Chapter Text
The moment before his car crashes into the cargo bay of a truck, Atsumu thinks he should have tried Mr. Horiguchi's tuna tataki.
His brother talked about the contrast between fish and apple cider vinegar as if he was describing a poem, and Atsumu has dreamed for weeks of marrying the raw meat and white radish within his palate.
Unfortunately, a poorly paid 50-year-old from Kansai decided to blast all his plans.
Well.
Not that Atsumu wasn't aware of the risks of driving with a BAC above 0.03%.
First and foremost, he will have to pay a fine of 500,000 yen and, in the worst-case scenario, his driver's license will be confiscated.
Perhaps he had allowed himself one glass too many, but the grapefruit-flavored chuhai had won his curiosity.
Now.
Atsumu was ready to take responsibility if he turned out slightly tipsy during a police check. But he was quite certain that light was fucking green.
He remembers reading that 10% of road accidents are provoked by not respecting the safety distance, a small percentage by speeding, a good part by errors of distraction behind the wheel, and that the day in which more deaths are detected is Thursday.
Atsumu has no idea why the fuck the truck driver is crossing the road without giving a look at his Toyota, but finds it quite ironic that the crash happened on a Thursday night.
As Taylor Swift's voice tells him that everything will be alright, the boy realizes that it won't be alright at all. The radio is overwhelmed by a ferocious screeching sound; metal and glass shatter and Atsumu can feel the ferrous taste of blood into his mouth.
At the last moments of life, it is said that the sense of hearing is the last to leave. Yet, the noises in his ears were already muffled and the volleyball player was no longer able to distinguish vowels or the cadence of words.
It's just the annoying buzz in the back of his mind that keeps him grounded in reality.
He soon recognizes another sound, steel screeching against what's left of the windshield; he tries to curl up, but the movement causes a painful contraction in his abdomen.
His vision begins to blur, and alarming dark spots dance in front of his eyes. He loses the ability to open or close the eyelids. Maybe it's a good thing since when they were wide open they could find nothing but darkness.
His fingers refuse to move, his mouth to cooperate, and his ears to catch any sound. He lets out a low, panicked moan.
Atsumu has no idea why the fuck the truck driver is crossing the road without giving a look at his Toyota, but he's well aware of what's about to happen.
He knows his body is getting colder; that his legs have lost all sensation, and that his arms have abandoned him forever.
He knows that the last faint flame of energy in his body is slowly fading.
He counts his heart's beats because, as long as they persist, he's certain that he's still in the living world.
One of the typical near-death experiences outlined in books is to witness the film of your miserable existence flowing in seconds in front of your nose.
Atsumu doesn't discover if that's true. He clings to the feeling of lightness that takes him away from the lights of Osaka, and he imagines that he's already on his way to Odori Park.
He thinks of what awaits him after his last breath, and he remembers the painting of the Japanese afterlife that his mother used to adore. He regrets not having seen it in person.
He regrets having spent 6,500 yen for the national team ticket, too. Perhaps, if the game had been on a Friday, Atsumu wouldn't have been involved in the accident.
The void in his chest becomes unbridgeable.
He thinks he would have wished with every ounce of himself to make peace with his brother.
Atsumu doesn't know he's already dead.
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The first image that stands out before his eyes is a large crowd pressing from all sides.
A dazzling neon-lights wall draws sinister shadows on the faces of the people who have flocked to the car crash place. The red police sirens reflect on their clothes as if they were a mirror.
The roads that used to be empty suddenly become crowded, and a buzz of confused voices rises from the streets.
Billboard monitors flash in the fog and fast-food restaurants close their shutters. It almost seems to be in Blade Runner's Los Angeles, where darkness and rain dominate the desolate metropolis.
Also, the air seems to get colder. However, in reality, Atsumu has no idea if that's true.
Atsumu has no idea because he cannot perceive the surrounding temperature. The winter wind caresses his skin, but no shiver runs down his backbone.
