Chapter Text
“How much longer is this going to take?” A voice groused from Atsumu’s right, bringing him out of his pre-warm-up stretches and back to the smelly, greasy Tokyo alley in which both sat. Atsumu closed his eyes once more, settling further into his stretch and trying to ignore his brother’s complaints. “We’ve been here fer hours now.”
“Ya didn’t have’ta come with me,” Atsumu said on his exhale. His nose brushed against his knee as he interlaced his fingers on the arch of his foot. “I told ya I could get here myself.”
“And leave you unprotected?” Osamu snorted, pulling his legs into his chest. He was on his phone, probably playing some ball sort game. “Fuck no.”
Atsumu rolled his eyes, releasing his foot and sitting straight again, aligning his spine and stretching his arms over his head. “I told ya, I don’t need protectin’.”
“Yer goin’ into the vultures. I ain’t lettin’ ya do it alone.”
“Last night they were wolves.”
“An’ today they’re fuckin’ vultures. Whaddaya want from me?”
“I’d kill fer some peace an’ quiet so I can keep stretchin’.”
Osamu gave a few ‘nyehs’ in a high-pitched tone, but gave his brother the requested quiet. Atsumu straightened his other leg out and repeated the stretch, reveling in the glorious pull from his Achilles to his hamstring. He counted to eleven in his head, deeping the stretch on every odd number until his nose hit his kneecap once more. Once finished, he slowly sat up again, arms over his head before he let them fall gracefully back to his sides, letting out a long breath as he did so, grounding himself in the alleyway. Whether he knew it or not, Osamu breathed with him, a steady in-and-out.
It made Atsumu smile to himself. This is what he lived for—the anticipation before an audition. The butterflies in his stomach of waiting for a casting call. Yes, they’d been asked by the ballet company specifically to audition, but it wasn’t as if Atsumu was above nerves. Despite what reporters said, he was still human.
“I dunno why yer so nervous,” Osamu muttered when Atsumu straightened again. To his credit, at least the darker-haired twin had finally started stretching in the alley. “Ya know which parts we’re gonna get.”
“M’not nervous!” Atsumu lied, and Osamu shot him a wicked grin. Miya Osamu was many things: college graduate, trained instructor, fiancée, brother, twin, son, and ballet dancer. Dense, he was not.
Atsumu, on the other hand, could only be called most of those. He didn’t mind, much. They’d both been dancing since they could crawl. When they’d been old enough to understand what dancing meant, they’d begged their Ma to let them into dancing lessons.
Dancing lessons led to dancing school. Dancing school led to performances. Performances led to scholarships. Scholarships led to art school after art school vying for their patronage. Art school after art school led to national performances. National performances led to international attention. International attention led the famous Miya Twins, aged 14 at the time, to the Paris Opera Ballet School, where they’d spent five years under the grueling instructions of their professors, performing for both the school and France, making a name for themselves.
They’d spent the last three years touring the world, performing at the behest of different companies where asked, and paying for their tenure others. Although they’d never stayed put longer than a season, they’d had enough attention in the past three years to earn the bids of companies across the globe. While they’d toured, Osamu had focused on his studies, and Atsumu had constantly double booked himself so he could perform as much as possible.
“What time is it?” Atsumu asked, hoping for any distraction to bring his mind away from the implications of Osamu’s studies. Sure, he was behind his brother in more ways than one (damn those three minutes before he could make it out of the womb), but he was only 22. Higher education would go nowhere between now and when he had to retire.
In the meantime, he would just have to dance circles around his brother.
It all started with today, right now. They were seated outside the NNT Ballet School in Tokyo, waiting for the clock to strike 8:30 so they could audition for Meian Shugo’s interpretation of the famous Swan Lake. Atsumu had been waiting for three years to land such a huge role. It was groundbreaking enough to have a man-loving-man performance of Swan Lake, but to have it on his home turf was something else entirely. It had been seven years since they’d danced on a Japanese stage.
“Eight eleven,” Osamu said, not looking up from his stretch, and Atsumu cleared his throat.
“Better make my way to the front, then,” Atsumu sighed, and his brother gave him a look.
“It literally says not to queue until 8:30. You crazy?”
Atsumu, unfazed, gave his toes one more yank before sitting straight again. “I ain’t gonna ‘queue,’ I’m just gonna stand around until that time hits.”
“Yer insane.”
“Yer insane,” he shot back almost before Osamu could finish his sentence, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing the bag next to him. “Don’t take all day.”
Finally, Osamu untwisted himself and shot his brother a look. “Just go queue so I can have some peace an’ quiet from ya.”
Atsumu huffed as he shouldered his bag. He turned to the mouth of the alley and made his way into the sunlight.
