound. As if knowing Atsumu’s previous train of thought he says, “Ya chose the wrong option, Tsumu,” and promptly punches Atsumu again. This one hurts slightly less, since he was prepared and everything. This time, without Sakusa’s judgement, stare boring holes in his back, Atsumu fights back. 

~

“I thought I told you not to hurt yourself.”

Miya Atsumu is standing in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s bathroom. The lights don’t buzz, the air conditioning doesn’t move. He stands stock still as Sakusa carefully dabs antibiotic cream on a particularly nasty cut —at least his table didn’t break.

“Yeah, well, easier said than done,” Atsumu scoffs, the motion making him hiss in pain. He’d forgotten about his split lip. 

“You’re an idiot,” Sakusa says, and moves his ministrations to Atsumu’s lip. It's a barely there touch and yet he feels five seconds away from passing out. He pulls back and jumps on the bathroom counter. Sakusa’s glare doesn’t hold any heat to it. He shoots him a grin with a dash of hurt and blood. 

Miya Atsumu is in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s bathroom, bleeding; red on white background. He can smell the rubbing alcohol and betadine Sakusa’s been using to treat his wounds. It reminds him of the time Osamu broke his arm when they were five, and they had to go to the hospital. Atsumu had been crying just as bad as his brother, almost in hysterics, but he still remembers the smell, the awful fluorescents. Atsumu’s never liked hospitals. 

Sakusa places one last bandage on Atsumu’s top lip, letting his touch linger for a second, before pulling away and tugging Atsumu off the counter. 

“Come on, I’m making dinner.”

“I thought I was supposed ta make ya donburi,” Atsumu pouts. 

“Not with your hands like that, you aren’t,” Sakusa says, leaving no room to argue. 

“But—”

“It’s alright, Atsumu,” his voice softens, making Atsumu reel, “We’ll leave it for next time.”

“Fine,” Atsumu huffs, pouting some more, “But at least let me help with the prep.” Sakusa sighs as he leads Atsumu to the kitchen. 

They work in silence for a while, comfort enveloping Atsumu with each tiny clang of the pots and swish of Sakusa’s knife. He sees the other man eyeing him not so subtly and knows his little bubble of comfort is about to burst. 

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Atsumu bites out.

“Like what?” Sakusa stops his movements for a moment, then resumes cutting up the carrots. 

Atsumu levels him with an unimpressed stare. “Don’t play dumb now, Omi-Omi, yer lookin’ at me like I’m seconds away from havin’ a meltdown or somethin’,” Atsumu says, words gritted through his teeth; a warning. 

Sakusa stops his cutting again, a sense of finality to his actions. He looks at Atsumu dead on and the latter can’t quite decipher the feeling that flashes through his eyes, there and then gone. 

“What exactly do you want from me, Atsumu?” Sakusa sighs, and he doesn’t know what hits him more: the question, his tiredness, or Sakusa using his first name like that, when moments before it had been so soft. Sakusa coaxing Atsumu into the kitchen feels like hours ago and he suddenly feels exhausted. 

  What do you want, Atsumu? 

He had wanted company, to escape from his stifling apartment, which was left a mess in the wake of the twins’ fight. He wanted… Sakusa. But then again, when does he not want Sakusa? 

“I don’t understand you,” Sakusa plows on in the absence of a reply, “What are you so afraid of?” 

Faced with the same question for the second time today, Atsumu doesn’t know how to answer. Well, he does, but it’s precisely because of said fear that he cannot answer Sakusa’s query, the same way he hadn’t been able to answer Osamu’s. 

“When, when are ya goin’ ta get inta that thick, fat skull o’ yers that we care about ya, ‘Tsumu? Why is that so fuckin’ hard ta believe, huh?” 

“Have ya thought that maybe I don’ need y’all to care about me? Actin’ all high and fuckin’ mighty, pretendin’ like ya know what’s best fer me. I don’ need yer goddamn help!” 

The twins had wrestled for a bit after that, until Osamu finally managed to pin Atsumu down for good. They were both heaving for breath and bleeding, bruises already forming. Atsumu thrashed around, but Osamu’s grip remained. He let himself sag against his scratchy carpet. 

“Good. Now yer gonna look at me, and yer gonna listen real carefully, got it?” Osamu jostled Atsumu to attention. Atsumu scoffed, petulant. 

“I said,” and Osamu jostled him more forcefully now, grabbing Atsumu by the shoulders, “Got it?” 

“Tch. Yeah, got it. God, yer annoyin’” If he could, Atsumu would have crossed his arms. He rolled his eyes instead. 

“Good,” Osamu repeated, then paused, gathering his thoughts, “I know ya have this misconstrued idea that the only way ya can succeed is by goin’ at it alone and never lettin’ people get close, but yer wrong. We’re not stupid 17 year olds anymore, ‘Tsumu, fuck! We’re supposed ta help each other, that stupid promise be damned! I don’t care ‘bout who ends up the happiest if yer gonna act like this,” he paused again, catching his breath, “What are ya so afraid of?” 

What are ya so afraid of? 

Miya Atsumu is afraid of a great deal of things: failure, his brother dying, spiders. 

But most of all, Miya Atsumu is afraid of the curtain finally lifting, of the gruesome and unwindable act of revealing oneself: for if Miya Atsumu hadn’t been enough for his own brother to stay, how could he ever hope to make anyone else? 

Miya Atsumu would have wanted the power out and fun to keep going. But the power can’t stay out forever. Sooner or later, the lights come back on. Darkness lifts like a curtain. The lights expose everything. And everyone can see clearly again. Miya Atsumu will cling to the haze of winter for as long as he can. 

“I’m tired, Sakusa,” Atsumu watches as the man in front of him flinches, and immediately regrets his words. He closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head, failing to dispel the day’s events from his mind. “I’m going home.” 

Sakusa unfreezes and dashes after him in the hallway. “Miya— Atsumu, wait.” He doesn’t plead, Sakusa Kiyoomi would never be able to stoop so low, but it’s a close thing. Atsumu almost lets himself be pulled back. Almost. 

He faces Sakusa one last time before disappearing inside the elevator. “Thank ya fer patchin’ me up. I appreciate it.”

The elevator doors ding shut and Atsumu lets himself crumble. 

~ 

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake 

and dress them in warm clothes again. 

[…]

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light. 

Tell me we’ll never get used to it. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi answers his intercom and is greeted by Miya Atsumu’s grainy face. He closes his eyes, counts to four, and opens them again, but Miya Atsumu is still there. 

“What do you want, Miya?”

“Well, I got ya food to apologise for yesterday and I wanted ta bring it up to ya but I realised a little late and I need a fancy keycard for the elevator.Now I’m outside so if ya could buzz me in, that’d be great. Also, I may have left my keys in my apartment.”

God, what an idiot. 

“You could have texted me. Or called.”

“Yeah, but then maybe ya wouldn’t have answered.”

“And what makes you think I’ll let you up, now? I could just call security and leave you outside.”

“Your threats don’t work on me, Omi-Omi, Nakamura-san loves me. His daughter is my biggest fan.”

Kiyoomi debates leaving Atsumu hanging but eventually decides against it. 

“The elevator code is 5689, you better remember it, I’m not saying it again.” 

