Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By unanimous agreement Osamu leads the charge against the enemies in the Ministry during their fifth year. One of them has to do it, so it might as well be the Chosen One, right? Atsumu can take a hint. This isn’t a job for the spare. Osamu already has the experience of guiding their year in secret Defense classes for eight months now. That’s not counting all the other times he’s taken point with Atsumu before that. One thing’s for sure: Osamu creates one hell of a flashy distraction.

Fucking attention whore, Atsumu thinks, sour, and tugs out his invisibility cloak.

The Hall of Prophecies isn’t difficult to find, and their prophecy even less so. They’ve been collecting intel since the end of fourth year, after all. At this point Atsumu could sketch out a map of this stupid hall without a single reference. He tracks it down in a matter of minutes.

Section 17, twenty-two rows in, shelf 1107—there. The Miya prophecy.

The record is remarkably light, considering it holds his and his brother’s fates in its hazy confines. Fifteen years of suffering and beyond packed in a neat little sphere. How convenient. He tucks it away into his pocket and hurries away to a secluded corner until the noise of the fighting falls away, then casts a Muffliato to be sure.

All bases covered. Nothing else to do but wind it up and hit play.

An image unravels before him in the fog. The Seer, who looks younger than he thought she'd be, is bent at the waist to touch a pregnant woman’s belly. There’s a sort of timelessness to her that Atsumu can’t place. Could be in her forties or eighties, it’s hard to gauge. There’s a birthmark on both sides of her delicate cheekbones and a third one above her eye.

Her prophecy emerges in a pained whisper: Born at the break of a red dawn… on the fifth of the tenth month… the power to vanquish the dark rises… one must die, while the other must live…

Her eyelashes are long. Curly hair streaked with gray falls to her gently sloped shoulders. Pureblood through and through, just by looking at her. Yeah: that’s Sakusa’s grandma, alright.

Chaos is rising inside the room. The details are blurred in the smoke, but Atsumu peers closer. A dim recognition lights up in him at the scene. The coffee table with its baby-proofed edges, the frumpy yellow couch, the educational toddler posters pinned to the wall. There’s two baby cribs lying unassembled on the floor. The living room of his parents’ house looks even more like a home outside of the pictures.

The seventeenth year, Sakusa’s grandmother continues, above the yelling. In a midnight forest visited thrice, guided by family and blood alike… One must die while the other must live… From resolute sacrifice and gray deceit, the power to vanquish the dark rises…

She lurches away, sickened. One hell of a present for a baby shower. Atsumu drinks in the last image of his parents: his mother in a lovely sunflower maternity dress, long hair, round brown eyes. His father beside her with a glass of orange juice in his tanned hand, no pulp, boring black button-down. Well, no question as to where Osamu got his taste in clothes.

The fog disperses. In its wake Atsumu’s blood refuses to flow through his body.

Seventeenth year. Optimistically speaking, that could be seventeen years after the war begins. The monster only revived at the end of their fourth year, almost ten months ago. That gives them sixteen years plus change. It’s a long time for war.

Atsumu isn’t particularly into optimism, though. Realism is more his speed. Seventeenth year since their birth—that sounds more accurate. Granted, it’s a much tighter squeeze. Two years and a handful of months. Talk about a fucking expiration date.

Either way they can’t let the enemy get ahold of this information. Atsumu Vanishes the record on the spot before he rushes to rejoin the fight, sliding seamlessly into the rhythm of casting, dodging, blocking.

During a brief lull between enemies Osamu glances at him: find anything?

Atsumu shakes his head. Nope, not a thing. Sorry to waste your time.

The Astronomy Tower is a fucking sauna built in hell by the time June rolls around, which means it’s a perfect place for negotiating with an infernal dictator. Osamu lays out the rules with all the gravity of martial law: Letters every week. They must be written within three days of delivery. Handwritten, no typed bullshit. The delivery must be handled by Atsumu personally via Portkey or Apparition to the hollow tree trunk near their aunt’s house.

“The old tree trunk, you know the one,” Osamu says impatiently. Shithead’s been nervy for two weeks now, ever since Atsumu suggested skipping town—and then some—after the end of the school year. He’s got a yellowing bruise on his cheek to prove it.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Atsumu says. First mistake.

“You know the one, asshole, don’t play dumb. You’re pissing me off as is.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t remember.”

“The old trunk? The one where we used to hide snacks from the convenience store without Auntie knowing? And you kept eating all my fuckin’ potato chips when you were sure you didn’t want any?”