A few stragglers, probably callbacks, sat outside, talking to each other in the quiet thrum of the morning. As stated on the sheet of paper taped to the inside of the glass on the NNT door, none of them were lined up, per se, but they did look ready to pounce as soon as the clock struck 8:30. Atsumu recognized a few heavy hitters he’d crossed paths with over the years (Hinata Shoyo wasn’t a surprise, given that the ‘genius’ Kageyama Tobio had been announced the conductor for the next three seasons at the opera house next door, but Bokuto Kotaro definitely made Atsumu do a double-take. When the hell had that bastard come back from New York?), all seated under the large awning and speaking in hushed tones to each other.
One person, however, stood at the side of them all, hands in his athletic jacket’s pockets and surgical mask looped around his ears. His unruly, curly black hair seemed to drink in the sunlight haloed around his head, but what caught Atsumu’s attention was the highlighter-yellow-and-green duffel the man had slung over his shoulder. As if feeling the weight of Atsumu’s gaze on him, the man turned his head over his shoulder, and onyx eyes pierced into Atsumu’s, two thick eyebrows pulled down into a frown.
That took Atsumu back, and he tried pushing down his indignation. Whoever this asshole was, he was probably a nobody who had scrimped and saved their way into being able to pay the fee to dance here.
Either way, Atsumu found himself staring. Did he…know this person? The two moles sitting above the man’s brow told him he should recognize him from somewhere, but the more Atsumu tried to place him, the more lost he felt.
So, he did the one thing he could always count on whenever he felt intimidated. He turned on his most charming smile and waved.
“‘Scuse me,” he said, holding out his hand as if for a handshake. “Do I know you?”
The man’s eyes shot from Atsumu’s face, down to his hand, and back again. “Do you?” He asked.
Rat bastard, Atsumu thought, not taking his hand away. He couldn’t explain why, but he knew that if he conceded the handshake as a lost cause, he would lose against this pompous asshole. “Ya just look so familiar,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard him.
“I get that a lot.”
Atsumu’s thumb twitched. He would get this man to shake his hand.
“Name’s Miya Atsumu,” he tried. “And you are…?”
“I know who you are,” the man finally turned away from Atsumu, back to the street. “You studied at the Paris Opera house. Master’s degree, if I’m not mistaken?”
Huh, he thought dumbly. Whoever this man was, he did his research. “Uh…yeah. And you?”
“Vaganova.”
Atsumu’s jaw dropped. Russia? He’d auditioned for that school no less than three times.
He’d been turned down each time.
“I knew ya looked familiar,” he finally snapped his fingers, forgetting about the handshake. “Yer famous in Russia, ain’t ya?”
The man blinked at him, then blinked back to the road. “Sure.”
“What brings ya to Tokyo, mister…”
“Doctor,” the man corrected him, and Atsumu stood straight.
“Fine, doctor,” Atsumu said. “What—“
“I’m waiting for my partner,” the man cut him off before he could finish his question, and Atsumu blinked at the abrupt cut-off. He frowned. Did this asshole think he was hitting on him? Sure, Atsumu’s door swung so far both ways it might as well have been a saloon door from the American westerns, but he did have standards.
Again, despite what some may say.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “Didn’t know ya were—“
“Were what,” Mister Mask said, turning back to him. “Uninterested?”
“An asshat, actually,” Atsumu leveled a finger in his face. “Here I am, try’na be nice, not hittin’ on ya at all, and here you are—“
“There he is now,” the black-haired man said, nodding across the street, where a hulking man was coming from the side road, a purple duffel bag over his shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Wait a minute,” Atsumu stepped in front of him. “You think I was interested in ya? Some guy I’ve never met, who won’t even be polite and give a handshake?”
“What do you want from me?” He snapped back. “I’m waiting to be let inside. Keep stepping, Miya.”
“‘Tsumu,” Osamu’s voice came from behind him, and Atsumu turned to see his brother coming out of the alley, “you ain’t makin’ a scene already, are ya?”
“No!” Atsumu said. “This guy thinks I was comin’ onto him!”
Osamu raised an eyebrow. “Were ya?”
Atsumu balked. “No!”
“Then let it go,” Osamu tugged him by the arm. “C’mon, let’s go say hi to Hinata.”
“I ain’t done with this jerk—“
“Oh, yes you are,” Osamu turned back to the masked man and planted his hand on the back of Atsumu’s head, forcing him into a bow. Atsumu squawked, but Osamu’s grip was, as always, firm. “I apologize fer my wildebeest of a brother,” he said, finally letting go of his brother’s hair. Atsumu snapped back up immediately, glowering at the man, whose partner was stepping up onto the curb. The man, broad of chest and arms, gave a nonplussed look to the little group, and the man in the mask gave a noncommittal wave, as if saying ‘they’re nobody.’
