Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Well? What do you think?"

Atsumu shook his head. "I don't know."

"Oh, come on. You'd save some money."

True. Splitting the costs for a few months would be convenient for him, and he also needed it. What he didn't need though, and honestly didn't even want to have, was a roommate. It had been years since he had shared his personal space with someone, and that someone had always been his brother. 

"Look," Oikawa continued. "You don't have to. But I've known Hinata all my life, and I assure you he's a good guy. He won't give you any trouble."

Atsumu huffed skeptically. 

"It's only for a couple of months," Oikawa insisted. "Besides, you can always kick him out." 

"Fine," Atsumu relented. "But he has to pay exactly half the rent and bills. And I have no intention of babysitting him just because he is - how old did you say he is?"

"Twenty-four," Oikawa replied, before bursting out laughing. "But believe me love, the only one who actually needs a babysitter is you."

"Fuck off, Oikawa."

From: Oikawa

I told him to text u. This is his number: xxx xxx xxx

ok

u owe me a big favor 

Actually, you owe me one 

What do u mean

You'll find out soon :P

*

Hinata Shouyou was the kind of boy Atsumu would surely have fallen in love with if only he had been ten years younger: all smiles and freckles, caramel skin and red hair. It was as if he had just blossomed from the sunset, as if the sun itself had chosen to live inside him, all cozy and curled up between his ribs.

Atsumu could clearly imagine himself, smug and arrogant, getting thunderstruck during high school, pointing his ravenous eyes at Hinata's equally ravenous face and declaring aloud: ONE DAY YOU’RE GONNA BE MINE AND I WILL BE YOURS. Before, he used to think with his dick and believe that he had happiness inside his mouth. At that time, happiness was easy - everything was.

Love for Atsumu used to be effortless and natural and impetuous. It pervaded him every single day, crashing down on him like hailstones the size of tennis balls. It was a vehement, restless, and noisy love. It was a love that liked to sing at the top of its lungs even if it didn't hit a single note. Atsumu liked to lick lips and squeeze hands tightly. In the love from before was the impatience and harmony with which Atsumu lived life.

Now, that love was long gone. Atsumu was not ten years younger, and above all, he had no intention of getting a crush on a twenty-four-year-old boy, no matter how charming Hinata was. He no longer believed in that eagerness to desire and worship a body, in that irrepressible urge to swallow someone's soul by counting his vertebrae at night, hands between legs, mouth and teeth against lips and neck, in the process of sharing intimacy, secrets, systole and diastole. 

When he saw Hinata for the first time outside his door, holding a fluorescent green suitcase, he allowed himself only a few moments of imperceptible astonishment, inevitably magnetized by his features, before stating:

"I don't want any delays with payments. I won’t anticipate nor lend you any money. We'll take equal shifts for cleaning. If you want to bring someone home, don't, or I'll kick you out. The walls are way too thin and there’s a hotel fifty meters away. It's cheap and clean as well. Any questions?"

Hinata smiled gratefully, as if Atsumu had welcomed him by offering him a tray full of doughnuts. Something inside his chest melted like a stick of butter, something that Atsumu immediately proceeded to shush and then, for good measure, strangle. 

"I think I got everything!" exclaimed Hinata. "Thank you for your hospitality, Miya-san!"

Atsumu shook his head, then allowed him to enter. 

And Hinata, exactly like light, entered everywhere.

*

Atsumu sat down at the counter with a sigh. Osamu stared at him for a while, his eyebrows slightly arched in a quiet expression of disgust. Then, without a word, he filled his glass. 

Atsumu chugged the sake, buried his face in his arms and groaned. 

"I can't, " he muttered, the smell of alcohol in his nostrils. "I absolutely fucking can’t."

"What's wrong? Your new roommate is giving you trouble?"

Atsumu shivered. Osamu refilled his glass again. Atsumu drank. 

"He makes me breakfast," Atsumu finally said. 

Osamu blinked, confused. 

"What?"

"I said he makes me fucking breakfast. And he leaves me very annoying but yet very cute notes stuck to the fridge, like 'remember to eat, Miya-san! Meals are important!' Holy shit. Breakfast. I mean, not even our mother used to make us breakfast. I hate him."

Osamu blinked again, this time amazed. Then he filled his glass too, drank, and said: "Why don't you introduce us?"

"No fucking way. He's twenty-four years old."

"Is that why you're so frustrated? Because you can't date someone eleven years younger?"

"Who said anything about dating him?"

"You chugged almost half a bottle," Osamu replied. "I've never seen anyone drinking this much just because their roommate makes breakfast. What's his name again?"

Hinata Shouyou. His name was Hinata Shouyou. Hinata Shouyou was a professional volleyball player with red hair and the sun settled somewhere inside his soul. Hinata Shouyou had signed a two-year contract with the MSBY - Black Jackals team, and had returned to Japan after two years spent in Brazil playing beach volleyball. 

Atsumu had begun to dislike both the sun and Brazil. Hinata's skin was way too golden and Portuguese was a language way too sensual, so whenever Hinata talked on the phone with his Brazilian friends, something inside Atsumu's stomach sizzled and pulled and twisted. In addition to the sun and Brazil and Portuguese, Atsumu also hated Oikawa, because that shitty idea had been his.

Oikawa had told him: he won't give you any trouble, don't worry. 

Well, Oikawa was a fucking liar. Shouyou was giving him plenty of trouble. Not only was he stupidly handsome, but he was also kind. It was as if Shouyou felt a dazzling and genuine love for life. The hues in his tone of voice, the brilliant colors of his expressions, recalled a celebration. Shouyou was viscerally grateful to be alive, grateful for the possibility of a future.

Atsumu hated him, along with Brazil and Portuguese and the sun and Oikawa. Because it was impossible to remain indifferent to that specific selfless kindness, that specific joy, it was impossible not to become affected even with just the tips of his fingers. Shouyou sparkled. Shouyou sparkled and spread golden glitter around him that ended up everywhere. And glitter is goddamn hard to take off.  

To: Oikawa

fuck you

:PPPP

*

To write, Atsumu needed two things: an empty room and a lock on the door. The awareness of unbreakable solitude: that was the key that allowed him to immerse himself in words, that allowed him to plunge his hand inside a well where he could extract the precise terms to elicit the precise scene he had in his mind. 

Writing, for Atsumu, meant balance. It meant being a tightrope walker and hovering somewhere between imagination and the elaboration of imagination in an attempt to make concrete at least a crumb of the abstract. Writing, in short, was bullshit, not only because it didn't pay, but because it meant spending a large part of life in an incomprehensible place, multifaceted as a kaleidoscope, trying to put things in order without vomiting and without falling off the tightrope and managing, at the same time, to grasp a shred of truth and then describe it, conjure it, through language. 

Writing was immensely exhausting. It was a fucking nightmare. And it was his only reason for living. 

There was a thread, the thread of inspiration, to which Atsumu had to cling. This thin thread nourished the prose, the soul of the story. Atsumu had to maintain a constant level of concentration, otherwise the thread would slip through his fingers like smoke. Losing that thread meant losing hours, if not days, if not weeks, if not months, before he was able through a miracle to spot it again, a faint reflection of reddish light in a world that hid everything, as if covered by a glove. This is why Atsumu cared particularly about his inaccessible room. This is why Atsumu cared particularly about not being disturbed. He didn't want to lose the thread, he didn't want to waste time, he didn't want to resurface from the ocean.

Shouyou knew this. It had been one of the first things Atsumu had told him when he moved in. If I am in my room, unless it is urgent, and by urgent I mean a matter of life and death, do not disturb me. Atsumu had recommended himself.