Kiyoomi buzzes him in and thinks about the series of events that brought them here. Well, now that he really thinks about it, Miya hadn’t committed any one atrocious crime. It had been one badly timed accident after the next: 

7:24 am: Atsumu rushes to practice, fails to notice Kiyoomi, and spills his sports drink all over him. 

8:56 am: Atsumu’s serve nails Kiyoomi square in the face. 

10:05 am: Atsumu accidentally drinks from Kiyoomi’s water bottle. 

The next two incidents were not caused by the incriminated party, but Kiyoomi poured his frustrations out on him anyway. 

11:56 am: Kiyoomi realises he doesn’t have a change of clothes with him. 

12:00 pm: Atsumu offers to lend Kiyoomi one of his shirts. Kiyoomi is too tired to pay enough attention and snaps at him to leave him alone. 

Kiyoomi regretted it the moment Atsumu’s face fell, expression shuttering, but he wasn’t going to take it back. He left the locker room in a hurry. 

Today’s practice was… weird. Miya dodged Kiyoomi every chance he got and only worked with him when he absolutely had to. No ‘Nice kill’s, no unnecessary banter. It was eerily quiet. Kiyoomi hated it. 

With a sigh, Kiyoomi awaits Miya’s arrival. 

“Ya know, Omi,” the elevator dings behind him, “This thing isn’t safe. I mean. What if someone manages to get on and arrives right in yer apartment? Aren’t ya afraid of that?” 

Kiyoomi leans against the hallway door frame and rolls his eyes at Miya, who starts toeing off his shoes. 

“The security here is very good.” 

“I don’t know, Omi, I could always bribe Nakamura-san with an autograph.” Miya smiles genially, all boyish charm and too-sharp teeth. 

Kiyoomi averts his gaze and beckons him further, towards the kitchen. “That food better be good, Miya, or I’m kicking you out.” He chances a glance behind his shoulder and catches Miya in the process of hiding whatever feeling had been on display a moment ago. Kiyoomi tries not to read into it. 

Miya stops in his tracks behind Kiyoomi, letting out an appreciative whistle. “Damn, Omi, I knew ya were rich, but this place is huge. How d’ya not get lonely, all cooped up away from the world?” 

A wave of self-consciousness passes through Kiyoomi’s body. Why? He couldn’t tell you. Miya’s opinions should mean nothing to him. Miya Atsumu: self absorbed, charming, puppy-eyed, devilish. Miya Atsumu: crooked grins and bleeding heart. Kiyoomi just hopes he’ll be self aware enough to not let it bleed all over his white carpets. 

“Unlike some people, I enjoy the quiet.” 

“Hey, I can be quiet if I want to!” This is said at a volume which is higher than what anyone would consider normal. 

“I don’t remember saying anything about you, Miya. Not my fault you took offense.” Kiyoomi smothers a smirk behind his palm. 

Miya sputters something incomprehensible before settling on: “Oh, piss off, will ya?”

“We’re in my apartment.” Kiyoomi quirks a brow, not bothering to hide his smirk anymore. 

Miya finally admits defeat by changing the subject and waving the food in front of Kiyoomi’s face. 

“Here. I told Samu to make these separately from the rest of his stuff, so it’s all good and clean. It’s umeboshi onigiri, I hope that’s okay.” Kiyoomi gingerly takes the bag and ignores his traitor of a heart whispering about Miya somehow getting his favourite. He decides not to question it, lest he gives himself away. 

“As I said before, sorry ‘bout yesterday. I swear none of those were on purpose.” Miya’s shoulders are up to his ears and he’s fiddling with his hands. Oh, he genuinely feels bad about it and most of it wasn’t even his fault . 

Kiyoomi feels like an asshole. He sighs, starting to unpack the food. “No, it’s fine. I was just having a bad day. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” 

When Miya remains silent, Kiyoomi turns to face him once more. He looks… surprised. Like he thought Kiyoomi was going to yell at him again. Kiyoomi thinks he looks a lot like a child like this: head slightly bowed, mouth open, hands clasped in front of him. Repentant and obedient. The mental image of a tiny Atsumu making excuses about a broken vase makes Kiyoomi smile. 

“What? Why are ya lookin’ at me like that? It’s weird.” 

He laughs and Miya gets even more indignant, so Kiyoomi laughs some more. And if he sees Miya blush, he just pretends he doesn’t notice. 

When Miya leaves, Kiyoomi tries and fails to remember the last time he’d felt so light. 

~

It’s a 50’s detective noir movie: a troubled private eye struggles to figure out what justice means. His face is oddly familiar, his smile sardonic. His monologue is equal parts wit and grime. The audience eats him up. Kiyoomi doesn’t remember his name. Did they reveal it yet? Kiyoomi doesn’t remember. The private eye with the familiar face has a familiar accent, too. Mournful jazz can be heard in the background as he starts his speech.

“The problem, ya see, the problem about this goddamn city is that everyone thinks they know everyone. Everyone's up in everyone’s business like it’s their goddamn job and none of ‘em wanna see that they know nothin’. No one wants ta look behind the curtain and actually see who these people really are. Helluva lotta fuckers tryna figure out who I am these days. Helluva lotta trouble, if ya ask me. And ya wanna know what the funny thing is? The funny thing is ya start ta believe it. Ya start ta believe ya know these people and then…” He mimes withdrawing his gun, then points his hand at the audience, at Kiyoomi. “Bam! A shot through the heart, nice and clean. Ya like clean, don’t ya, Ki-yo-omi?”

A phone is ringing. A phone is ringing and it’s 2 am and Sakusa Kiyoomi is about to commit homicide. He picks up the phone instead. 

“What.”

“Omi-Omi, I can’t sleep.” Atsumu. Of course, it’s Miya fucking Atsumu. Kiyoomi takes a calming breath. It’s 40% effective.

“So you just decided to make it my problem too?”

“Tell me a story, Omi-Omi!” 

“A story.”

“Yeah. Like a bedtime story. Surely you’ve got at least one from all those books of yours.”

Kiyoomi debates the pros and cons of explaining to Atsumu the actual topics of said books. He decides against it.

“No.”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?” Atsumu pleads.

“You know, that just made me want to indulge you even less.”

“C’mon, humour me? I’m not askin’ for much.” 

Kiyoomi wants to protest. You always ask for too much, he wants to say. You want the world. What does it say about me that I would give you all of it and more?

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I relent, are you?” Kiyoomi sighs quietly.

“Nope,” Atsumu says, popping the “P”, a smile evident in his voice.

“Right, fine. I’ll tell you a story.” Kiyoomi wracks his brain, resigning himself to his fate. His mind conjures restless autumn nights and his grandmother’s lilting voice. “You ready?”

Kiyoomi hears Atsumu shift a bit, his sheets rustling. “Yup, all ready, Omi.”

He takes another breath and starts. 

“Once, very long ago, Time fell in love with Fate.” Kiyoomi pauses for effect. “This, as you might imagine, proved problematic. Their romance disrupted the flow of time. It tangled the strings of fortune into knots.” He hears Atsumu gasp quietly. 

“The stars watched from the heavens nervously, worrying what might occur. What might happen to the days and nights were Time to suffer a broken heart? What catastrophes might result if the same fate awaited Fate itself?” Kiyoomi embellishes his voice as much as possible in his semi-awake state, trying to capture the way his grandmother used to tell it. 