“Now that’s just rude—“ Atsumu started, but Osamu already had a hand on his forearm and was tugging him away to the short ginger in question, who, upon seeing the two, brightened like the sun in the sky. Hinata waved and Osamu returned the gesture, but shot one last look over his shoulder to see the two men already speaking to each other.
“Osamu-san! Atsumu-san!” Hinata called, bouncing up from where he’d been seated in a full side split and rushing over to the two. “I heard you were asked here, but I never thought you’d actually come back to Tokyo!”
“What, and leave the world wonderin’ if we’re gettin’ soft?” Osamu asked, giving Atsumu one final tug back to the present. “Somebody wanted to remind the world we ‘ain’t dancin’ to keep old straight men happy.’”
Atsumu flushed at his earlier words he’d said in the heat of the moment. Yes, it was true, and yes, Atsumu wanted to actually play a role that didn’t force him into the heterosexual relationship, but did Osamu really have to remember every single word he said?
Thankfully, Hinata burst out laughing, and Atsumu felt his mood start to shift. “That sounds like Atsumu-san!”
“Sho-kun,” Atsumu said. “How many times do I gotta tell you to drop the ‘-san’?”
Hinata smiled bigger, but before he could respond, the sound of the door opening behind the little group brought them all out of their huddle. A woman, tall with black hair and glasses, stood in the doorway, holding a clipboard in her hands. She cleared her throat, bringing the rest of the group’s attention to her. The hush that fell over the block sent pangs of excitement through Atsumu’s fingertips.
“Meian-san would like to see the following,” she said in a clear voice. “Bokuto Kotaro, Hinata Shoyo, Miya Atsumu, Miya Osamu…”
Atsumu’s chest swelled. He’d never get tired of being called first.
“…as well as Sakusa Kiyoomi and Ushijima Wakatoshi.”
In sync, the MIya twins turned to each other, and then over their shoulders, and the face finally clicked into place.
It had been hard to tell, what with the mask he’d been wearing, but Sakusa Kiyoomi stared back at him. Atsumu stared for a moment longer before turning to Ushijima Wakatoshi, who stood behind Sakusa, a few inches taller than he.
Of course Atsumu had heard of them.
Anyone in the scene would have a hard time avoiding their names. They were a power duo not unlike he and Osamu, but, unlike the Miyas, they’d kept to themselves, performing, living, and touring only in Russia.
To see them now? Outside of the place Atsumu wanted so badly to tour?
It felt like a big, fat L right in his face.
As if hearing his thoughts, Sakusa’s eyes crinkled, and he raised his chin. Atsumu felt his blood boil.
Hate at first sight it is, he thought bitterly.
“…and step,” Meian’s voice carried throughout the classroom. Atsumu followed direction, one hand perched over his head and the other stretched to his side. “Step. Step. Present.”
Atsumu shifted his weight to one foot, raising the other in time with his chin. Meian’s hands came together in a soft clap and he raised himself to his toes, shifting his gravity once more. He held the pose expertly, even when the director walked past him, hands primed to clap once more.
“And penché, two, three four,” he said. Without missing a beat, Atsumu replaced his heel on the wood floor, raising his already airborne leg into a full vertical split. “And hold, two, three, four.”
If he were a lesser man, he’d peek around the room to see how Sakusa was holding up. As it were, he was currently facing the wall away from the mirrors, leotard and tights donned under his lucky shoes.
“…two, three, four, step, two, three, four…”
The counting continued once more, and Atsumu lowered his leg, falling into step with the dancers around him in the prepared routine. It was short, and bore repeating until Meian called the dancer’s name, but nevertheless, Atsumu let himself repeat the movements, aiming each time to be better than the last.
“Miya Osamu,” Meian called, “two, three, four.”
To his right, his twin dipped into one last plié before he shuffled off the floor, arms still in their port de bras. Atsumu ignored the sweat on his brow, keeping his breath in line with the rhythm.
“Turn, two, three, four.”
Atsumu did as directed, coming face-to-face with himself in the mirror once more. As pleased as he was to find he hadn’t misaligned himself while facing away from them, he felt the bead of sweat roll down his temple and cheek.
The only other dancers on the floor were Ushijima and Sakusa. Hinata and Bokuto had been called first, and a part of Atsumu wondered if Meian was going to be another nightmare of a director. He’d worked for a few sadist directors in the past, so he wouldn’t be surprised to find himself in the same boat again, but he’d rather not think about it too hard. It would just come down to how long he expected the three to continue on—
“Ushijima Wakatoshi, three, four…”
Another plié, and Ushijima was shuffling off the floor. Atsumu let out a long, steadying breath, decidedly not looking in the mirror at the man behind him.