Yet Shouyou knocked. Atsumu let go of inspiration with the same tragic expression of a child when the balloon slips out of his hand. He returned to reality and got up from his chair with a growl. 

When he opened the door, Hinata gave him a smile that Atsumu did not return.

"What?" he asked, coldly. 

Hinata stopped smiling. Atsumu felt a little guilty, but not enough to apologize. 

"I got some okonomiyaki," Hinata replied, a little unsure.

"Great," snorted Atsumu wryly. "You want a prize or something?"

Hinata did not answer. The warm light disappeared from his irises as if someone had sucked it away. Now Atsumu felt quite guilty.

"Sorry."

Hinata shook his head. "No, you’re right. I didn't mean to disturb you. It's just that we don't eat together often, do we? Besides, Osaka street food is famous all over the world, and they looked delicious to me, so I thought I'd get some for you, too."

Atsumu stared at him. His cheeks grew hot. 

"Sorry,” he repeated. “I've been a dick." 

"Maybe a little," Hinata conceded, then returned to smiling. "But you can always make it up to me."

"They’re really good," Atsumu muttered after the first bite. Shouyou stared at him wide-eyed, awaiting his verdict. "Thanks."

Shouyou blushed. Atsumu nearly choked.

"Why are you making that face?"

Shouyou lifted his chin. "It's just that you don't praise me very often, you know?"

"Oh, c’mon. I’m not that bad. I praise you sometimes."

"You don’t," Hinata replied. "But I really liked it, Miya-san."

Atsumu again sensed that warmth scratching his cheeks, but did his best to ignore it.

They continued to eat in silence. It was not uncomfortable. Atsumu was strangely at ease, considering he had been used to eating lunch alone for years. A vivid curiosity bounced between them, animating the kitchen. Atsumu sensed it flickering inside his eyes.

"Can I ask you a question?" asked Hinata after a while.

"Shoot," Atsumu replied.  

"What are you writing?"

Atsumu hesitated before answering, "Right now, nothing. I'm doing research."

"Research?"

"Yeah," Atsumu said. "Before I start writing something, I have to plan. And I have to know the setting, as well as the plot and characters. It's crucial that I have a precise and detailed knowledge of what I'm talking about, otherwise I can't find the exact words. And it's important that the story always turns out realistic, even if I'm telling something surreal."

Hinata whistled impressed. "That sounds tough. You have to know a lot of things. I could never do it."

"And I could never manage to practice six hours a day either. It's already a miracle for me to go running for half an hour in the evening. We do what we are able to do, whether we like it or not."

Shouyou smiled. "And now what are you researching on?"

"On how to cook pizza," Atsumu replied. "And on rabbits."

Hinata blinked, confused. Atsumu barely held back a laugh.

"You see, the main character is a pizza maker. He has been making pizza for over forty years. One day he wakes up to find that the earth has been invaded by giant rabbits stuffed with dynamite with suicidal instincts who want to blow themselves up along with humans. The rabbits can only be stopped in one way: with pizza. Pizza is like garlic for vampires, a kind of rabbit repellent. But it has to be real pizza, not that prepackaged junk with ketchup instead of tomato, so this guy, whose name is Ciro, starts teaching people how to make a proper Neapolitan pizza to save the world."

Shouyou stared at him in puzzlement. Atsumu remained impassive. Shouyou at that point smiled nervously and said: "Well, that sounds… that sounds really interesting!"

At that point, Atsumu laughed. "I'm joking. There are no rabbits or pizza makers. There are kittens, though. Adorable orange kittens who want to slaughter humanity. Humanity and dogs."

Shouyou hesitated.

"I'm joking again."

Shouyou puffed up his cheeks. "You really don't want to tell me what you're working on?"

"I’m working on a novel," Atsumu said, this time sincere. "It's about a boy and the sea."

Atsumu was surprised at the ease with which he answered. It was something only Osamu and Oikawa knew. 

"A novel about a boy and the sea," Shouyou repeated. "It’s not easy writing about the sea. Or about a boy."

"No, it’s not."

"Can I read something?"

"Not right now," Atsumu replied. "Maybe when it's finished."

Hinata did not insist.

"What about you? How are you doing with the team?"

Hinata melted into a smile. "Great! They're all so talented and good!"

"You're the libero, right?"

Hinata shook his head. 

"Nope," he replied. "I’m the opposite hitter. I can jump." 

Atsumu did not understand what he meant, but he apologized. Hinata smiled.

"Don't worry, everyone is always wrong. But the fun comes just when people expect me to be a libero and then they see me playing. By the way, the first game is scheduled for next week. You could come and watch it." Hinata stared at him, tilting his head, his eyes suddenly alight. "I’d really like that."

The specter of a shiver rippled down his spine. Atsumu choked it before it could turn into an actual shiver. The way Hinata had said I'd really liked that suggested a more intimate, almost provocative undertone. Was he flirting? 

Hinata, however, returned to his radiant and naive gleam. That hint of malice vanished as if it had never existed. Atsumu decided to believe that he had imagined it all. 

"Do you do something else? I mean, besides writing."

Atsumu stiffened. There was almost always a criticism hidden behind that question. Atsumu had not gone to college. He did not have a permanent contract. And above all, he had no intention whatsoever of "starting" a family, as if 'family' was an artificial process, something assembled like Ikea bookcases.

Everyone judged him: peers, parents, and sometimes even strangers. The lifestyle he had chosen for himself was the epitome of neglect and failure. He should be ashamed. But since Atsumu wasn’t, it was others who were ashamed of him. 

Atsumu did not want a regular job. And he didn't want a family. And also, he didn't like women, which apparently was the most dreadful thing he could do to threaten the safety of society. 

"No," Atsumu replied. "I mean, I mainly write. And I’m good at saving money, so I can afford it. I like casual jobs, because I can't stay in one place for more than a few months."

He looked at Hinata expecting to find disappointment in his gaze. However, his curious expression remained unchanged.

"I occasionally go to help my brother," Atsumu then added, more quietly. "On weekends."

"Your brother? I didn't know you had a brother!"

"He’s my twin brother. His name is Osamu. I hate him. He has a restaurant."

"Where?"

"Nearby. Ten minutes by car. The restaurant is called Onigiri Miya," Atsumu replied, not even trying to hide the pride that lit his cheeks. "It's quite famous, but since you've only been in Osaka a short time..."

"Oh, I’ve heard of it!" Shouyou interrupted him, elated. "I mean, I've never been there, but my teammates love it!"

"I can take you there if you want," Atsumu said. "It's on me for being a dick before."

"Really?" exclaimed Hinata, glittering again.

"Yeah, really. How about tonight?" 

Hinata stared at him. Then he smiled. Mischief gushed from his pupils. 

"I’d really like it," he replied.

This time, Atsumu could not pretend to have imagined everything.

Going to Onigiri Miya for dinner was a terrible idea. 

"So you’re the famous Hinata-kun," Osamu said, his lips curved in a sneer. 

Atsumu thought: shut up, asshole.

Osamu thought: no fucking way. I'm having fun tonight.

Hinata widened his eyes. "Famous?"

"Oh yeah," Osamu said, his smile growing wider and wider. "Apparently 'Tsumu can’t shut the fuck up about you."

Hinata turned to Atsumu, surprised but also pleased. "Is that so?"

"He says you're the best roommate ever."

"Hey!" interrupted Atsumu, glowering at him. "I never said that."

His brother snorted. "No, that's right, you never said that. But you've talked for hours about how neat and respectful and polite Hinata-kun is, how good his miso soup is, how-

"'Samu!"

Osamu laughed. Atsumu looked at Hinata. "Let's go away," he said. "This was the worst idea ever."

But Hinata shook his head and sat down at the counter. Atsumu was left with no choice but to sit next to him.