“The stars conspired and separated the two. For a while, they breathed easier in the heavens. Time continued to flow as it always had, or perhaps imperceptibly slower. Fate wove together the paths that were meant to intertwine, though perhaps a string was missed here and there.” Another pause. 

“But eventually,” Kiyoomi continues, “Fate and Time found each other again.” He licks his lips. “In the heavens, the stars sighed, twinkling and fretting. They asked the moon for her advice. The moon, in turn, called upon the parliament of owls to decide how best to proceed.” 

“Ooh, who are they, Omi?” Atsumu interrupts, “They sound interesting.”

“Shh, you’ll find out. Be patient.” Kiyoomi remembers asking his grandmother the same thing and smiles, taking his time to compose himself before continuing. 

“The parliament of owls convened and discussed the matter amongst themselves night after night. They argued and debated while the world slept around them, and the world continued to turn, unaware that such important matters were under discussion while it slumbered.” 

“The parliament of owls came to the logical conclusion that if the problem was in the combination, one of the elements should be removed. They chose to keep the one they felt more important.” 

“The parliament of owls told their decision to the stars and the stars agreed. The moon did not, but on this night she was dark and could not offer her opinion.” Kiyoomi looks out the window just in time to see the moon disappear behind a patch of clouds. 

“So it was decided, and Fate was pulled apart.” Atsumu’s gasp is louder this time around, but he doesn’t interrupt. “Ripped into pieces by beaks and claws. Fate’s screams echoed through the deepest corners and the highest heavens but no one dared to intervene save for a small brave mouse who snuck into the fray, creeping unnoticed through the blood and feathers, and took Fate’s heart and kept it safe.” Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and hears Atsumu do the same on the other end of the line. 

“When the furor died down there was nothing else left of Fate.” 

Atsumu lets out a strangled, pained noise. 

“The owl who consumed Fate’s eyes gained great sight, greater sight than any that had been granted to a mortal creature before. The parliament crowned him the Owl King.” 

Atsumu scoffs, shifting in bed.

“In the heavens, the stars sparkled with relief but the moon was full of sorrow.” 

‘Do you know, Kiyo-chan, that it is said the moon is the protector of all lovers?”

Kiyoomi pauses for a long time, listening to the way his breath intermingles with Atsumu’s. 

“And so Time goes on as it should and events that were once fated to happen are left instead to chance, and Chance never falls in love with anything for long.” 

‘This is a pretty sad story, Obaa-san.’

‘Shh, it’s not over yet, here comes the best part!’

“But the world is strange and endings are not truly endings no matter how the stars might wish it so.”

Kiyoomi gradually lowers his voice. 

“Occasionally Fate can pull itself together again.” 

Before finally dropping into a whisper. 

“And Time is always waiting.”  

The line is silent for so long that Kiyoomi thinks Atsumu has fallen asleep. He’s about to lower his phone from his ear when he hears an intake of a breath, too wet, too close. 

“What about Fate’s heart? What happened to it in the end?”

“I like to think the mouse still has it, waiting. Maybe Fate will eventually come back. Maybe Fate won’t need it and it was never supposed to be for it anyway. In truth, I don’t know. The story isn’t finished. I don’t think it will ever be finished.” 

“That’s pretty sad, Omi.” Atsumu whispers. Kiyoomi can tell he’s seconds away from nodding off. 

“No. I think it’s hopeful.”

~

There is wine on Kiyoomi’s carpet. Correction: There is red wine on Kiyoomi’s white carpet. Correction 2: Miya Atsumu has spilled red wine on Kiyoomi’s white carpet. 

He should have seen it coming. 

It spills at Kiyoomi’s feet. It seeps further into the fabric with each passing second. Kiyoomi expects an outcry. He expects the sky to open up and strike them both down. Sakusa Kiyoomi is spared today: he was not at fault. 

Miya Atsumu is on his knees at Kiyoomi’s feet. He slumps further into the fabric with each passing second. Kiyoomi did not expect this. He isn’t prepared for this situation. Sakusa Kiyoomi is only a man: his heart stutters in his chest. 

Miya Atsumu is on his knees at Kiyoomi’s feet. The Miya Atsumu who never practices what he preaches, the Miya Atsumu who laughs like a condemned man who doesn’t quite believe what’s coming. Miya Atsumu who’s dead fucking annoying. Miya Atsumu who’s the lint on Kiyoomi’s favourite jacket, the food stuck in his teeth. Miya Atsumu who’s the lint roller and the toothpick, the bullet, and the pistol, yet he leaves the trigger to him. Sakusa Kiyoomi has never asked for such consideration. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi tells Miya Atsumu that he hates him. Miya Atsumu bows down and grins up at him. This is not how it goes. This is not how it’s supposed to go. Miya Atsumu smiles and winks and the world falls at his feet. This is not how it’s supposed to go. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi should not be Miya Atsumu’s god. The world should not be Miya Atsumu’s congregation. Miya Atsumu makes a show out of his devotion anyway. 

~

It’s a 50’s detective noir movie: Sakusa Kiyoomi is the lead love interest. A melancholic piano can be heard as the private eye with the familiar face and the familiar accent holds yet another monologue. It’s the climax of the story: this next scene will make or break the ending. Melancholy turns into anger and Kiyoomi is helpless watching it happen. The piano stills. Sakusa Kiyoomi has been found out. He has been irreparably changed. The private eye levels a real gun to Sakusa Kiyoomi’s heart. ‘Bam!’ The ending breaks. 

“Does my blood look good, on the white carpet you cleaned?” 

~ 

The one on the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about to.

As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and they are very hungry.

“Those things will kill you, you know.” Sakusa Kiyoomi can see his breath puff out in front of him. Osaka winters are cruel.

“That’s the plan.” Miya Atsumu takes a reluctant drag out of his cigarette. 

They have been here before: skin pulled too thin, fingers burning, mismatched hands. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi takes a moment to assess the situation: They are behind the MSBY gym. Atsumu is sitting on the bottom stair of the back exit. He hasn’t changed out of his uniform,the only thing keeping him warm is his jersey. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi takes a moment to think about how they arrived here: Atsumu had been doing a shit job at practice. Kiyoomi snapped at him. Atsumu continued missing sets and serves. Kiyoomi snapped at him again. Meian intervened while the rest of the team looked on with various levels of interest and concern. Atsumu was about to blow. Whatever Meian murmured seemed to be the last straw. Atsumu stormed out and now here they are. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi allows himself another moment to assess the state Miya Atsumu is in: His hair is disheveled and sweaty. His eyes are red-rimmed and his eyebags are a sickly shade of purple. His lips are chapped and his hands are shaking. It’s hard to tell whether it’s from the cold or not. 

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, the acrid smell of smoke filling his lungs. “Your fascination with being the main character is going to kill you, you know.”

Atsumu stubs out his cigarette in the snow. “That’s the plan.” 

They have been here before: they keep forgetting. 

“Why are ya here, Omi?” Atsumu looks at him for the first time since he stepped outside. 

Kiyoomi considers his options. He remains silent. 

Atsumu laughs: humourless and bitter and cold. Kiyoomi shivers. 