Sakusa had taken off the mask as soon as warm-ups had ended and they’d moved to the barre to stretch, and Atsumu had forced himself to look away before he was caught staring.
The last thing he would do would be accused of coming on to such a prick.
Again.
So, Atsumu kept eye contact with only himself as they made their way through the routine once more. Meian clapped, and the two stopped, mid-step, awaiting his next direction. Atsumu gently moved his center of gravity to hold the uncomfortable position, exhaling as he did so. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Meian nod in approval.
Miya Atsumu one, Sakusa Kiyoomi zero.
At least, this hour.
“Penché,” Meian said, and when he didn’t continue counting, Atsumu felt a surge of excitement as he resumed the position in perfect timing.
Maybe Meian wasn’t a sadist (yet), but there was definitely the inkling of some healthy competition about the man. The two held their positions without quiver until he clapped. In time, Atsumu and the reflection of Sakusa Kiyoomi lowered their legs in perfect synchrony.
Mess up, Atsumu willed the man.
“Sissonne for twelve,” Meian ordered once they were back in their positions, still in time with himself, so Atsumu hopped to it (literally), counting to himself.
One, two, three, four. Two, two, three, four. Three, two, three, four…
Annoyingly, by the time he reached twelve, Sakusa was still in time.
“Fifth port de bras.”
Atsumu, already in fifth position, brought his arms over his head in time with Sakusa.
“Relevé.”
The two came to their toes.
“Miya Atsumu.”
Atsumu let his heels fall to the floor as if they were feathers, dipping into his own plié.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi.”
As Atsumu straightened, Sakusa copied his movements, and as Atsumu joined the rest of the group, Sakusa came out of his plié, keeping his feet in time as he came to stand in line at the barre. Meian turned to the woman who had called them all in and she jotted a few notes down. The dancers stood straight, awaiting the director’s next orders, but all he did was come to a stop in the middle of the line, hands behind his back. He made eye contact with each and every dancer in line before he clapped. At once, each of them had their arms in first port de bras, hands extended in front of themselves as if they were holding an imaginary ball. With a smile, Meian clapped twice, and the arms dropped to their sides.
“Very good,” he nodded to the group. “Water break now, and then I’ll see you each individually for your prepared pieces. You’ll be going in the same order I called you here, starting with you, Bokuto. Understood?’
“Understood,” the group said in unison, and Meian smiled again.
“Good. Stretch out and get hydrated.”
Before any of the dancers could catch the director, he was turning on his heel and was making his way out of the small room. The woman was quick to follow him, clipboard in hand.
Once the door shut, the line relaxed, and Hinata stretched his arms over his head.
“That was fun!” He chirped, making his way to his water. “I wanted to do some more, but I guess he’s already got us figured out, huh, Bokuto-san?”
“Sounds like it,” Bokuto yawned, and Atsumu had to give him a second look. The last time Atsumu had seen Bokuto be called first in an audition, the man had sulked about it the rest of the day, complaining about how he wanted to be the one in the spotlight.
Who was this Bokuto? What had happened in New York?
The twins shared a knowing look once Ushijima stepped out of the way, but before they could linger, Atsumu was turning to Sakusa, who had fallen into step with the tall man.
“Hey, Sakusa!” He tried, but when the man didn’t turn around, he frowned. Was he hard of hearing or something? “Sakusa!”
The man’s ear twitched, but he still didn’t turn around. Atsumu stopped in his tracks, fists clenching at his sides.
So that’s how this was going to be.
“Omi-kun!”
The two men stopped in their tracks, and when Sakusa turned over his shoulder to look at the offender, he wore one of the most perfect looks of disgust Atsumu had ever seen.
“What did you just call me?” He hissed, but Atsumu ignored it, stepping up to him.
“I just wanted to say that your timing’s pretty impressive.”
Sakusa’s eyes narrowed, and he waited a beat before answering.
“I know,” he said, and Atsumu felt his right eye twitch. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m try’na pay you a compliment.”
Sakusa straightened at that, looking down his nose. Frustratingly, Atsumu had to look up to keep eye contact. “I don’t need your pair of pennies, thank you.”
Atsumu had to put conscious effort into not tackling him right then and there.
“Sakusa,” Ushijima warned him, but the man in question just stepped further into Atsumu’s space.
“Focus more on your poise and less on me, Miya. You were slouching.”
Atsumu’s jaw dropped. Before he could really tackle him like he wanted to, he felt a hand on his elbow pulling him to the side. Thankfully, Ushijima was there to grab Sakusa’s arm, as well, so Atsumu didn’t have to focus too hard on Osamu dragging him away against his will, he just let it happen.