"What do you want to drink?" 

"A peach juice," Hinata replied. Atsumu stared at him shocked. 

"What are you, five years old?"

"I only drink alcohol on weekends," Hinata explained. "And very little. Nutrition is extremely important."

"Oh, right," Atsumu replied. Because of volleyball. Sure. Then he turned to Osamu.

"For me… I don’t know, something non-alcoholic ‘cause I have to drive."

"You came by car?" his brother asked him, surprised. "That's strange. You usually come on foot so you can get wasted until you forget what your name is."

"'Samu," hissed Atsumu. "Shut the fuck up or I'll shut it for you with my fist."

"You seem a little tense tonight, ‘Tsumu," replied Osamu with a grin. "Nervous about your first date?"

Hinata laughed. Atsumu gave it up and stopped talking. 

Osamu served them onigiri. Hinata extolled their deliciousness for a good ten minutes. Atsumu stared disgustedly at his brother as he bloated with self-satisfaction like a turkey.

"You know, we also used to play volleyball when we were younger," Osamu told Hinata, pouring him more juice.

"Really?"

"Really. We used to play in high school. 'Tsumu was very good."

Atsumu did not answer, still sulking. Hinata turned to look at him with wide eyes.

"I didn't know that! What position did you play?"

"Setter," Atsumu replied, because he could pout at his brother, yes, but not at Hinata. "'Samu was a middle blocker. He sucked."

"Oh, fuck off. You cried for three months when I left the club in my third year."

"Yes, because of joy."

"I bet you're still crying about that."

"The only thing that actually makes me cry is that I chose to come here tonight, you fucking-

Shouyou cleared his throat in his glass of juice. Atsumu shut up instantly.

Shouyou looked at Osamu. "Miya-san, why did you quit volleyball?"

"I liked volleyball, but I liked cooking more," he replied. "So I started taking professional classes. And stop with this 'Miya-san,' you can call me Osamu. There's no need to be this formal."

Hinata blushed. Atsumu, at that point, was certain that by the end of the night he would have killed his brother.

For the rest of dinner, Atsumu spoke little. He merely listened to Hinata and his brother talk about cooking and volleyball. Atsumu was annoyed. Or rather, he was worried. He felt like a blanket eaten by moths: full of holes, inside which Hinata could curl up and doze like a cat. Atsumu felt vulnerable, destabilized, his bland and discolored but solid reality had turned bright red and was covered with cracks, as if at any moment it could crumble over him, beneath him, on him.

Before, Atsumu believed he was immortal. As he grew up, Atsumu realized that he was neither immortal nor indestructible. Atsumu was as fragile as any other single living being. Growing up meant that, finding comfort no longer in his own individual strength or light, but in common weakness. He sought stability in the knowledge that everyone, sooner or later, would fail at something. It was a cowardly and petty way of thinking, yet it was reliable. 

Now, on the other hand, Atsumu looked at Shouyou and felt the contours of his reality flaking away as if someone were pulling on a thread. Atsumu blinked and found himself inside a crumbling house, his body shaking exactly as his hands. Hinata radiated so much life, that he was almost painful to watch.

When they finished eating, Atsumu tried to pay, but Osamu shook his head.

"Look," Atsumu growled exasperatedly. "I'm too tired to punch you, so just take the fucking money and let us go. Shouyou-kun wakes up at five o'clock in the morning."

Osamu opened his eyes wide in bewilderment, then smiled amusedly. 

"No," he replied. Shouyou's gaze bounced from face to face. "Dinner is on me, for teasing you before and because I wanna thank Shouyou-kun. "

Atsumu blushed, realizing he had called him by name. Osamu's eyes sparkled. 

"Thank me?" asked Shouyou, confused. "And for what?"

"For making breakfast," Osamu said. "There's nothing kinder than making food for someone. Food always pays off with food, so please come to see me anytime."

Hinata flushed. Atsumu flushed. Osamu smiled. "Now get lost," he said.

In the car, Shouyou told him: "Osamu-san is super cool.”

Atsumu nodded. “I know.”

Shouyou also told him: “You called me by my name."

Atsumu's fingers tightened in a spasm around the steering wheel. "Oh yeah? I didn't notice."

"I really liked it."

Shouyou used that soft, modulated tone of voice again, a feather on the back of his hand.

"Good,” Atsumu replied. And then he added: “You can call me Atsumu too. I mean, no one uses my last name anyway."

Shouyou moved. Atsumu heard the rustle of his body against the seat.

"So… Atsumu-san?"

Atsumu nodded, staring at the road without blinking. Then he swallowed. 

"Atsumu-san," Shouyou repeated slowly, as if savoring the sound of his name on his tongue, in his throat.

The air crackled. Atsumu could almost see it, the electricity sizzling between his eyelashes. It would have been enough to respond in the same warm tone of voice. All it would have taken was to brush Shouyou’s wrist with his hand, to look into his eyes, to let the provocation, the hunger, sink in. And then the night would have ended with Shouyou's teeth deep stuck in his neck, and Atsumu's hands inside his pants. 

But how far did he have to go to touch someone? How far did he have to go to be touched by someone? 

Way too far, Atsumu thought. Growing up meant losing courage too. 

So he remained silent. Without moving or turning to look at him. He ignored Shouyou's sweet, tempting voice with the same haughtiness as the prey when it senses the trap. 

Shouyou said no more.

From: Osamu

you’re basically his dog

i love him, tell him to come more often

*

Atsumu remembered Shouyou's match when it was long over.

"Fuck," he hissed, grabbing his phone to see the time. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

It was too late. He slammed his forehead against his clenched fist, then shot a dirty look at the notes he had taken for the novel as if it were their fault. Lately, Atsumu had been caught up in writing in a sicker way than usual, almost pathological. It was a time when ideas were flooding into his head, but none proved to be alive enough, bright enough to be watered, nurtured, and encouraged. Atsumu had set aside his novel, started eighteen short stories in four days, and then returned to work on the novel without finishing even a single one. He was eager to write, but that tormented franticness made his mind slippery, prevented ideas from adhering, from reaching his throat, his soul. Stopping for a while would have been a good solution, but Atsumu hated taking breaks, even brief ones. Stopping terrified him, because he feared he would never start again.

Fortunately, Shouyou was there, forcing him to at least have dinner. Atsumu, on the other hand, had been so dumb that he forgot to watch his first match that day. 

I'll take him to eat at 'Samu's, he thought, biting his tongue. Then I don’t know, I'll buy him something to apologize. Fucking christ, how the fuck did I forget?  

As he waited for Shouyou to come home, Atsumu looked up for the result. 

Shit, he thought, biting his tongue again. Hinata's team had lost three to zero. Atsumu, however, clicked on a video: he was curious to see how he played. He wanted to know what he meant when he said he could jump. 

And well, Atsumu understood it. The resolution was grainy and fuzzy, but Shouyou’s elevation was sensational. Atsumu watched every video he could find, increasingly impressed. Shouyou was not kidding when he said he was good. It really looked like he had invisible wings attached to his back.

Atsumu continued to wait. At dinner he ate a few spoonfuls of rice, drinking beer. It was frustrating. There was too much silence. It was a little depressing. 

After dinner, he played Genshin Impact, irritated, then got bored and started playing Fortnite hoping to distract himself, but the result was that he became even more nervous. Then he played Animal Crossing, the only hope for regaining his lost calm, and caught three carps and a goldfish before turning off the television with a growl. 

At two o'clock in the morning, he decided to text Hinata.

To: Shouyou

Hey

u okay?

tsymu-san

im fine

good

u staying out tonight?