He tries to reconcile the image of Miya Atsumu that lives in his brain —wide, confident shoulders, piercing, hungry gaze, everything about him bright and alight, making Kiyoomi want to take shelter from the blistering heat— with the image of Miya Atsumu now: hunched in on himself, eyes unfocused, messy bangs hanging on his face. His whole body is shaking. Kiyoomi hates it. 

“D’ya know,” Atsumu says, apropos of nothing, “Samu’s been thinkin’ of proposin’ to Rin.” He pauses, chuckles. Kiyoomi knows not to interrupt. “Isn’t that funny?” Atsumu meets his eyes again, expression unreadable. Kiyoomi feels like he’s stepped in a minefield, and the only way out is through. 

“Why?” Kiyoomi asks and hopes Atsumu understands what he’s referring to. 

Atsumu seems deep in thought, considering Kiyoomi’s question, but the latter knows it’s all for show. This Miya Atsumu has no time for consideration, no time for being considerate. 

“Why indeed.” Atsumu pauses again, fingers tracing patterns in the show. “Have ya ever wondered why people believe in the concept of divinity? A higher power?” His fingers stop moving. “I’ll let ya in on a little secret: they’re all lonely. They all want the comfort of unconditional love without the part where someone has to see their rotten insides. They bow their heads and say their lines and pray to a god that never existed. But they’re content. So what do I know?”

“I didn’t think you were religious,” Kiyoomi says, and hopes, yet again, that Atsumu understands. 

“Ah, that’s the kicker, Omi.  I thought I wasn’t. I really, really thought I wasn’t.” Atsumu painstakingly gets up, brushes himself off, and throws one last look at Kiyoomi. He smiles like his heart just got broken. He smiles and it’s so sad and Kiyoomi is nothing but a coward. He turns away. 

~

Miya Atsumu: bull in a china shop. Sakusa Kiyoomi: fine porcelain. 

It is winter and Sakusa Kiyoomi is about to turn twenty three. It is winter and Sakusa Kiyoomi’s world is ending. The story is almost at its peak, the curtain is waiting for it's time to close. Sakusa Kiyoomi has forgotten his lines. He’s off the script, off-kilter, and about to fall. About to stumble and fall and he doesn’t think he’ll get a safety net. He doesn’t think he’ll have anything but the cold hard ground. 

Miya fucking Atsumu: bleeding heart. Miya Atsumu: bloodstain on Kiyoomi’s white clean clothes.

The bleeding heart is fundamentally incapable of being anything other than itself. They love the way an open wound does. It's hemorrhagic and contagious. Faithful to a fault. They will jump without hesitation, though they'll hit the ground consumed with guilt.

Miya Atsumu had stumbled and dragged Kiyoomi along with him in a silent and uneventful fall from grace. Miya Atsumu had looked Kiyoomi in the eyes and talked about religion like he was looking for salvation. 

Miya Atsumu who demands stories (but only ever likes the ones that end with ‘happily ever after’). Miya Atsumu who refuses to let his own story end happily. Miya Atsumu who refuses to believe the story is about himself. 

This is an intermission, of sorts. The present and past coalescing, a sudden bout of introspection, character analysis. Sakusa Kiyoomi didn’t major in literature for nothing. He takes the story off his shelf. He takes the story and lays it out on his coffee table. This is an intermission, of sorts. 

Maybe the story really has been about love, all along.  

~

Miya Atsumu has taken to avoiding Kiyoomi like he thinks that is going to solve all of his problems. Miya Atsumu thinks Kiyoomi hasn’t noticed. Sakusa Kiyoomi indulges him because he has yet to figure everything out. He thinks of the god Atsumu talked about. He thinks it’d be nice if he were granted omniscience. Sakusa Kiyoomi would like to say a lot of things to one Miya Atsumu, but he doesn’t. He says them very quietly, whenever the moon is out. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi had seen Miya Atsumu and his dripping fingertips and thought he’d gladly swallow any drop the other man would give him, for what is one supposed to do when love itself stares you down like you’re something precious? What is one supposed to do when you've been parched for so long and never even knew? Sakusa Kiyoomi thinks he’d been obvious. Apparently not. 

There are a lot of missing pieces to this story. Kiyoomi will put it all together himself, Miya Atsumu be damned. 

~

It’s a Friday night in the middle of February. The Black Jackals are crammed in a dimly lit club, as they often are on nights like these. Red and purple lights pulse around them while Kiyoomi sits obscured in his booth, nursing a gin and tonic, like always. Hinata and Bokuto are holding some sort of drinking competition with Inunaki at a booth across from him, like always. Meian is at the bar with Thomas and Barnes, like always. Atsumu is nowhere to be seen, which is the only disturbance to their carefully crafted routine, yet it makes Kiyoomi’s skin itch. 

Usually , Miya Atsumu can be found on the dancefloor, a different partner for each song and a different partner for each disappearance. Usually , Miya Atsumu can be found at the bar talking up some beautiful stranger. 

Tonight, Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t want to think about what Miya Atsumu must be up to.Tonight, Sakusa Kiyoomi lied: there is one more crucial aspect of their routine which is amissbecause tonight, Sakusa Kiyoomi very much cares about what Miya Atsumu is up to. 

When he sees Hinata and Bokuto approaching his small haven, Kiyoomi gets up and excuses himself to the bathroom. He absentmindedly opens the door with his elbow,  stopping dead in his tracks. A tall woman with dark curly hair has Atsumu pinned to the bathroom wall, mouthing at his neck. Atsumu has a hand fisted in her hair, throat bared. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what noise he lets out, but apparently it’s enough to disturb the two. The woman stops her movements while Atsumu offers Kiyoomi a tight-lipped smirk, expression dark. 

“Fancy seein’ ya here, Omi,” Atsumu slowly looks him up and down and Kiyoomi feels like an unaware antelope about to be devoured. 

“Miya,” Kiyoomi turns his nose up in disgust to hide the ugly, choking feeling rising from his gut all the way to his throat, “This is a public restroom. The men’s restroom, to be exact.” 

The woman finally untangles herself from Atsumu and the man scowls at Kiyoomi, then turns an apologetic smile to his partner. “Sorry, sweetheart, this’ll only take a moment.” She crosses her arms then levels Kiyoomi with an unimpressed look as well. 

“What, ya never got handsy in a public bathroom before? Or is Sakusa Kiyoomi too good for that?” Atsumu sneers, all challenge and bite. He snakes an arm around his companion, fingers toying with the edge of her shirt. 

“That’s not what this is about,” Kiyoomi scoffs as Atsumu’s hand fully reaches under the woman’s shirt. 

“Oh?” Atsumu tilts his head, grin sharp. “Pray tell, what is it about, Omi-Omi? I thought you didn’t care who I slept with.” The bastard raises his eyebrows in faux confusion. 

Kiyoomi grinds his teeth and says nothing.

“Cat got yer tongue?” Atsumu taunts and Kiyoomi has the urge to do something irrational, like punch him, maybe. Push him up against that very same wall and kiss him, maybe. 

Their staredown is interrupted by a small huff from the woman. “I think I better go.” She shakes Atsumu’s hand from her waist and makes it to exit the bathroom, but Atsumu catches her wrist and pulls her back. 

“Nah, it’s fine, he was just leavin’, weren’t ya, Kiyoomi ?” Atsumu’s voice is challenging but his expression betrays him. Kiyoomi has the sudden feeling that, were he to leave this bathroom, the fragile thread between the two would finally snap. 