The boy stands in front of the accident scene, his gaze lost between the Senri skyscraper and its summit disappearing into the clouds.
How did he get there?
A few passersby are gesticulating, some are covering their eyes, while the rest of them is giving their witness to the police officers.
A mother pushes her son away from the street, reassuring him with sweet words, and the two figures are hidden by the mist.
Atsumu leans forward and looks at one fragment of the windshield. The collision with the truck had been so powerful that glass shards reached the pavement. When he looks up, the blood freezes in his veins.
He almost needs to sit down to catch his breath.
The moment of impact still lives in his mind, and the boy is sure he's been involved in the fender bender.
But there must've been some kind of mistake because it's his body that the doctors just pulled out from the wrecked car.
The two men place the body on a stretcher and gently push it into the ambulance van. Atsumu meets the dead man's sunken eyes before his legs give way under his weight.
The rational part of his brain tries to convince him that it's only a nightmare. There's no way they could be the same person.
Still, the dark undercut and slightly drooping lids are the same features he encounters every morning in front of the mirror. He even recognizes the scar on his left eyebrow, just before his deadpan face is covered with a cloth.
If the circumstances had been happier, Atsumu would probably have joked that the world would have been a better place with two versions of himself, but now he has a feeling that all of this has nothing to do with a nightmare.
He's about to call the police officers to ask for explanations when a figure passes him without paying him any attention.
The boy takes a few seconds too long to realize that the woman has just walked through him.
Atsumu bows his head and sees how his torso still looks intact, but it's now shrouded in a strange bluish light.
All of a sudden he feels out of reality, with no control over his actions and unaffected by what surrounds him.
It's like a glass wall separates him from the city; as if the world appears lifeless and colorless.
His arms glow with an unusually clear glow, and his fingers hold back a translucent reflection.
Time begins to pass slower and with it the life of the people of Osaka.
Atsumu connects the last point and finds himself gasping on the paved road, searching for oxygen. He trembles from head to toe and his lungs scream in pain.
The awareness of having detached himself from the real world is tearing his soul apart.
A stifled sob escapes his throat. By now, he has understood that no one will ever be able to hear it.
He squeezes his eyelids so tightly that they may almost fall out. Atsumu has never let weakness overcome him but, by this time, he no longer has a reason to fight.
He crouches on the street and notices that his cheeks are wet with tears.
He wants to scream.
He wants to find the strength to get up and scream with all the breath in his throat.
He wants to tear away what's left of his soul for good, provided he has one left.
But he can't.
Atsumu finds out that he doesn't feel the need to take a breath, because the blood is no more pumped into his lungs.
He punches the asphalt and suffers as soon as he realizes he's not feeling any physical pain. He learns that the dead are not allowed to do that either.
His head swings down, dragging the boy towards emptiness.
He lets himself drown until he realizes he has hit rock bottom. Only then does his wheezing lessen and his muscle spasms permanently cease.
He's tired.
He's really tired.
His senses are clouded and his eyesight is blurred. He fights to stay on his feet as the sound of sirens echoes in the back of his mind.
Atsumu knows ghosts don't feel cold, but he wouldn't know what else to call the feeling that is making its way through his chest.
His eyes travel dull in the crowd and stop only after reaching the opposite sidewalk.
The street lamp's light outlines a stealthy profile in the shadows.
The mysterious figure's head snaps in his direction, and Atsumu finds himself making brief eye contact with the boy.
His gaze sinks into those ebony eyes that seem to capture every color around him, like a massive black hole.
The exchange of glances lasts too short for Atsumu to identify the stranger, but long enough to be sure that he has crossed two dark irises.
He takes a shaky step towards the figure, but it has already vanished into thin air.
He wonders if his brain has played another bitter trick on him, but the boy's image is still vivid in his mind. Has anyone actually seen him?
He stands still in the middle of the road.
The rain patters on the asphalt and the doctors remove his body from the area of the accident.