Why?

do u miss me?

im sorry im totally wasted

sorrry

didn't you drink just on weekends?

haha true

but today was a bad day 

where are you?

i don't know

what do u mean u dont know

i don't know.

i'm lost, i guess.

are you alone?

yes

honestly i just don't know how to come back home

wtf

why the fuck didn't you call me? 

send me your location

ill come and get you 

no

I dont wanna bother you

shouyou for fucks sake

send me your goddamn location 

i swear ill kick you out of the apartment

[location]

dont move

im on my way

thank you

i am so sorry

Atsumu found Hinata sitting on a wall. He was staring fixedly at the sidewalk and nervously swinging his legs. Atsumu knocked against the car window.

Shouyou lifted his face. His eyes sparkled as soon as he saw him, then the relief was replaced by a flash of insecurity.

Atsumu watched him get into the car with the same expression as a cold, abandoned puppy. He smelled a pungent odor of alcohol as Hinata sat next to him.

It's okay, he wanted to say. Tomorrow will be better.  

But he said nothing, and they set off again in silence. 

After a few moments, Hinata whispered, "I'm so sorry."

"And for what?"

"For making you leave at 2:30 in the morning just to pick me up, in the first place. Oikawa-san told me you didn't want to babysit. I'm so sorry, Atsumu-san."

Atsumu felt a little guilty. He clearly remembered reiterating that he did not want to babysit, but that situation was different; Atsumu was not bothered. Atsumu was worried. 

"Stop apologizing," he grunted, without taking his eyes off the road. "Osaka is a huge city. It's normal to get lost, you just moved here. But you have to call me when you have a problem, especially if you’re alone. You’re not a burden, okay?" 

Shouyou said nothing. Atsumu stopped in the proximity of the red light.

"Did you come to watch the match today?"

For a moment, Atsumu was tempted by the possibility of lying. But then he shook his head.

"No," he replied. "I completely forgot about that. I'm sorry."

Shouyou smiled and shook his head. "No, no, I'm glad you didn't come. We lost, you know."

"I know. I saw the result, and I saw some action. You're good."

"Are you trying to cheer me up?"

"No," Atsumu said. "I know that losing three to zero sucks. And I know it was your first match here. But I've seen you play, I've seen you jump, and you really have something special. You don't need to be a volleyball expert to say that."

The traffic light turned green. Atsumu started up again. 

"Atsumu-san, do you have a girlfriend?" asked Shouyou after a while.

Atsumu smiled at the road. "What makes you think it's a girl?" 

"Then you have a boyfriend?" asked Shouyou again. "Wait, let me rephrase: are you dating someone?"

Atsumu's smile grew wider. "No," he replied.

"I'm not with someone either. I mean, in case you were wondering. I'm available. And I think I'm quite nice, too." 

Atsumu laughed. "You're also quite drunk, Shouyou-kun."

"True," Shouyou agreed. "But I'm always available."

Atsumu did not respond. He continued to drive in silence. Shouyou said no more, but rested his cheek against his shoulder and closed his eyes. Atsumu let him.

Atsumu opened his eyes at 5:48 a.m., after just over an hour and a half of sleep. 

Shit, he thought. He turned restlessly in bed, hoping to fall back asleep, but he felt himself becoming more and more awake moment by moment. He decided, therefore, to get up. 

He went to the kitchen and began to prepare tamago kake gohan for two. He cooked placidly, accompanied by the morning silence, the gentle golden light of the sun slowly intensifying, brightening the peach-colored walls of the room. 

Atsumu liked cooking. He had always done it with Osamu. The act of cooking stirred nostalgic but happy memories and feelings, soft as steam. Atsumu did not love it as viscerally as his brother, it was not his calling or his reason for living, but he really liked it, because cooking meant sharing and caring. It was one of the deepest and most truthful demonstrations of love. 

Preparing the ingredients unhurriedly, cracking the egg shells in silence, whisking the rice and yolk and soy sauce with chopsticks until the dish became frothy: cooking helped him make peace with the world and with its hectic pace. 

When he was finished, he began to eat his portion. Then, since Shouyou had not yet gotten up, he put the rest back in the refrigerator. He tore off a piece of paper and wrote on it: 'breakfast in the fridge. EAT!!!'

He left the note on the table and went back to sleep.

*

One day, Atsumu woke up and thought: I want to write a poem. About the sea. And so he did. He wrote forty-seven lines about corpses and memories and tennis balls and prepackaged food and the ocean. Then he wrote another one. Then another. In the end, he slammed his forehead hard against his clenched fist and immediately began to look for a job.

When Atsumu wrote poetry, it meant that something inside him was losing its compass. It meant that inspiration, the inspiration to work on his novel, was temporarily dead and he needed a momentary consolation. It meant that he preferred to seek refuge within something that did not belong to him, because Atsumu possessed many things, but certainly not the soul of a poet.

So he found himself serving disgusting coffee in a café frequented almost exclusively by tourists, for twelve hours a day, six days a week. He signed an eight-week contract. 

Exhausted, he hoped that the urge to write poetry would fade, strangled by the smell of coffee and pre-packaged brioche that instigated him to vomit already by half past five in the morning.

But he had underestimated himself. Atsumu knew he was not a poet, but apparently his soul did not, because he couldn’t stop.

Fuck, he thought. It's my only day off. I could sleep. I should sleep. I want to sleep. Sleep and play Genshin.

But no, sleep wasn’t allowed, and Atsumu went down to write about whale blowholes and sandworms and memories. 

The world of poetry was senseless and crazy. It was like a roller coaster that had jumped out from Wonderland, all nuts and dangerous. Poetry usually meant having fun while risking death by splatting on the ground, and meanwhile trying to grasp a grain of truth by the end of the ride.

The phone vibrated, catching his attention. For once, Atsumu was grateful to have been distracted. 

From: Shouyou

I know you're busy writing

I just wanted to tell you that I got some melonpan 

oh god

bring them to me

pls

Now?

yes

Shouyou knocked timidly on his door, then entered with a bag full of melonpan in his hand. 

"Hey," he said to him. "It seems like forever since we've seen each other."

"It's been forever since we've seen each other," Atsumu corrected him. "But in two weeks I'm finally going to finish this fucking job. And as soon as I get paid, I'll treat you to dinner."

"At Onigiri Miya?"

"Of course not," huffed Atsumu. "I’ll take you somewhere super fancy. And expensive. On a weekend, so you can also drink."

Shouyou uncovered his teeth. "Oh yeah? Sounds like a date, Atsumu-san."

Atsumu said nothing. He just miserably flushed.

"I'm kidding," Shouyou added, his smile wider. "Although I really like the idea."

Atsumu rolled his eyes. Shouyou sat on the bed beside him and handed him the melonpan paper bag.

"Why did you start this work anyway?"

"Because I’m trying to preserve my sanity."

"But it’s not working very well, is it? Because to me, it looks like you're definitely losing it."

"Fuck off, Shouyou-kun."

Shouyou laughed. Atsumu basked in that sound like lizards under the sun's rays. 

"What are you writing?"

"Poetry," Atsumu replied instinctively. Shouyou looked at him in amazement.

"Poetry? About what? I didn't know you write poetry!"

"About the sea," Atsumu replied. Shouyou's face lit up. "And yeah, I usually don't. When I write poetry, it's a bad sign."

"Why?"

"Because it means there’s something wrong. Something confused and slippery."

"You know, confused doesn't necessarily mean bad."

Atsumu stared at him. Shouyou on his bed, his eyes large and his expression flashing from genuine curiosity to malice and back. Atsumu felt the shape of his ankle brushing against his leg. 

"I don't know," he finally said. "Maybe not. Maybe you're right."