“No,” Kiyoomi says with conviction, “I don’t think I will.” 

The woman looks between the two of them and must have come to some sort of conclusion about what's going on, because she snatches her hand from Atsumu’s grip and saunters out, throwing a ‘You guys figure this out on your own’ over her shoulder. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Atsumu snarls, and Kiyoomi would shrink away if it weren’t for the exhaustion clinging to the other man’s form, dulling out his glare. 

Kiyoomi could tell Atsumu everything that's on his mind. He could tell him he’s figured him out. He doesn’t say any of it. The bathroom’s shitty lights flicker. In the end, the irrational part of Kiyoomi’s brain wins. He blames the alcohol and the slowly forming hickies on Atsumu’s neck. Kiyoomi shoves him back against the wall and Atsumu looks up at him with a mixture of awe and disdain, like he can’t quite believe what’s happening.

“Did I finally earn that punch? I’d been wonderin’ how long it’d take before ya finally got fed up with my shit.” 

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Kiyoomi shoves him again. 

“Oh? So ya have noticed.” Atsumu brings a hand to the back of Kiyoomi’s neck and pulls him down, closer to his face. He smells like beer and cheap perfume. “Now, now. Don’t think ya can distract me, ya haven’t answered my question.” 

Kiyoomi knows what Atsumu wants now. He knows what he’s looking for: a reason to let go and never look back. His gaze begs Kiyoomi for that reason, for an out. He’s not going to give it to him. 

“I’m not doing this with you here.” 

Atsumu hums as if in thought. His hand hasn’t left Kiyoomi’s neck and it burns. “Your place or mine, then? I’m really not picky.” 

“Not everything’s about sex, Atsumu.”

“Then, what is this about, Omi, ‘cause fuck ! I’ve been tryin’ real hard ta figure out what someone like ya wants from someone like me , but I jus’ can’t seem ta get it!” Atsumu releases Kiyoomi to run a hand through his hair, mussing it up even more. 

“Someone like me?” Kiyoomi echoes. 

“For someone so smart ya sure are fuckin’ dumb sometimes, Kiyoomi, so I’ll rephrase. What does straight-laced, perfect Sakusa Kiyoomi want with the mess that is Miya Atsumu? What could I possibly have that your highness wants so so bad, if it isn’t about sex?” 

At this, Kiyoomi lets himself get mad. 

“Maybe, just maybe, if you stopped putting me on some fucking pedestal and blaming me for the fact that you’re such a goddamn coward, you would figure have it out!” Kiyoomi saw the punch coming a mile away, yet it still sent him stumbling. Atsumu fists his hands in Kiyoomi’s collar and pushes him against the bathroom counter. 

“How’s that for bein’ a coward, huh, Omi-kun ?” Atsumu asks, voice dripping with venom. 

“What do you think you’re going to achieve by doing this?”

“ This feels a lot like deja vu, don’t ya think?” 

“No, something’s different this time around.” Kiyoomi replies.. 

“Wha—” Atsumu doesn’t get to finish his question as Kiyoomi headbutts him, loosening Atsumu’s grip and effectively freeing himself. 

Once Atsumu regains his balance, to Kiyoomi’s utter dismay, he starts laughing. It rings and echoes around the dirty bathroom, and Kiyoomi wants nothing more than to make it stop. Atsumu’s nose starts bleeding. 

“Fuck,” Atsumu says after what feels like an eternity, “That felt an awful lot like a confession, Omi-Omi.”

~

This is the place, you say to yourself, this is the place where everything 

starts to begin, 

the wounds reveal a thicker skin and suddenly there is no floor.

“Do ya believe in ghosts, Omi-Omi?” It is midnight. It is autumn. Miya Atsumu has a glass of red wine in his hand. They are sitting on the cold tiles of Kiyoomi’s kitchen and for once he doesn’t care about the grout. He thinks about Atsumu’s question. He thinks about playing 100 ghost stories with his grandmother and Motoya. He thinks of summer and the shrill cries of cicadas. 

“I think,” Kiyoomi says, inclining his head heavenwards, “That there are a lot of things we don’t know about the universe.” The kitchen light flickers once before returning to normal. 

“Yeah, obviously,” Atsumu scoffs, “But I asked ya if ya believed in ‘em, not if they could theoretically exist.” 

“Hmm… Have you ever heard of Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai ? The traditional 100 ghost stories game.” Kiyoomi trains his gaze back on Atsumu, sipping on his own wine glass. 

“In passin’, I think. Never looked too much into it. Why?” 

“It used to be a popular parlour game in the Edo period. The game was played as night fell upon the region using three separate rooms. In preparation, participants would light 100 andon in the third room and position a single mirror on the surface of a small table. When the sky was at its darkest, guests gathered in the first of the three rooms, taking turns orating tales of ghoulish encounters and reciting folkloric tales passed on by villagers who claimed to have experienced supernatural encounters. These tales soon became known as Kaidan .” Kiyoomi finishes his glass and continues. 

“Upon the end of each Kaidan , the storyteller would enter the third room and extinguish one andon , look in the mirror and make their way back to the first room. With each passing tale, the room slowly grew darker and darker as the participants reached the one hundredth tale, creating a safe haven for the evocation of spirits.” He gets up to pour himself another glass, refilling Atsumu’s along the way. 

“However, as the game reached the ninety-ninth tale, many participants would stop, fearful of invoking the spirits they had been summoning with their stories.” Kiyoomi places the wine bottle back on the counter and sits down once again. 

“I played a simplified version with my grandmother, Motoya, and his older sister when we were in high school.” Kiyoomi lets a small smile play on his lips, waiting for Atsumu to urge him on. 

“And? What happened? Did ya summon any spirits?” The crimson wine sloshes dangerously in his excitement. 

“Mmm, how about I tell you the four stories we told?”

“Just four?”

“As I said, a simplified version. My grandmother used to be quite superstitious, and she told us how the number four is associated with the dead.” 

“Huh, I didn’t know that.” 

“In the old days, crossroads were often referred to as the ‘ four-place’. In other words, people used to think that one could see into the world of the dead there.” Kiyoomi explains.

“Aren’t ya smart, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, syrupy sweet. 

“Oh, shut it,” Kiyoomi replies, rolling his eyes, “ Anyways , as I was saying, the four of us decided to play that game the summer between our first and second year of high school. It took place at Motoya’s house. He comes from a family of priests, and so we used one of the rooms at the temple. Don’t ask why, it was my grandmother’s idea. After all the preparations were done, the first one to tell a story was Motoya’s sister, Himawari. It went something like this if I remember correctly:

There used to be this motel, somewhere in the countryside, which was said to have once been a family residence… It gave off the feeling of old-day mansions, and it was a favourite among travelers because of this… However, no matter how one counted, there always seemed to be one room missing on the third floor.” 

Atsumu’s hand stills where it had been drumming on the tiles, attention captured. 

“From the space occupied… there should have been six rooms. The layout of the third floor was no different from the second and yet there remained five rooms on the former, and six on the latter. So, boarders staying there started to ponder if there could be another chamber right next to them. Their room was obviously the innermost one, but looking from the outside, the wall extended on…” 

Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu shifts closer, eyes beckoning him on. He takes a breath and continues. 