“What is wrong with you?” Osamu hissed. “Ya can’t just let enough be, can ya?”
“‘M’fine!” Atsumu hissed back, yanking his arm away.
“If ya keep fightin’ with him, yer gonna screw this up fer both of us!”
“I ain’t screwin’ anything up, it was him who was rude to me outside!”
“So now ya gotta be rude to him inside?”
Atsumu tugged the water bottle open with his teeth before properly placing it in his mouth so he could squeeze water down his throat. He glared across the room at the two Vaganova alums speaking in a foreign language to each other.
“Look, ‘Tsumu. I’m literally beggin’ you. Behave.”
Atsumu’s frown deepened, but he tugged the water bottle out of his mouth and pounded it shut with the side of his fist. “Fine. Fer you. Not fer him.”
“Fine. Just keep it together long enough to get the cast list. That’s all m’askin’.”
“I said fine, ‘Samu!”
The door opened again, and the pleasant background noise of Bokuto and Hinata discussing their pieces abruptly ended. Atsumu looked over his shoulder to see the same woman standing in the doorway, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“Kiyoko-san!” Hinata squealed, hurrying to bow to her. A fond smile came over her face before she turned to the rest of the group.
“Bokuto-senshu,” she said, gesturing for him to follow. The man gave Hinata one last high-five before he was on his way out, rolling his shoulder in its socket. Atsumu watched him with a wary eye, taking another drink of his water. Whatever had happened to the man in New York, he finally seemed to have calmed down, if just a little. Hinata lingered on the door for a moment longer after it shut before he turned to the Miya twins, his 500-watt smile taking over his face as he did so.
Despite Atsumu’s sour mood, he couldn’t help but wave at the smaller man, who bounded over to him with three long strides.
“Kiyoko-san, huh?” Atsumu grinned at him, and Hinata stood straighter, a blush coming over his face.
“Wh-what about her?” He sputtered, then fell into a mock-fighting stance. “You aren’t thinking of asking her out, are you?”
Atsumu laughed, waving him off. “Nah, nothin’ of the sort. Ya just seem a lil’…flustered about her presence.”
The short man lowered his hands, face clearing for a moment before a heavy blush settled on his cheeks. He scratched the back of his neck. “We, uh…went to this school together, actually,” he admitted.
“And ya had a giant crush on her, didn’t ya?” Hinata stood straight as an arrow at that, reddening even further. Atsumu laughed. “Of course ya did! She’s gorgeous.”
“Isn’t she!” Hinata agreed, before turning defensive again. “But she’s married! We shouldn’t talk about her like that!”
“What, just cause she’s married means she ain’t pretty anymore?” Osamu chimed in, and Hinata thought on it for a moment before he shrugged.
“I guess not,” he said, then shook his head. “What do you have prepared for today? I have la Sylphide.”
“James?” Osamu asked, and Hinata grinned.
“Might as well make a lasting impression, right?”
Osamu let out a low whistle. “Might as well indeed.”
“What about Bokkun? What’s he got?” Atsumu asked.
“Theme and Variations.”
“Good Lord. Y’all are here to show everybody up, ain’t ya?”
Something in Hinata’s grin turned feral. “We all know why you two are here. Meian-san’s choreography calls for Odette and Odile to be on stage at the same time, so the real question comes down to how we’re gonna fill out the rest of the cast.”
As if on cue, the door opened once more, and Kiyoko entered. “Hinata-senshu,” she said. “Bokuto-senshu’s almost done.”
“Right!” Hinata gave her a salute, which she returned with a smile before she turned around again and made her way down the hallway.
“Break a leg, Sho-kun,” Atsumu waved after him as he bounded down the hallway after her, and Hinata turned with an ecstatic wave over his own shoulder.
“I s’pose that puts me up next,” Osamu sighed, taking another swig of water before he turned to the wall, effortlessly lifting his leg up against the plaster and pressing in to an almost even split. Atsumu, forever taken aback by his brother’s endless flexibility, turned his back to the wall and bent downward until his elbows rested on the wooden floorboards. He’d have to warm up to Osamu’s level.
Quiet overcame the room. Atsumu turned his head toward the other two, who had stopped speaking to each other, and were both stretching on the barre.
Curiously enough, Atsumu just barely caught a pair of deep black eyes flitting away from him. A pang of annoyance rushed through him. So he wasn’t allowed to look at Sakusa, but Sakusa was allowed to look at him?
Leave it alone, Osamu’s voice chided him in his head, and Atsumu lay on the ground, taking one of his legs and stretching it back until his heel was planted on the ground next to him. The full-body stretch was something he’d just been able to do not three months ago, but now that he could, he couldn’t imagine going a day without feeling the stretch from his hamstring up to his pecs. He held it for a moment before releasing the leg and repeating with the other one.