"Maybe I am right," Shouyou repeated. Atsumu shivered between his shoulder blades.

They ate in silence on his bed. Atsumu liked that silence, even too much. It was warm, domestic: Hinata had blended so well into the house and his routine that he had become an integral part of it. 

Atsumu, during those months of living together, had managed to create a fairly detailed picture of Shouyou: he knew that he was from Miyagi, that he had attended Karasuno High School, that he had a sister named Natsu with identical hair color, that he liked nikuman and tamago kake gohan. He knew that Shouyou wore different colored socks, that he had not only his cheeks, but also his shoulders sprinkled with freckles, that he meditated for twenty-five minutes every morning after breakfast. He knew that his favorite singer was Elis Regina, that he wanted to learn to play the guitar, that he had a soft spot for people who spoke French, and that his favorite One Piece character was Roronoa Zoro. He knew that Shouyou loved animals and all fruit juices except the pineapple one, that he was obsessed with recycling, that his birthday was June 21. And he also knew that Shouyou liked to kiss boys, sometimes.

"Can I read?"

Atsumu thought about it for a moment. Then he shrugged. 

"Whatever," he said, handing him his notebook.

Shouyou began to slide his eyes along the words of the first few lines. Atsumu suddenly felt jittery.

"Can I read it aloud?" asked Shouyou, lifting his gaze from the pages.

"Whatever," Atsumu repeated. 

Shouyou began to read aloud. Atsumu held his breath. 

Hearing his words sung aloud by someone else was one of the most intimate experiences Atsumu had ever felt. It was as if a part of his soul had gone inside Shouyou's mouth. There was something frighteningly sensual about hearing what he had written, and which was therefore internal, recondite, exclusively his, spelled out by Shouyou's voice. Atsumu wanted to kiss him and wanted Shouyou to continue reading his poem by murmuring the words directly into his throat. 

When he finished, Shouyou stared at him.

"It’s wonderful," he said. 

Atsumu shook his head. "Not at all. How much do you actually know about poetry?"

"Maybe not much," Shouyou agreed. "Maybe I don't know anything about poetry. But I do know the sea.”

*

"One coffee, please."

Atsumu, who was just finishing rinsing the cups, smiled and turned.

Shouyou stared at him from across the counter with a smile wider than his.

"Shouyou-kun," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to say hi," Shouyou replied. "Since it's your last day working here. This is Sakusa-san, by the way."

Atsumu found himself staring at a boy who was looking at him with a blank expression. He had dark hair, an annoyingly handsome face, and was taller than him. Atsumu felt as if he had just lost. 

"Hi," Atsumu said. "One coffee for you, too?"

"No," Sakusa replied. 

Atsumu waited for him to add more, like a: no, I'll have a juice; or something like a: no, I'd like a glass of whiskey; or even a simple: no, thank you. But he didn't. So Atsumu turned around and began to make coffee for Shouyou.

Is this his boyfriend?

He hated himself for the rising wave of discomfort and panic that sank its nails into his stomach. He should not have felt this way. He shouldn't have, yet he felt it: envious and a little disheartened. Very disheartened.

He handed Shouyou the coffee. Shouyou thanked him. Atsumu did not respond and prepared a cappuccino for another customer. 

Is this his boyfriend?

Shouyou sipped his coffee calmly. He continued to chat with Sakusa about volleyball, who listened to him without practically ever answering him. Sakusa did not seem happy at all to be in that café, but Atsumu could see that he was genuinely interested in what Shouyou was saying, even though he shared the same enthusiasm as a walking corpse. Atsumu even saw Sakusa’s lips twitching in a hint of a smile. 

He’s definitely his boyfriend.

Atsumu sighed. Shouyou noticed and turned to look at him.

"Are you okay?"

Atsumu shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?"

However, he could not control his tone of voice, which came out sharp and abrupt. Shouyou arched his eyebrows, confused by the sudden change in his mood. Sakusa stared at him with the same blank expression, but now Atsumu could glimpse in his dark irises a shadow of revulsion that seemed to hiss: oh god. You are so pathetic.

The worse was that Sakusa was right. He was pathetic.

*

Atsumu was sprawled on the couch reading Sasameyuki by Tanizaki, because when he forgot how words were used and especially what they were used for, reading was the only thing that could help him remember.

That had been his last day working at the café. And it would have been a perfect evening, if only Atsumu could stop thinking about Shouyou and his presumed boyfriend for a goddamn second. Unfortunately, he couldn't, so it was a shitty evening exactly like all the others. 

About halfway through the book, Shouyou returned home. He took off his shoes at the front door and hung up his coat. Atsumu grunted a greeting. Shouyou did not reciprocate and crossed the kitchen without even deigning to glance at him. Atsumu blinked, a little confused, and resumed reading.

Twenty minutes later, Shouyou sat beside him on the small purple sofa. His hair was damp, and he smelled like bubble bath. Rather than sit, Shouyou melted on the sofa like ice cream. Atsumu stared at him.

"Are you okay?" Atsumu asked, a little alarmed.

Shouyou shook his head. "I think..."

"What?"

"I think I’m tired."

He whispered the last word as if confessing to murder. Atsumu's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Tired? You?"

Shouyou nodded mournfully. "It happens sometimes. Once a year."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Atsumu replied with a grin. "I feel tired every single day, even when I don't do shit. Give me your leg."

"My leg?" asked Shouyou, confused.

Atsumu grabbed Shouyou's ankle, resting his leg on top of his thighs. Then he began massaging his ankle and the sole of his foot from above the sock, exerting pressure that pushed outward. 

Shouyou moaned.

"Oh my god. Where did you learn?"

"I have no idea. But I used to do it to my brother and he did my math homework in return."

"Oh my god," Shouyou repeated, his voice soft as butter. Atsumu looked at him. His eyes were closed, his face in ecstasy. Atsumu smiled. 

He continued to massage his heel and tendon. Shouyou was liquid under his touch. Atsumu had goosebumps.

"Shouyou-kun?"

"Hmm?"

"The guy you came with earlier," Atsumu said, in a clumsy attempt to sound nonchalant. "At the café. Was he your boyfriend?"

Shouyou opened one eye to stare at him. Then he burst out laughing.

"So that's what it was about?"

"What do you mean?" 

"You got all gloomy all of a sudden. Were you jealous, Atsumu-san?"

Atsumu bit his tongue to remain impassive. "Couldn't it have simply been a shitty day at work?" 

"I guess so," Shouyou replied, a little disappointed. "So it was really just that? A shitty day at work?

"Of course. What did you expect?"

Shouyou sighed. He closed his eyes again and let the back of his head sink against the armrest of the sofa. 

"Nothing, I guess," he said. "By the way, no. Sakusa-san is not my boyfriend."

Atsumu wondered if Sakusa was aware of that. He seemed captivated by Shouyou, but perhaps it was simply the effect Shouyou had on everyone. He exuded attraction, and people's ineluctable fate was to gravitate around him like moths do when they repeatedly bang against the same light bulb during summer nights. 

"Give me your other leg," Atsumu told him, and Shouyou rested his right leg on his knees as well. 

"Atsumu-san, have you ever been with a woman?" 

Atsumu hesitated. "No," he answered. "I've never liked women. I mean, from a sexual perspective."

Shouyou nodded. 

"What about you?" asked Atsumu, curious. "You said you kissed boys, sometimes. Have you ever...?"

"No," Shouyou interrupted him. "I’ve never slept with a boy. I just kissed some guys in Brazil. And we put our hands in each other's pants, but I never went further, although I would have liked to. Who was the first person you kissed?" 

Atsumu stared at him, smiling. "Why all these questions?"

"I'm trying to distract you," Shouyou replied. "So you keep doing this marvelous thing all night long."