“Then, one night, from one of the walls in their room, or, to their guess, the wall which might be adjacent to the missing space, came a sound: creak… crack. A sound like things being scratched.” 

Atsumu gulps next to him. 

“At first, the one who heard it thought he was being paranoid, but when he told his roommates the next day… He found that they had all heard it… That awful scratching sound.” 

Kiyoomi drags his nails against a kitchen cabinet and Atsumu flinches. He stifles a smile and continues the story. 

“And so throughout their stay, every night without fail, there’d be that sound. When they finally confronted the innkeeper, the man turned pale white and muttered… ‘always’… ‘If one stays in that room they will always hear in the night, a sound that goes creak, crack .’”

“You see, up on the third floor, there really seemed to be space for another room, but the corridor had been sealed for some reason or other by the previous owners. Fed up with all the complaints, the innkeeper hired some workers to tear down the makeshift wall.” 

“As predicted, what they found was an extension of the corridor, and one final room sealed shut with several planks of wood, doorknob missing. To see what was inside, they broke through the door, and in the room, all over the walls were words written in blood that said—”

Kiyoomi pauses, leaning closer so he could whisper in Atsumu’s ear, “Father, let me out.” 

Atsumu shivers and then scowls at him. Kiyoomi lets himself smile this time. 

“Jesus, Omi-Omi, d’ya want me to not sleep tonight or what?”

“It wasn’t that bad, you big baby.” 

Atsumu harrumphs and downs his drink. He doesn’t pour himself a new one. “Well come on now, tell the rest! Ya promised me four stories.”

“Oh? I thought you were scared, though.”

“Who’s scared?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but indulges him. 

“The second to tell a story was Motoya, who had heard it from his grandfather. Allegedly, it’s a true story, but I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.”

“Coming back from a funeral service, Toya’s grandfather met a woman who was waiting at a crossroads much like himself. Apparently, she didn’t look very lively and her shadow was faint… There was an air of eeriness to her… His grandfather saw her and thought ‘ She looks like a spirit’. The woman turned to him and asked—” Kiyoomi turns so he’s facing Atsumu dead on, expression serious and head tilted slightly sideways. 

“How did you know?”

Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu’s eyes widen, his breath hitching on the inhale. 

“Ya know, this was scarier even though it was shorter.” 

Kiyoomi hums, noncommittal. 

“At this point, I remember one of the sliding doors rattling slightly, though I’m pretty sure it was just the wind. It had been raining that night.” Kiyoomi flicks his wrist, “Anyways, the next story in line was mine. Want to continue?”

“‘Course, Omi.”

“Want more wine before I start?” Kiyoomi asks as he pours himself another.

“Nah, I’m good, I’ve had enough.”

“Suit yourself.” Kiyoomi settles against the kitchen island, parallel to Atsumu this time. 

“This happened when I was in elementary school when I had to sleep in the sickbay. I had a horrible headache so I decided to lay down for a bit. After a while, I spotted someone at the window, trying to speak to me. He seemed worried about me, so I told him I just had a headache. At first, I thought it was Motoya and so we chatted for a while. I later realised I wasn’t familiar with him, but since it was an elementary school, I thought that even if I didn’t know him, he must have been a student. I didn’t give it much thought. Finally, he waved and bid me goodbye, and left.”

“When I thought back on it,” Kiyoomi takes one final sip of his wine, “I realised the infirmary was on the third floor. There was nowhere he could have possibly stood on.” 

Atsumu waits to see if Kiyoomi has anything more to add, blinking at him. “Wait, that’s all? C’mon, Omi, that was lame!” 

“Mmm, wanna know a secret?” Kiyoomi beckoned Atsumu closer. After his apprehensive nod, Kiyoomi leaned into his space and whispered, “Mine actually happened.”

“What the fuck.”

Kiyoomi bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, haha, look at Miya gettin’ all scared, laugh it up.” Atsumu pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Hey, you asked me to continue, not my fault you can’t handle ghost stories.” 

“Humph.”

“Come on up now, it’s late, and I have to clean these up,” Kiyoomi says, picking up their glasses and throwing away the empty wine bottle. 

Kiyoomi cleans while Atsumu dries them, and they sit in comfortable silence, until, of course, Atsumu breaks it. 

“Wait. Ya said there were s’posed to be four stories. What about yer grandma’s?”

“Oh, she never got to tell it. We were… interrupted.”

“Well, jeez, that’s not ominous at all, thanks, Omi-kun.”

After another beat of silence, Atsumu pipes up again. 

“Oh, yer actually leavin’ it at that. Alright, okay, I see how it is.”

Kiyoomi snorts despite himself. “If you’ve got a story, you could tell it.”

“Nah, I don’t think I wanna know what happens if the ritual or whatever is completed. I’m good.”

Kiyoomi chuckles. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

(  “Omi-Omi…”

    “Why are you looking at me like that?”

   “Can I crash here?”

   “…You’re scared, aren’t you?”

   "What?! No. I—”

   “…”

  “Fine. Yes, I’m scared. Now can I please crash here? I know ya have like three guest bedrooms.”

  “Yeah, yeah, come on, let me show you which one you can use.”  )

And if Atsumu barges into his room later that night claiming he couldn’t sleep alone, well, that’s only for Kiyoomi to know. 

~

Loud. The stadium is loud. The crowd is cheering and his teammates are yelling and Kiyoomi doesn’t think he can stand another pat on the back. The lights seem brighter than they were a second ago and reporters are flagging them down and, and, and— Kiyoomi needs to breathe. He needs to breathe and calm down and get over it. His hands are shaking. They feel wrong . His hands are shaking. He wants to scream. Everything is wrong. He doesn’t know how he manages to get to the locker rooms, nor does he know what happens before he registers the door banging open in the corner of vision. Kiyoomi is on a bench staring at his hands. Wrong , he thinks. They’re wrong.

“Omi? Are ya alright?” Miya Atsumu enters his line of sight like a ghost. Kiyoomi wants to speak, wants to tell him to go away, that he’s fine, but the only thing that comes out is a choked out ‘Wrong.’

“What’s wrong?” Miya bleeds concern and it drops in Kiyoomi’s open hands. They’re still trembling, now chapped, and turned an unnatural red. 

Miya must follow Kiyoomi’s line of sight because he crouches down to get a better look. “Is it yer hands? Did ya injure yerself durin’ the match?” 

God. God, he wants this to end. He wants to go home. Kiyoomi wills himself to shake his head. He knows he cannot answer Miya’s questions. He can barely move. 

“Alright, that’s good,” Miya must notice something, because his breath hitches and he pitches forward, too forward. Kiyoomi draws back as best as he can. “Omi, yer bleedin’, shit .” Miya stands and Kiyoomi’s eyes follow him. He watches as he rummages through his locker, turning back with antiseptic, some bandages, and a little tube of hand cream. Kiyoomi continues to stare as Miya crouches in front of him yet again. 

“Can I touch ya?” Atsumu asks, voice just above a whisper, and Kiyoomi never expected it. He never would have anticipated Miya Atsumu’s consideration to feel like that . Like his body was going through the motions of a panic attack, but the dread is missing. The world feels off kilter. 