At least it kept his mind off the infuriating man in front of him.
“‘Tsumu,” Osamu broke the silence, and Atsumu turned his head toward his brother. Osamu was frowning at the wall, lips bitten together as if he had something to say. Atsumu blinked, releasing his leg.
“Yeah?”
The door opened once more, and Kiyoko appeared.
“Osamu-senshu,” she said, “you’re next.”
“Comin’,” He moved away from the wall, hands on his lower back to push his hips forward. He turned to Atsumu, who had, by now, sat up straight.
“‘Samu?” he asked as the man in question grabbed his bag and water. Osamu waved him off.
“Nevermind,” he said, taking off after Kiyoko. Atsumu blinked after him, watching as he turned the corner down the hallway and disappeared from sight. He frowned. Osamu didn’t let much on, but he did have a certain tone whenever he wanted to talk about something serious.
Atsumu would have to deal with the dread later–he’d need all the focus he had for this audition.
Dancing pointe used to be intimidating to Atsumu, in the same way that wearing a leotard and tights in public used to be embarrassing. He’d been a bratty tween and refused to wear anything but ripped jeans and a tank top before they’d moved to Paris, but when he’d realized that wearing tights and leggings was thousands of times more comfortable, it had been impossible to get him out of them. Even now, standing in the February chill outside NNT, he wore leggings under his sweatpants, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and hands in his bomber jacket.
Sure, he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, but with his hair so meticulously styled to look as effortless as possible and limber legs and arms, he’d already been awake and to the gym for hours.
It was Osamu, next to him, who had just rolled out of bed–as if anyone had a chance figuring that out. The dark-haired twin had just run a brush and some gel through his fringe in the front and tossed on a pair of jeans over his tights and leotard (which, Atsumu would like everyone to know, he’d slept in), pulling a puffer coat and scarf on over the ensemble.
Three days had passed since auditions, and the only correspondence they’d received was a request to come to NNT today for cast posting. Upon seeing the school once more, Atsumu remembered what his brother had–or, more notably, hadn’t, told him that day.
Butterflies erupted in his stomach just at the thought of it. He’d completely forgotten about it between the nerves of Osamu’s audition (stupid, he knew, but whenever they performed together he had to worry if they’d both get in) and his own, and then in the cold-sweat-inducing thought that neither Bokuto nor Hinata would land the role as Siegfried.
He figured he wouldn’t mind if someone like Ushijima filled the role, or if an up-and-coming spitfire would take it.
What had kept him up the past two nights, however, was the bone-chilling idea of having to work with Sakusa. Even if he was cast as Odile, and only had the one dance, he’d still have to work in close contact with the man. Afraid of worrying it into fruition, he’d hit the gym harder than need be this morning, pounding out his frustration on the leg press.
Making it up the stairs to their apartment would be hell later.
“Wanna tell me why we’re standin’ out here in the cold instead’a goin’ inside and seein’ the cast list?” Osamu asked, and Atsumu steeled himself.
Right. Dancing pointe.
“What were ya gonna tell me at auditions?”
Osamu tucked his nose into his scarf, and Atsumu’s gut fell into his shoes. It wasn’t like his twin to keep information from him…right?
“Ya think now’s a good time to bring it up?”
“You thought auditions was a better time?”
At that, Osamu nodded in concession, his eyebrows bobbing up and down.
“Fair enough.”
“Well?”
Osamu looked up at the sky, his nose bright pink. Atsumu watched as his Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down, the butterflies in his stomach spreading to his chest and down his arms.
“No matter what happens,” Osamu said to the clouds, “who we’re cast as…” a wistful sigh came from him, and his shoulders relaxed.
He finally turned his gray eyes back at his brother.
“This is gonna be my last show, ‘Tsumu.”
Atsumu blinked.
Ran the words over in his head again.
Turned to the school.
And then the reality of what Osamu had just said sunk in.
“Ya wanna go over that again?” He asked, giving Osamu the dirtiest look he could. Osamu, unfazed, looked back at the sky.
“Suna ‘n I have been talkin’ ‘bout it,” he shrugged. “We’re both retirin’ after this season.”
The butterflies in his veins turned red-hot. Suna, Osamu’s fiancée, was currently under contract in London.
A contract, which, Atsumu remembered in the back of his head, would be up come the end of the year.
“Yer jokin’. Pullin’ my leg.”
Osamu’s face didn’t change, but he at least brought it back down to meet Atsumu’s gaze. “Why on god’s green earth would I do that?”