Then Shouyou curled his toes. His feet were small and round. Atsumu wanted to bite them.

"He was the captain of the volleyball team in high school," Atsumu replied. "I was a sophomore, he was a third-year. But things went wrong."

"Why?"

"Because he didn't like boys. And I knew that. But I thought it didn't matter. I was handsome in high school. Suuuper popular. Great at playing volley. Everyone loved and wanted me. So I kissed him anyway, but… well, I ended up being rejected. I think I cried for almost six months. My delirium of omnipotence was destroyed in one second."

Shouyou laughed. But then he said, "You still look handsome, Atsumu-san." 

Atsumu froze. "What?"

"You are handsome," Shouyou repeated. "You know, sometimes you talk about yourself as if you were a hundred and twelve years old, but you’re just thirty-five. Besides, a lot of people like you, at least before they hear you talk..."

"Hey!" Atsumu interrupted him, but he was actually happy. You're handsome. When was the last time someone had said that to him? 

"For example, the girl who works at the supermarket adores you. And so does the guy who lives downstairs. Or at the coffee shop: everyone wants to get coffee from you, right? It's always full when you're on duty. And when we go out together, everyone stares at you."

"Shouyou-kun, they stare at you."

"Oh, please. You really have no idea, of the effect you have on people."

Atsumu fell silent. 

"You’re beautiful," Shouyou insisted. "And you're good, too. You've been giving me a massage for more than half an hour just because I told you I was feeling tired. But sometimes you're a bit stupid."

*

At the first drink, Atsumu felt only anger. A wave of blind, violent anger, pulsing under his nails, inside his mouth, behind his eyes. He wanted to smash something. His father's face.

Fuck you, he thought. I do whatever the fuck I want. I don't need anyone to tell me how to live. You’re wrong. You don’t understand shit. Hurry up and die. 

On the third drink, the anger dissipated and sadness took over. A sadness thick as molasses, a swarm of wasps buzzing beneath his brain. A sadness that dragged him hopelessly toward the bottom, into the withering abyss that tasted like time, slow and thick and cold.

Atsumu did not want to believe that he was a failure. He did not want to believe that he was a failure simply because he had chosen to live the way he preferred. And yet it was inevitable, because the one accusing him was his father, the man who had raised him, loved him, in the past tense. It was inevitable to think that he had it all wrong. That he was doing everything wrong. That he was a mistake, broken, because he didn't have a regular job or a girlfriend, because he didn't want a regular job or a girlfriend. 

Atsumu was happy like that. Or rather, he was not happy, but he was content: living that way was what he wanted, he could write and his brother was there.

By the sixth glass, Atsumu began to think about Shouyou. Shouyou who was gentle and bright. Shouyou who had become so important, while Atsumu, who used to be so good at loving, had now forgotten how to do it. He was afraid. He feared the desperate desire, the instability. But wasn't the uncertainty, the vehemence, the unstoppable eagerness gushing from his bones, what he needed to feel in order to write? Didn’t he need the hovering? The fall?

Atsumu hid his head in his arms and closed his eyes. He started to count. 

"Atsumu-san."

Atsumu opened one eye. Something was shaking his shoulders. Atsumu fell back into sleep.

"Atsumu-san."

Atsumu had to open both eyes. Something was pressing against his arm. Then he became aware of nausea. Disgusting nausea. He had to throw up. 

"Atsumu-san."

There was Shouyou, standing beside him. Atsumu focused. Shouyou was clutching his arm. Atsumu realized he was in the kitchen, his cheek pressed against the table. He saw the whiskey bottle. He put two and two together, and his head nearly exploded.

"Fuck," he muttered.

He let Shouyou pull him up. The kitchen swirled out of control. He felt his eyes swollen, with tears or maybe sleep, he had no idea. Shouyou's face was close. He stared at him worriedly.

"Your face," Atsumu said. "It's stupid."

Shouyou blinked. "What?"

"It's stupid," Atsumu repeated. "Stupid and too pretty. I hate your face. I hate you."

"Oh," Shouyou replied, coldly. "Okay."

Atsumu laughed bitterly. "Are you angry?"

"No."

"You seem quite angry."

"You just said you hate me and that my face is stupid."

"I also said it was too pretty. And it's not true that I hate you, I lied. I'm super drunk. And depressed. And you’re a fucking angel, Shouyou." 

Atsumu tried to get up from his chair. He staggered, losing his balance. Shouyou grabbed his waist before he could smash his nose against the floor.

"I got you," he told him. 

"Shouyou, I have to throw up. Now."

"Okay," the other replied, in a gentle huff. "It's okay. I got you. Let's go."

Atsumu nodded slowly. There was something wonderful about that 'I got you.' It was wonderful to be held by someone. Atsumu was lucky. It was hard to find someone who would actually hold and keep the weight of your body, and pull it up. Shouyou didn't gain anything from that act of kindness, yet he wouldn't let Atsumu go. 

It was beautiful and sincere. Atsumu wished time would stop. 

Shouyou's face was so close. Atsumu could smell his skin. It reminded him vaguely of lemon, fabric softener, and clean sheets.

"You smell so good," he muttered as they tottered toward the bathroom. 

Shouyou laughed. "I wish I could say the same about you."

Atsumu also laughed. They arrived at the bathroom. Atsumu didn't want Shouyou to go in, but he couldn't even keep his eyes open. Shouyou helped him crouch on the floor and held his head up above the toilet. Then Atsumu threw up his soul. 

He did not know how long they stayed in the bathroom. It seemed as if the vomiting would never end. Shouyou stroked his hair while murmuring: ‘it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay’.

By the time Atsumu felt he was actually finished, the world was spinning a little less. He managed to get to his feet, washed his face, and brushed his teeth. Shouyou disappeared into the kitchen, and when Atsumu joined him, he saw that he had made him some chamomile tea.

"For the stomach," he said. "We have to wait for it to cool down a bit, though."

Atsumu nodded and slumped into the table chair. He felt lousy. He felt ashamed. Shouyou sat down in front of him and handed him the cup.  

"I’m sorry," Atsumu said. "It only happens once a year."

Shouyou shook his head, a hint of a smile on his lips. Then he turned serious again. 

"What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," Atsumu replied. "No, really," he added, noting Shouyou's skeptical look. "Just a stupid family fight. But no one died, so it's okay."

"I don't think having death as a basic standard it’s very healthy, Atsumu-san."

Atsumu did not respond. Shouyou pointed to the chamomile tea.

"Small sips," he said. Atsumu nodded. He took a sip, small, his stomach still twisting in on itself.

"What time is it?"

Shouyou picked up the phone. "Four twenty-seven in the morning."

"Fucking Christ," Atsumu said. "Shouyou, it's so late for you. Go to sleep."

Shouyou shook his head. "I’m fine. Besides, tomorrow is my day off anyway. I can sleep in the morning."

"But you never sleep in the morning."

"Atsumu-san, drink."

Atsumu drank. Small sips. 

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. How many times have you helped me in these months? I'm glad I can do something for you, but I'm sorry you're so hurt. You can always talk to me. You know that, right?"

"I know," Atsumu replied. And it was true. He knew. But he also knew that talking would not help him. He just wanted to forget that night as soon as possible.

"Did I say something strange?" asked Atsumu after a while. "Before throwing up, I mean."

Shouyou smiled. Atsumu felt tremendously guilty. He looked exhausted. 

"You said that my face is stupid and that you hate me."

"I don’t think that your face is stupid," Atsumu said. "And you know that I don’t hate you. We are friends."

"Really? Friends?" Shouyou asked, thoughtfully. "Is that what we are?" 

Atsumu did not answer. Shouyou sighed.