A brief memory clicks into place. “Oh,” Atsumu says, and not a beat later the rest of the memories follow. “Ohhh. Yeah, yeah. Ain’t that the one you climbed when we were like eight and you fell like an idiot and broke your arm?”

Fond memories. Osamu doesn’t think of it the same way. “Only ‘cause you fuckin’ pushed me,” he says, aggrieved, before he continues reading from the parchment.

Each letter must be dated and include an update on his current location, which can be in written form or referenced through some scenic postcard Atsumu picks up in a gift shop. Osamu isn’t too picky about that. He is, however, anal about blue or black pen. No glitter pens or invisible ink fuckery allowed. And don’t make it complicated by trying to use code either, who the fuck is going to read our letters now. Then there’s the required mirror call.

“The required what call?” Atsumu asks.

From Osamu’s shorts pocket emerges a pair of compact mirrors. He clicks one open, and the compact unfolds into a full handheld mirror, the type he’s seen in old movies about Renaissance princesses or shit during that one month in third year when Aran went on a vintage movie kick and dragged the rest of them with him.

“Well, that’s cute,” Atsumu starts, and at that exact second the other mirror starts wailing, like really fucking wailing, just fucking going at it, like a baby has been fed into a cranky dragon’s mouth and amplified through a dozen Sonorous charms.

Unflinching at the noise, Osamu says, “Suna built it—”

“I don’t fuckin’ care whose asshole built it, turn it the fuck off!”

One highly unnecessary eye roll later, the noise cuts off with a click of the second compact mirror.

Atsumu sags into the wall. Motherfucking tits on a stick, Osamu.

“If you’rs done being a drama queen,” Osamu says pointedly, “I was saying Suna built it to be fuckin’ annoying. You got no excuse to ignore it, and neither do I.” He hands a mirror over. Atsumu takes it with all the caution reserved for a bomb. “So. Birthday calls. No matter where you are.”

Atsumu’s gaze drifts from the mirror to the window. Blue sky, minimal wind, sprawling greenery a few stories below. One good toss should do it. He might not be allowed to fly, but that doesn’t mean his throwing arm is dysfunctional. He winds his arm up.

“Tag,” Osamu announces. As if reacting to his voice, the mirror heats up in his hand.

Atsumu pauses mid-throw. “What? Now?”

“I ain’t talking about—it’s a spell, dumbass.”

Already Atsumu doesn’t like where this is going. “A spell for what?”

“For tagging the mirror to you, since it’s built with a permanent staying charm.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Nope. 100% serious. If you conveniently ‘lose’ it, then it’ll find its way in your pocket no matter what.”

Suna, the fucking asshole. Atsumu’s knuckles go white around the mirror handle. “What if I have no pockets?”

“Charmed to change into a necklace that stays with you until you get ahold of a pocket.”

Contingency plans on top of contingency plans. That reeks of Suna from top to bottom. “Your boyfriend is fucking evil,” Atsumu says. “And a psychopath. Tell me you know that.”

“I know,” Osamu says, looking disgustingly smitten.

Okay. That’s fine. Suna’s all but slapped a magical ankle bracelet on him with no way out unless he finds someone to dismantle it, or learns enough about magical smithing to wreck the goddamn thing himself. Which is great.

Fantastic, even.

I’m just a jock, Suna had said. I know nothing about my parents’ magical smithing techniques, Suna had said. Atsumu should’ve known better when he vanished during spring break and came back looking that smug. But he’d just assumed Suna and Osamu fucked all week without him knowing like the freaks they are. TMI is a term that couldn’t be used enough around those two.

He should’ve known, though. Nothing can be that simple. Planning all this for what, a month now? Behind his back? Oh, for spring break let’s make a contraption designed to hunt Atsumu down and make him feel like a prisoner for the rest of his life. Wouldn’t that be funny? What a riot.

Fucking douchebags. Fucking distrusting, paranoid, cockknobbing sons of bitches.

“Tsumu,” Osamu says.

Atsumu’s jaw grinds. He keeps his gaze zeroed on the floor: if he looks at Osamu now, he’ll lose it.

Osamu’s voice drops. “Tsumu. It’s not a tracking device.”

“Well, it sure fuckin’ seems like it.”

A heaving sigh, as if Atsumu’s the one picking fights now. “I won’t know where you are, okay? That’s my compromise. And I won’t call you ever without giving you a heads up through the tree trunk. Only on birthdays. You’re gonna be calling me, anyway.”

“None of that makes me feel better, thanks. And also? Fuck you. I mean that.”