Kiyoomi nods, slowly, as if in a dream, and Miya gently takes his right hand in his. Kiyoomi braces himself for the nausea, for the wrongness to come flooding back in, but Miya’s hand is just warm as he starts cleaning up the places in which he had scrubbed his skin raw. He is slow and meticulous, exceedingly careful as if afraid Kiyoomi would run off. When he finishes, Miya places ridiculously pink Hello Kitty band-aids over each scrape. In any other situation, Kiyoomi would have scoffed, but as it is, he simply stares as Miya restarts the process on his other hand, working just as diligently. The bandages on this one are glittery. They sparkle under the bright light of the fluorescents.

“I’m gonna have to touch ya a little more now to apply the cream, is that okay?” Miya waits, the picture of patience.

Kiyoomi flexes his hands and cringes. He must have done quite a number on himself. He can’t remember the last time he had an episode this bad. Maybe his first year of college?

“Omi?” 

Kiyoomi snaps back into the present, nodding, feeling himself settle back into his skin. He hates to admit it, but Miya’s presence has helped. A lot. 

He watches Miya squirt big dollops of the cream onto his fingers, then gently massaging it into the back of Kiyoomi’s palm, his fingers, turning his hand this way and that so he covers every inch of skin. It’s intimate in a way Kiyoomi is not used to. No one has treated him like such a fragile thing, and yet, and yet— Kiyoomi does not hate it. Despite himself, Kiyoomi does not hate it.

“There, all done now. Wanna go get some fresh air? I know where all the back exits are,” Miya shoots him his patented smile and suddenly the world rushes back in. The lights are flickering and there’s noise coming from the court and their teammates are about to come rushing in. Kiyoomi has to get out of here. 

The night air is cold enough to be refreshing and warm enough that Kiyoomi isn’t shivering without his jacket. He wants to say ‘thank you’. He wants to say ‘sorry’. He opens his mouth and his words die in his throat. Miya notices him struggling and suddenly Kiyoomi wishes he’d go away. He knows he can’t explain. The helplessness he feels threatens to drown him and Kiyoomi has never hated his stupid brain more. He has never hated Miya Atsumu more because the bastard opens his mouth and asks a question and it skews Kiyoomi’s worldview even more. 

“Maybe this is a weird question, but… Do ya know sign language? It’d make things easier, I suppose.”

Kiyoomi stares, and stares, and stares, and he wants to laugh. Miya fucking Atsumu. Kiyoomi nods and Miya brightens up like he just made his day. Kiyoomi frowns and Miya just laughs. He wants to ask ‘how’. How did you know that’s what I needed? How do you even know sign language? He wants to ask ‘why’. Why are you so considerate? Why do you care so much? He chooses the one that doesn’t give anything away. 

‘How the fuck do you know sign language, Miya?’

“There he is,” Miya laughs, “Just as prickly even when I’m so nice.” 

Kiyoomi glares and Miya gets the hint. 

“My aunt and my cousin are deaf. Had ta learn it ever since I was a kid, I guess,” Miya shrugs, “What about ya? Does… this ,” Miya gesticulates vaguely, “Happen often?” 

Kiyoomi sighs. He knew it was all too good to be true. ‘No, not anymore,’ he signs, ‘It used to happen a lot when I was little though. It got really bad in high school. This hasn’t happened in a long while, but today wore me down. I was… overwhelmed.’ 

Miya nods, and, to Kiyoomi’s surprise, doesn’t pry any further. Instead, he turns another smile his way, eyes glinting even in the shitty light of the street lamp. 

“Ya know, we could have this be our little secret language. Imagine how much we could shit-talk the rest of the team and they’d be none the wiser,” Miya snickers at his proposal and then lights up, even more, a brand new idea forming, “Oh my god, we could use it fer signals durin’ games! It’ll be brilliant! What’d ya say, Omi?”

Kiyoomi lets a smile form on his lips. ‘Do you think about anything other than gossip and volleyball?’ 

“Sure I do, Omi-Omi,” Miya practically purrs and he knows, he knows it’s a setup, yet he still raises one eyebrow in a silent question, egging Miya on. Kiyoomi braces himself. 

“Boobs.” Maybe it’s the deadpan way he says it, maybe it’s Kiyoomi slowly losing his mind, it honestly doesn’t matter, because Kiyoomi starts laughing, and laughing, and laughing until Miya joins in and he’s doubled over and God , this is the strangest day of his life. 

‘I hate you,’ Kiyoomi signs when he’s finally calmed down. 

“Ya know, Omi,” Miya says, a strange smile playing on his lips, “I don’t think ya do.”

~

Stare enough at a thing and eventually, you will come to learn everything there is to know about it: its core elements, its purpose, its design, its flaws. Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t think there is enough time in the world for that, when it comes to Miya Atsumu, though he’s looked at him plenty.

Looking at Miya Atsumu doesn’t make Kiyoomi special, he knows. Everyone is always looking, always at Atsumu, this golden boy who demands their attention. Miya Atsumu is loud, Miya Atsumu is someone people notice . It’s funny. It’s funny how Miya Atsumu uses his own notoriety to hide. People talk and his image expands and Atsumu is safe. Give ‘em somethin’ to talk about and ya never have ta be yerself ever again. Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all. I’ll give ‘em a show they’ll never forget. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi will never fully understand Miya Atsumu, but he thinks that’s the point.

~

Then the question

behind every question: What happens next?

“Christ, ya reek. What happened to quittin’, huh?” 

Miya Osamu stands unimpressed behind the counter of Onigiri Miya, bruises long gone but scowl intact as ever. 

“Lay off me, will ya?” Miya Atsumu is… Well, he’s tired. Miya Atsumu has been making a lot of bad decisions lately. He hopes this isn’t another one. 

“So.”

“So…” 

Atsumu takes a moment to collect his thoughts* (*see: stall). He analyses the small restaurant as if he had never been there before: the volleyball paraphernalia Atsumu has gifted his twin over the years are all placed on the right-side wall, the tables are in neat rows of two, the chairs at the counter have been pulled in, signaling the end of the day. Atsumu can smell freshly fried rice over the cigarette stench clinging to him. It’s familiar, it’s safe. Miya Atsumu hates himself a little more. 

Atsumu’s gaze finally settles on the one other man in the room. 

“I’m sorry, ‘Samu.” 

Osamu continues staring at him. Atsumu is starting to fidget when his twin finally huffs. 

“Damn right ya are, ya little shit,”

“Fuck off, I was bein’ sincere!” 

“Oh, I know,” Osamu smirks.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.” 

Atsumu smiles, feeling a bit lighter, though it doesn’t last very long.

“Right, get on with it, why are ya here?” Osamu asks, crossing his arms. 

“Well— I’m— I just apologised, didn’t I? That’s why I came over. To apologise.” Atsumu sputters, tripping over the words and refusing to meet his brother’s eyes.

“‘Course. And this has nothin’ to do with, oh, I don’t know, yer abysmal love life?” 

“I—” Atsumu tries to argue, but the fight drains out of him before he can even begin. He scratches his left palm: once, twice, thrice. He really wants a cigarette. Instead, he pulls out one of the chairs from under the counter and collapses onto it. 

“I may have… made a mistake. Several mistakes, really.” 

“Nothing new.”

Atsumu glares at his twin until Osamu lets out a world weary sigh. 

“Alright, go on.” 