"Are you sure you don't wanna talk about it?"

"I'm sure," Atsumu replied. "Because nothing happened, just a stupid phone call." 

Then Atsumu hesitated. "Shouyou, do you think I suck?"

"What?"

"Do you think I suck? That I'm ridiculous and pathetic and so on?"

"Why would I think something like that? Do you think you suck?"

"No, I don’t," Atsumu replied. "Well, maybe I do. Just a little."

"Why?" 

"I don't know. I don't work in an office. I don't want to get married, or do all those things that someone like me should do, or at least plan to do. The only thing that makes me hungry is writing. And Osamu's cooking."

And you, he thought.

Shouyou shook his head. "No one can tell you how to live your life. Do you hurt others? Are you taking advantage of anyone?"

"No," Atsumu replied. "Nothing like that."

"Good," Shouyou replied. "And the life you’re living now, does it make you happy?"

"I don’t think I’m happy," Atsumu said. "But I am satisfied. I mean, I’m not satisfied either, there are way too many things that I want, but I think it's a good starting point. I think it's a good frame. I am a good frame for myself. I trust me, I've got my own back. Does that make sense?"

Shouyou nodded, then smiled. "You appreciate your own company. I think there is nothing better. If you don't like yourself, there will always be something eating you from the inside. If, on the other hand, you are content with who you are, it's like a kind of protection is created, right?"

"Right," Atsumu replied, staring at the now-empty cup. "Shouyou," he added. "Your face is not stupid. It's very pretty. Okay?"

Shouyou giggled. "Yours is gorgeous."

"Don’t."

"Why? It's true. I like your face a lot. I mean, not just your face. But you already know that."

"What do you mean?"

Shouyou sighed. "That I like you, Atsumu-san. Not just as a roommate, or as a friend. I made that quite clear, didn't I? But you never gave me a proper answer."

Everything swirled. Atsumu took a long, deep breath.

"Maybe it's better if we don't talk about it."

"Better for who?"

"For you. For both of us."

"You don't know what's better for me."

"It's definitely not me," Atsumu hissed.

Shouyou looked at him. "You’re afraid. Why are you so afraid?"

"I'm not afraid."

Shouyou shook his head. "Yes, you are. And I don't understand why. I mean, there are much scarier things than kissing a boy you like."

Atsumu stood up, wobbling. He put the cup in the sink. Then he turned back to Shouyou.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm fine now. I'm sorry about the horrible night. We really should go to sleep."

Shouyou stood up and placed himself in front of him. 

"I don't want to go to sleep. I want to talk."

"I'm too fucking drunk to talk. And I probably won't remember any of this tomorrow."  

"Really?"

"Really."

Shouyou smiled. "Good."

Then Shouyou moved one step closer. He gently stroked his cheekbone. Atsumu held his breath, while Shouyou closed his eyes, stood on his toes, and kissed him slow and soft, his tongue salty against his lips.

"Let’s see if you forget this," he whispered. "Good night, Atsumu-san."

*

Osamu refilled his glass. Atsumu sighed and brought his hands to his eyes, pressing his thumbs hard against his eyelids. Warm light filtered through the thin skin. 

"Are you gonna cry?" asked Osamu. 

Atsumu pushed his hands away from his face. 

"No," he replied. "At least for now," he added. 

Osamu sighed.

Atsumu was lucky: he had not just one house, but two. Osamu's restaurant became home when his home was not enough. Osamu's restaurant filtered the violence of problems and the annihilating confusion that arose from the absence of a solution. Atsumu was lucky because his brother had the magical power to always make him feel better. 

"How’s the novel going?"

Atsumu sighed. 

"Okay, let me try again. How are things going with Shouyou-kun?"

"I'm writing poetry."

Osamu whistled, impressed. "Fuck. That bad, huh?"

Then he poured him more alcohol. Atsumu stared at the liquid and was silent for a while, listening to Osamu and the sounds of his world: the clink of dishes, the rustle of his hands as they prepared the rice, the thuds of the knife he used to slice the fish. 

It was a beautiful world, his. Made of smell and taste. Of warm, bright colors. Of real voices, of voices that told stories, of people. The stomach was warm and there was a gentle taste in the mouth, and life felt good. Life was beautiful in there, at least for a few hours. Beautiful and nostalgic. Osamu's world was a bittersweet window, a reminder that days on earth were far too limited, so the best thing to do was to let go of frustration and linger on the sweetness of food. Osamu, by cooking, was creating homes for people.

Atsumu's world, on the other hand, was made of words. It was similar to Osamu’s one, only more transparent, harder to see. In Atsumu's world there were no voices or people or colors, but their memories floating around. His world was made up of the wake left behind by Osamu's world. Osamu lived, Atsumu collected the ghosts of that life and wove them together, creating lies that treasured the truth. Atsumu also created houses, because words were houses, but these houses were crumbling, dusty, and, most of the time, silent. Nonetheless, they managed to provide comfort, even in the tragedy, even stab after stab.

Both Atsumu and Osamu, however, sought the same thing: both wanted to elicit, to suggest, a new image, a new emotion, a key, a different perspective. Cooking and serving with hands, wounding and tearing and digging with words: both wanted to reach people's souls.

Osamu served him a portion of onigiri. Atsumu bit into one, ravenous, trying to cover with the delicious taste of the food the sort of nausea he felt in the back of his head.

"You know, yesterday Shouyou-kun came by."

Atsumu nearly drooled alcohol all over himself. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He was with his teammates. We talked."

"About what?"

"About everything. About me, about you. He told me about Brazil, I told him about the restaurant. He is curious. He likes to listen to people. And he likes you. So why are you here drinking like you just got your ass dumped after ten years of engagement?"

"Can't I just be depressed without a fucking reason?"

"You can," Osamu replied. "But obviously you're thinking about him. So why the fuck don't you just give it a try?"

Atsumu shrugged.

"Is it because he's twenty-four?"

"It’s not just because of that," Atsumu replied. Then he added in a low voice, "I think I envy him."

And I think he's going to burn me. I think he's going to hurt me, make me miserable. Because you know that I’ve never been able to love quietly. You know that, when I fall in love, everything turns into a living wound, a veneration, a perpetual, visceral celebration of me and that person, blood and light oozing everywhere. I feel as if I’m being stripped, moment by moment, down to my bones. I cling to something warm and wonderful that, however, I never know for how long it will last. I never know for how long it will be mine. And Shouyou is twenty-four years old, he can have anything he wants because he’s successful, because he knows exactly what he has to do. I, on the other hand, go dumb staring at a stupid blank sheet of paper. And above all, you know I'm not good at reacting when people leave. I hate how easily people replace people. I hate how easily they replace me. 

"What I mean," Osamu added, "is that if you’re in love, then you shouldn’t be afraid. Because if everything goes wrong, you’ll never be alone. You have me. And you are lucky for that, because almost no one has the certainty of always having someone close, no matter what. You should take advantage of that. You can afford to be wrong, you can afford to be sick, you can afford to bet, because even if you lose everything, you will always have a place where you can come back. And eat."

*

Atsumu, that day, was determined.

As soon as Shouyou returned from practice, Atsumu looked at him and said, "Shouyou-kun, we need to talk."

Shouyou stared at him and replied, "Atsumu-san, I need a necktie."

Atsumu blinked. Shouyou laughed and told him about Kenma ("yes Atsumu-san, the Youtuber, that's right, Kodzuken, do you want an autograph? Okay, I'll get you two, one for you and one for Osamu-san") and about the dinner he had planned and about the super duper fancy place they were supposed to go.

Apparently, Shouyou didn’t have anything appropriate to wear. 

"It's just that you dress so well, Atsumu-san! Could you lend me something nice?"