“Tsumu. C’mon.”

C’mon, what? That should be Atsumu’s line. Here he thought the letters were supposed to be the compromise. Once a week, he’ll have to drag himself from wherever the hell he is to drop off a letter in person, to a town he’d be glad to never see again, for the sole purpose of reassuring Osamu because of his stupid fucking trust issues. Perhaps Atsumu hasn’t done a whole lot to resolve said trust issues, but this is several deaths past overkill.

“I could leave,” Atsumu says, meeting Osamu’s gaze.

Steadier than stone. “I know,” Osamu says.

“No,” Atsumu snarls, shooting to his feet. “I don’t mean in a week. I mean now. I could be gone by tomorrow and you wouldn’t be able to stop me. I don’t have to do this letter bullshit, you know that? I don’t have to do any of it. I don’t have to take you with me, I don’t have to stay here, and I sure as hell don’t have to do jack shit for you anymore, Samu! Not anymore!”

The target strikes home. Atsumu sees it land: the utter devastation across the crumbling rockcliff of Osamu’s face. Then it clears. “Alright,” Osamu says evenly. “That’s what we’re doing now?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, blood hot. “Sure, why not. You beat the shit out of me a few days ago, so why not today, too, huh? Two for two, let’s round it out.”

“If that’s what you want,” Osamu says.

Atsumu waits for the first punch. But Osamu stays sitting there, and nothing comes.

Osamu says, “One last thing before I do. Cards off the table, is that how we wanna play it?”

“The hell you saying?”

“Throwing that shit in my face. You want me to owe you for it? ‘Cause I can. I will. I’ll owe you for it for the rest of my fuckin’ life, ain’t news to me. But if you want me to round it out like you said, you say the word, and I’ll walk into that forest and cast the spell myself and make you watch. Any fuckin’ day. You just let me know.”

For a moment Atsumu has no idea what the fuck Osamu is talking about. Then the realization hits like a sucker-punch to the throat. His entire body prickles. The heat drains out of him and the entire fucking room. The season’s changed without his noticing; there’s no other explanation.

“I didn’t,” Atsumu manages. He replays his words in his head, hears the venom in it. He has to stagger back down to the ground, jarring his bones on the impact. “Shit. Shit, shit. Fuck.”

Osamu says nothing.

“That ain’t what I meant, I swear, I—” Cast the spell, Osamu had said. The spell. Like the Killing Curse? That spell? “Samu,” Atsumu says, urgent. “There has to be intent in that spell.”

“I know,” Osamu says.

Oh okay. Cool. Yeah. It’s not too surprising, all things considered. They’re identical in appearance and DNA. Might as well be identical in this, too.

“You should go,” Suna says.

Two weeks into the worst period of rain they’ve had in years, and Atsumu has to appreciate it, if only because it’s such a fitting backdrop for the shit fucking mood he’s in. The storm’s so loud and heavy that it drowns out the noise better than any Muffliato. A second skin may be forming on him from pure humidity. At least he has a reason to be cold and disconnected. It’s the weather, he can say. Always hated the rain. It was raining when my parents were murdered, did you know that? Yeah, my ma’s birthday is coming up soon. How’s your mom? Still alive? That’s nice. So you can fuck off now.

Unfortunately the base tricks don’t work against Suna, whose parents have been dead for as long as his. Option two it is.

“I’m honored that you came to your senses about the hotter twin, but it’d be great if you could reschedule,” Atsumu says, not moving.

“Oh, adultery and fraternal betrayal.” Mocking applause. “Very classy.”

“Yeah, well. I’m a classy guy.”

“A question for the classy guy in the room, then.”

“Seriously, Suna, I ain’t in the mood.”

“No, it’s real quick, I promise. The adultery that we’re talking about, is that on both of our ends, or just mine, since Sakusa isn’t talking to you anymore?”

Atsumu whirls to hurl a punch at Suna’s jaw. Suna doesn’t miss a beat, dodges and kicks his back. He hits the floor with stinging palms and rolls into it. The pain doesn’t register. Instincts rush in: get up, ignore everything else. Make sure you fucking win or you’re dead. His wand materializes in his hand. Something is burning through his blood. His head pulses.

“Atsumu,” Suna is saying.

He’s on his feet now. He doesn’t remember that. The change in perspective makes him dizzy. He rubs the meat of his palm into his temple. His other hand aches. He’s holding his wand at Suna’s throat.

“Atsumu,” Suna says again. “It’s me.”

Atsumu. Is this what we do to each other now?