“Ya can’t be serious!” Atsumu found himself taking a step back, taking his suddenly-too-hot hands out of his coat pockets and clenching them into fists at his sides. “‘Samu, we’re on top of the world right now, and you wanna just…throw it all away?”
Osamu rolled his eyes. “Calm down, ya big baby. I ain’t throwin’ anything away.”
“Big baby?” Atsumu’s voice rose in pitch by an octave. “Yer the one quittin’ on me and I’m the big baby?”
“Yer the one makin’ a scene.”
“Because my only brother just told me he’s givin’ up the only thing he’s good at!”
Osamu let out a withering sigh, finally looking away from Atsumu and back at NNT. “Dancin’ ain’t the only thing I’m good at.”
“Oh, sorry,” Atsumu held up his hands. “Th’ only thing yer qualified to do.”
“Why d’ya think I spent so much time studyin’ when we were on the road?” Osamu turned back to him, finally starting to share some of the frustration Atsumu felt–his brows were knit together and his mouth had turned sour. “Dancin’s yer passion, ‘Tsumu.”
“And it ain’t yours?” Atsumu threw back at him. “No one in their right mind spends seventeen years doin’ somethin’ they don’t wanna do!”
“I have,” Osamu finally broke his hands out of his pockets, jabbing his pointer finger into his own chest. That took Atsumu back, and he blinked at his brother, whose upper lip had started to quiver. For a minute, he could do nothing but blink at the man in front of him, his previously hot blood turning cold. Taking his silence as a chance to explain, Osamu continued. “Have ya ever stopped to think that, just maybe, I’ve got a different dream than you? Huh? Maybe I had it at the beginning, so it hasn’t been seventeen years, like ya said, but I sure as hell haven’t been goin’ out of my way to book shows like you. Did ya know that I’m good at cookin’, ‘Tsumu?”
“‘Course!” Atsumu blinked at the sudden change of subject. “‘Course I do, ‘Samu, ya do all the cookin’ around the house and ya never shut up about it. How the hell could I not?”
“‘Tsumu, cookin’s all I wanna do anymore,” Osamu said, quieter, and Atsumu softened. “I’m sick’a the limelight. The constant worry if m’gonna have to do another fuckin’ interview. Findin’ pics of myself on some sort’a thirst trap page. I’m just…tired of it, ‘Tsumu. I wanna help athletes grow. I wanna cook the kinds’a foods that they’ll want to eat when it’s time to shred.”
Atsumu felt his shoulders tense; he knew that look from Osamu. He knew it better than he knew how to pirouette.
There was no way he was going to change his mind.
His fists unclenched at his sides, and he turned away from Osamu, stuffing them back in his pockets. He heard Osamu sigh behind him.
“Come on, ‘Tsumu. This is what we’ve been building toward, and ya know it. We’ll do this last show together, an’ then I’ll go back to college an’ get a degree in what I actually wanna do.”
Atsumu’s head snapped up, and he turned to his brother. Osamu blinked at the tears welling up in his eyes, and he softened. “Since when do ya keep secrets from me, ‘Samu? Ya talked to Suna about this before ya talked to me?”
Osamu threw his hands in the air. “I’m literally marryin’ the man in a year! What do you want from me?”
“Ya could’a given me a little more warnin’!”
“Why d’ya think I’ve been on the horn with Ma so much?”
“Ya talked to Ma before ya talked to me?”
Osamu’s hands fell to his sides, and his eyes narrowed. “So what if I did?”
Atsumu took a step closer, unable to keep his voice from raising in volume. “‘Samu, I’ve kept nothing from ya the last three years, and now suddenly m’hearin’ that you’ve been lyin’ to me for at least that long, and yer expecting me not to get upset about it?”
“I haven’t been lyin’—“
“Yes, you have!” Atsumu pushed him. “Ya think I’d’ve kept you doin’ somethin’ yer mad about?”
“Who ever said I was mad?” Osamu pushed him back. “If I’d’a been mad, I’d’a quit, and you know it, ‘Tsumu.”
“So why now?” Atsumu demanded, and Osamu quieted down, pouting his lips out in a thoughtful look. “Come on, ‘Samu. Why’ve ya kept goin’ just to give up now?”
“I told ya,” Osamu turned away from Atsumu, “I ain’t givin’ up. I’m just…I’m done, ‘Tsumu. I got one more in me, and I wanted it to be the big one.”
The big one. The rite of passage for ballerinas since Tchaikovsky composed the damn thing. Atsumu’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“Ya promise me you would’a quit sooner if you wanted to?”
Osamu let out a long breath. “I promise.”