Atsumu agreed. Because of course he would have agreed, he would have done anything at that point.

"Choose whatever you like," Atsumu said, opening his closet.

Shouyou's eyes went wide as a puppy.

"Why don't you choose for me?" asked Shouyou. 

Atsumu stared at him, nodded, and then thought: 'Samu is right. I'm basically his dog.

Twenty minutes later, Shouyou joined him fully dressed in the kitchen while Atsumu was cooking dinner. 

"What do you think?"

I think you are an otherworldly apparition and I’d gratefully consume my kneecaps for you.

"I think you look good. And the shirt isn't even big, just a little long," he added.

"It's because I have muscles," Shouyou replied, lifting his chin proudly. "I would beat you in arm wrestling."

"I don't doubt that," Atsumu laughed. 

Shouyou stared at him a little hesitantly, as if he had something to add. Then, he walked over and pointed to his necktie. 

"Can you help me with the knot?"

Shouyou was an asshole. Atsumu was sure it had all been calculated.

Without saying a word, Atsumu untied his tie to adjust it.

Shouyou stared at him without blinking. They were so close that Atsumu could have counted his freckles. He could see the honey-colored straws of his irises. He could smell Shouyou’s scent on his clothes. 

"Atsumu-san," Shouyou said. "Your hands are trembling."

"Shut up," Atsumu replied. He tightened the knot. He accidentally brushed Shouyou’s throat with the back of his hand. His shoulders shivered. Shouyou continued to stare at him.

Atsumu closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again. He brushed Shouyou’s throat with his knuckles. Not by accident, this time. He stretched his thumb and ran it under Shouyou’s chin, over his adam's apple, along his jugular. He paused to listen to Shouyou's heartbeat pulsing fiercely against his fingertip. Shouyou was holding his breath. His eyes were lit up like crayons. Atsumu was completely losing his mind. 

Shouyou grabbed his hand, squeezed it, and then pushed it away slowly.

"Later," he said. "Otherwise I won't leave."

Atsumu nodded, his fingers burning. Clinging to his wrist, Shouyou sighed and closed his eyes. 

"Later," Atsumu said.

Atsumu was playing Mario Kart when Shouyou came home. 

He heard Shouyou laughing as soon as he saw him slumped on the couch cursing the Rainbow Road. Atsumu smiled at the television.

"How was dinner?"

Shouyou cast him a puzzled look, as if he didn't understand the question, then smiled. "Oh, there was no dinner."

Atsumu paused and turned to look at him puzzled. "In the sense that it was canceled?"

"In the sense that it never existed," Shouyou replied. "It was just an excuse so you would tie my necktie and borrow me your clothes. I brought you the autographs, by the way."

Atsumu blinked. The kid was insane. Atsumu would have killed for him.

"Atsumu-san, I'm kidding. Dinner was wonderful."

Then he disappeared. Atsumu heard the water begin to flow from the faucet. Atsumu was going to lose his sanity, permanently. 

After five minutes, Shouyou sank into the sofa next to him.

"Let’s play."

"If you want to lose so badly."

"No one beats me at Mario Kart!" exclaimed Shouyou. "Except Kenma, but someday I'll be able to beat him, too. Do you wanna bet?"

"Fine. What do you wanna bet?"

"If I win, you'll do something for me," replied Shouyou, his eyes twinkling. A shiver crept between his shoulder blades, and Atsumu did not even try to stifle it. "If you win, I'll do something for you."

"Something like what?"

Shouyou uncovered his teeth. "Oh, I have a bunch of ideas. How about you?"

Atsumu did not answer, but he noticed that he was smiling with the same crazy light in his eyes. Shouyou's hunger was contagious and unstoppable. It collapsed on you violently, fatally, and you were happy to die. 

"Fine," Atsumu replied. "Let's play."

Atsumu lost miserably.

At the 15th consecutive race won by Shouyou, Atsumu turned off the television.

"Fuck you," he told him. "How is that even possible?"

"I've been playing it forever," Shouyou replied. "It's the only game where even Kenma beats me with difficulty."

"He beats you, though," Atsumu observed in amazement. "He's a monster. You're both monsters."

Shouyou smiled. The canines glimmered in the semi-darkness. He was about to claim his prize. 

"You’ve won," Atsumu said. "What do you want me to do?"

Shouyou's smile became softer.

"Don't be afraid," he told him.

When Atsumu kissed Shouyou, he realized that there was nothing scary about it. Despite his hunger, despite the desire with which he dug his nails into his wrists, Shouyou was far more afraid than him.

Touching his back, brushing his wrists, tightening his fingers around his hips. Feeling someone else's shivers under his fingers, how strange. Clutching someone's body and feeling, slowly, the soul coming to the surface, to the skin. How strange. A privilege. The desire, the delirium, the hunger. 

Unraveling, rebuilding. A butterfly in your fingers, in the palm of your hand. Clench your fist, trap it. Wings quivering, throbbing, then let it free. On the skin, a trace of orange purple, an indelible farewell, a memory. Golden and golden and red and golden, hot lips and arms and ankles. Ignite. 

Shouyou tasted like the ocean. Atsumu saw stars when he rubbed against him, thighs clenched around his waist. Atsumu wanted to grab him and seal him in his fist, hide him under his palate, swallow him like he would have swallowed the sun. 

Atsumu grabbed his hair and pulled. Shouyou laughed and uncovered the curve of his neck. Atsumu kissed him under his ear, along his jaw, down to his collarbone. Shouyou's breath was hot and wet against his temple. Atsumu's breath was hot and wet against his shoulder. His hands between his legs, lips against lips, tongue on tongue.

Everything was crumbling. Kaleidoscope. Disintegration. The apocalypse. 

Shouyou was breathing on his chest. His eyes were closed, but he was awake. He stroked the back of his hand. Meanwhile, Atsumu was counting his vertebrae. Top to bottom, bottom to top. Then the ribs, then the shoulder blades. Detailed mapping of the body lying against his. Shouyou was heavy. Heavy and warm and alive. Shouyou lifted his face, looked at him, smiled. Hunger had made way for tenderness. Atsumu kissed his forehead.

Osamu created houses with food. Atsumu created houses with words. 

Shouyou created houses with eyes.

*

How far do you have to go to kiss someone underwater?

Atsumu discovered this in the summer, when Shouyou took him to Brazil. There was sunshine everywhere: in the sky, in the rippling sea, beneath the sand, on his skin, inside his ribs. Atsumu watched Shouyou glowing as he listened to the lapping of the waves and his voice, and thought that everything he had always tried to say in his novel was exactly what was in the way Shouyou looked at the ocean, what was in the horizon and in the blue and red silhouette of a boy looking where the contours of the world fade, smiling.

Shouyou took his hand. His fingers were hot, his feet were hot, and Atsumu looked over his shoulder and realized that Shouyou belonged to the miracle of all things whose beginning or end could not be figured out.

Shouyou pushed him toward the shore without ever letting go of his hand. Atsumu squeezed it, Shouyou squeezed it back, they plunged into the cool, salty water, and Atsumu felt his body full of holes. 

Shouyou smiled at him, deep gratitude on his cheeks, and then dived in. Atsumu followed, his eyes closed, the sound of the ocean in his ears.

He squeezed his wrists, touched his ankles with his toes.

And the truth, because when you are under the water, in the sea, you can never lie, was Shouyou was so beautiful. Atsumu was so in love. And it was all so absurd and crazy and how wonderful, how wonderful and extraordinary and eternal life could be sometimes, even if only for a moment. Atsumu kissed his neck and his ear and his lips, and the truth, the truth, was that he felt so happy. Atsumu was so very happy.