“So, Sakusa, right? Cool guy. Good volleyball player, perfect hair, abysmal style. I’m in love with him. But I also sort of hate him. Or I used ta. Actually I probably just hate myself. The situation’s complicated. Anyway, I may have gotten into a fistfight with him at a bar and that might have been our last interaction in approximately a week, and now I don’t know how to stop avoiding him,” Atsumu says in one single breath.

“Ya what ? Jesus fucking Christ, Atsumu.” Osamu runs his hands over his face. “Okay, let’s back up a bit. Yer in love with Sakusa.”

“Yes.”

“And ya hate him.”

“Well. No.”

“Right… But you still, presumably, decked him in his perfect face.”

“Yup, that’s correct.”

“Why?”

“Well, ya see, I was doin’ that thing that I do when I feel like somebody loves me where I isolate myself and do reckless shit and I’m basically a huge asshole?”

“Mhm.”

“Omi refused ta let me be a dick in peace and confronted me about it. And I may have been drunk. And he might have just cockblocked me. I was well within my rights.” Atsumu throws his hands up, building a defense he knows will not stand. 

“Yer a disaster.” 

“Thanks.” 

“What is this really about, now?” 

Atsumu sighs. Trust Osamu to not let him off the hook, ever. Trust Osamu to know him better than he knows himself. Trust Osamu to be a better brother than Atsumu ever will. 

“I realised why I was losin’. Our bet, I mean. Ya know, I always thought that as long as I had volleyball, as long as I had myself and my abilities, my success , it was goin’ to be enough. I didn’t need relationships, I didn’t need ya or anyone else. But then ya announced ya were gettin’ married and somethin’ in me just… hated ya. Hated myself . Fer cravin’ what ya have. Havin’ Omi around, developing feelings fer him, certainly didn’t help. So I shut down. I lashed out. God, ‘Samu, I’m such a fuckin’ idiot.” 

“Hey. Hey! Look at me fer a sec, will ya? Yes, yer an idiot. But , yer only an idiot fer believin’ ya couldn’t rely on me just because of that stupid bet. We were stupid teenagers. Now, what yer goin’ ta do is stop mopin’ and go talk ta Sakusa,”

“But—” Atsumu interrupts.

“No, let me finish. Yer goin’ ta talk ta him and yer gonna confess and best case scenario he doesn’t deck ya again and ya live happily ever after.” 

“Well that’s easier said than done.”

“That’s rough, buddy.”

“Did ya just quote Avatar while I’m having a literal breakdown?” 

“Yer fine, stop bein’ dramatic,” Osamu says, rolling his eyes.

As Atsumu continues bickering with his brother, and the sun sets below the horizon, he gets the distinct feeling that no matter what, he will, at least, always have this place. This moment. His twin. Yeah, Miya Atsumu is fine. He now just has to learn how to not be a coward.

~

Miya Atsumu can now tell you exactly how many scratch marks are on the elevator doors of his apartment building. He has been willing himself to enter the code to Sakusa’s floor for the past 20 minutes with no visible results. Actually, he thinks he might have added to the number of scratches by accidentally kicking the door in his rush to get out of someone’s way, which now brings the total to a whopping 46 marks. Nakamura-san is starting to get concerned. He has been hovering in Atsumu’s general vicinity for the past few minutes. At this point, Atsumu might finally get into that god-forsaken elevator just to escape Nakamura’s pitying gaze. He presses the elevator button. He waits. And waits. The doors open and Atsumu dashes in before he can change his mind. His body has other plans as it slams into something solid. The unidentified obstacle lets out a cry of surprise that is terrifyingly familiar.

“Atsumu?” Sakusa extends a steadying hand. Atsumu is two seconds away from combusting.

“Omi. Hi. Fancy seein’ ya here, come by often?” 

“We… live here.” Sakusa frowns and, fuck, if only he could just reach out and smooth that stupid crease between his stupidly perfect eyebrows.

“Can we talk?” Atsumu blurts out before the sheer awkwardness of the situation kills them both.

“Motoya’s in town tonight. I was about to go meet him.”

“Right, of course, my bad, later, then?” Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, shit . Atsumu wants to die. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk later. I’ll come over.” With a final nod, Sakusa leaves Atsumu to collapse against the nearest wall in peace. 

Atsumu slowly becomes aware of the fact that Nakamura is very much still staring at him. He decides to end his own misery and go home. 

~

What comes next are the longest hours of Atsumu’s life. In reality, they were 3 hours and 34 minutes. In Atsumu’s panic-addled mind, they were approximately 3 years. Osamu stopped replying after the first hour. Atsumu opted to deep clean his apartment to get his mind off things. It did not work. 

At exactly 10pm Atsumu’s doorbell rings. It is only now that he realises he did not think about what exactly he was going to say to Sakusa. No turning back. 

“I’m in love with you.” Sakusa Kiyoomi does not let Atsumu think about what to say. He, in fact, shatters any last thought Atsumu might have had. 

He doesn’t have his mask on.  

Now, there are many ways in which someone can reply to such a declaration. You could reciprocate and say it back, you could politely apologize and say that you do not feel the same. Miya Atsumu didn’t choose either. 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know.” Sakusa must sense Atsumu’s disappointment because he carries on, “I mean, I don’t think love is a definite statement. I don’t think love is the same thing twice and… I don’t think I’ll ever have a definition of what love is, but– You’re the first person I think of, when I remember a good story, and you’re, quite honestly, an asshole most of the time,” Atsumu huffs, but doesn’t interrupt. “But,” Sakusa smiles softly, “I can’t stop thinking about every little considerate thing you’ve done just because you could. I don’t understand you. You’re a fucking ghost story, Miya Atsumu, and I fucking love you.”

Miya Atsumu, cleaning gloves still on, hair a mess and sweatpants tattered, simply gapes. Out of all the outcomes he had conjured up, getting confessed to before ever getting a word in was not one of them. He opens his mouth, then closes it right back. 

“You’re crying.” Sakusa remarks, in a tone which sounds indifferent to the untrained ear. Atsumu knows better.

“I’m not.”

“Atsumu.”

“I am genuinely not bein’ emotionally constipated right now, there’s just– so much fucking bleach fumes in here,” Atsumu explains, then starts laughing only somewhat hysterically.

Sakusa tries to remain composed for approximately 10 seconds before he bursts out laughing too. “God, I fucking hate you.”

“Actually, ya just said ya loved me, so…”

“And you still haven’t replied to that.”

“Fuck, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu sighs, “I— I get so  weird and defensive at the prospect of anyone ever coming close enough ta actually get ta know me, ta actually love me that— Ya scared the shit out of me. Because I knew I was fallin’ fer ya. And I could see ya carin’ fer me and actually liking me and I just— Shut down. Lashed out. I love ya, Sakusa Kiyoomi, and I’m still fuckin’ scared, but— Ya make want ta not be a coward fer the first time in my life.”

Sakusa finally comes in properly, closing the door behind him and stepping carefully onto the genkan. He reaches out a freezing hand and cups Atsumu’s cheek. It burns, burns, burns. 

“I’m scared, too,” he whispers, getting closer, closer, closer. 

“I guess I’m one helluva ghost story.” Atsumu smiles wrily. 

“No more stories.”

So close, so close, so close.

“No more stories,” Atsumu agrees. 

Oh , we’re finally there. 

~end~