Atsumu let that sink in for a solid minute. Never before had he thought he’d be so relieved to hear his brother wanted to quit if he wanted to, but…
But he had to admit it: Osamu was right. They’d been building to this for the last three years. He’d be a fool not to see it. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and faced the building again.
“What did Ma have to say about it?” He asked sullenly.
Osamu shrugged. “You know Ma.”
Atsumu smiled to himself. That meant she might have been surprised, but supportive. As always.
“She thinks you’ll be fine. Wants ya to settle down with a company fer once.”
Atsumu scoffed, angrily scrubbing at his face to get rid of the evidence of the tears he’d no doubt cry later. “She didn’t wanna tell me that herself?”
“I guess she was hopin’ you’d like this one. We both do.” Atsumu turned his head away at that, and Osamu finally put his hands back in his own pockets. “Ya aren’t gonna quit the show, are ya?”
He snapped his head back. “Quit the–you kiddin’? Why would I do that?”
“I’ve told ya a million times how petty ya are.” Atsumu sniffed at that. “Now, if ya aren’t gonna quit, can we please go inside to see which of us got what part? M’freezin’.”
Atsumu quieted, really taking in his brother for the first time in a long time. Yes, they had the same build and face, but for the first time, Atsumu couldn’t put ‘same dreams’ under their list of shared features.
Part of him shriveled up at that.
“‘Tsumu?”
“...Fine,” he said, and Osamu nodded, leading the way to the door and holding it open for his brother. Atsumu stared at it and Osamu for a moment before finally uprooting himself from the ground, and leaving the shriveled up part of him out in the cold.
The inside of the building had a small landing, but then immediately a wide staircase led to the bulletin board upon which the cast list would hang. Atsumu only knew that because Bokuto and Hinata were already there, sitting under the board with their backs to the wall, facing the doors. Hinata leapt to his feet, waving at the two.
“You finally came inside!” He said. “Come on!”
“Hold on, Hinata,” Osamu laughed behind Atsumu, who was staring at the stairs like they’d offended him personally. The large landing had two additional staircases on either side of it, leading to the actual classrooms above the opera house’s stage directly to the side of the school. They’d be full today. Full of students who wanted to dance. Maybe even full of students who dreamed like Atsumu.
But, equally likely, just as full of students who dreamed of doing something else, like Osamu.
Atsumu gave Hinata a perfunctory wave and plastered on the fakest grin he could manage as Osamu stepped up next to him.
“Ya really want outta this?” He whispered, giving his brother a discerning look. He didn’t have to explain what ‘this’ meant; the thrill of the unknown on the way to see the cast list, the rush of the curtains opening, the smell of chalk dust, salonpas, and Biofreeze in the air…
Atsumu drank it in like a parched man making his way across the desert.
Osamu’s lips pursed together. “Yeah.”
“Miyans!” Bokuto brought them out of their own little world, and Atsumu gave Osamu one last, firm nod. Osamu returned it.
“Bokkun,” Atsumu called, turning his attention at the large man standing at the edge of the stairs with Hinata. He started his way up the stairs. “I told ya a million times, we’re just Miyas, not ‘Miyans.’”
And soon we’ll be just Miya, not even Miyas.
“But Miyans sounds better,” Bokuto grinned. Atsumu gave him a withering look. He tried–he really did–to be cross with the man, but, coming to the same level as the man, he found he couldn’t help the genuine grin that came to his lips.
“Yer wild.”
“Come on!” Hinata was in front of him in a dash, grabbing Atsumu’s hands and bodily yanking him toward the bulletin board.
“Sho-kun!” Atsumu laughed. The ginger never remembered how strong he actually was. “Take it easy!”
“Look, look, look!” Hinata pointed at the board, where a simple white piece of printer paper hung, tacked to the cork with a clear pushpin. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the size of the font, and Hinata was already pulling Osamu up the stairs, but Atsumu was already reading what might as well have been a death toll.
Odette - Miya Atsumu
Odile - Miya Osamu
Siegfried - Sakusa Kiyoomi
Logically, he knew there were more names on the list. Of course it wouldn’t stop at three–Swan Lake had a billed list of at least 34–but he just…couldn’t bring his eyes away from Siegfried.
He read it over and over, willing it to change in his head to Hinata, or Bokuto, or even Ushijima. He even read on, finally, searching for names. Ushijima had been cast as Rothbart‘s human double. Hinata as Benny von Sommerstern. Bokuto as Rothbart’s owl double. Atsumu blinked back up to the top of the bill, feeling (for the second time that day) dread icing its way into his insides.
The heavy feeling of someone’s eyes on his face snapped him out of his spiral, and he whirled his head to the left.
There, standing at the top of the second flight of stairs, stood the man himself, Sakusa Kiyoomi, frowning down at him.
This day just keeps getting better and better.