In a heartbeat the exhaustion slams into Atsumu, and he stumbles, off-balance. The fight bleeds out of him, gets washed away by the storm outside. Suna plucks the wand from nerveless fingers and pockets it. He moves slowly: five slender fingers on Atsumu’s shoulders, pushing him down. Atsumu doesn’t fight it.

The rain really is too fucking loud.

Suna settles beside him against the wall. He lets him enjoy the silence for approximately half a second before he says, “I’ll ignore that since I’m so nice.” Atsumu snorts. “Give me your hands.”

“Can’t you mind your own fuckin’ business.”

“Oh, when have I ever done that. Give.” Atsumu rolls his eyes, but there’s no stopping Suna when he gets pissed like this. They all have stubborn streaks a mile wide. Byproducts of growing up together.

Suna surveys his hands. Atsumu’s scrubbed the skin of his palms raw. Pinpricks of blood poke out on his right, from how tightly he’d held the wand. Suna says nothing, and then, in one fluid motion, he slaps down hard on the scrapes. Pain explodes in his palms.

“What the fuck!” Atsumu yelps.

“That was for trying to punch me,” Suna says, grip unyielding.

“What, that kick wasn’t it?!”

“That was self-defense. This, by the way—” Another harsh slap, and this time Atsumu is smart enough to jerk his hands out of Suna’s grip, eyes watering instinctively. Suna lets him go, impassive. “—That’s for checking if you still feel pain. Glad to see you do. You should get that checked out by Foster later, by the way.”

Atsumu cradles his stinging hands to his chest, glaring. “You could’ve just asked. The hell’s up with that question, anyway?”

“People were wondering if it was some side effect of you dying. Being unable to feel pain and generally being an idiot, I mean. I told them that you were always stupid, but no one believed me. Now I have evidence.”

“Okay, well, tell them to mind their fuckin’ business next time. I’m fine.”

“Atsumu,” Suna says, serious now. “You aren’t.”

“I am.”

“Most people who are ‘fine’ won’t hold their friends at wandpoint.”

“Oh, we’re friends now?”

“Aren’t you a dramatic baby.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

Fuck this shit. Trying to baby him everyday. Atsumu’s fine. Or he would be, if everyone would leave him the fuck alone, quit fussing over him when nothing happened. All that fucking worry and smothering. Everyone treats him with so much goddamn understanding and patience like he’s some glass creature that’ll explode at the first mention of his death. Ironic, considering just about fucking everyone’s more sensitive to this dying thing than he is. He can’t even go to the bathroom by himself. Isn’t that degrading? There’s always people—and worse, his friends—mobbing him, no matter where he goes.

We have to take care of our hero, goes the popular sentiment. Our Chosen One. We have to stop Miya Atsumu from self-destructing in the fucking men’s toilet. Brooms are too dangerous for Miya Atsumu now. If he was smart he’d take up a proper job at the Ministry instead of anything foolish and reckless like a Quidditch career, and use his head like he was meant to, the way he did in the war. He belongs to everyone. When he hurts, we do too. Doesn’t he see how much his problems hurt us?

Well, fuck that. He’s not a fucking hero. He didn’t die for anyone except Osamu. And as far as he’s concerned, it’s a done deal and everyone else can fuck off for all he cares.

“Oh really,” Suna says.

Atsumu’s breathing heavy. He says, “Yeah, it is. I get it. I made people worry with my stunt. I got it, it’s over, I learned my lesson. I won’t fuckin’ do it again. But you can’t expect me to not get pissed when it’s been two fuckin’ months and nothing’s changed, for fuck’s sake! How much more bullshit am I supposed to take, huh? I’m just so—I’m so fucking sick of it—I—” His breath still isn’t steady, and he has to fist the knees of his pants, the pain in his palms grounding him. “I don’t want this,” Atsumu manages. “It’s drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy, Suna.”

The rain slams down above them.

“Yeah, okay,” Suna says after a moment. “So like I said. You’re not okay.”

Atsumu chokes out a laugh. There goes the kiddy gloves. “Only ‘cause you fucks make me not okay.”

“That’s why I said you should go.”

“Go where?” He’s already in the Astronomy Tower. It’s the only place where he can count on having some time to himself, without his pack of watchdogs at every other hour of the day.

In answer Suna uncurls his hands and places a handkerchief-wrapped bundle in his open palm. The handkerchief falls away like silk. Inside waits a pair of thin-rimmed glasses.

“My vision’s fine,” Atsumu says, confused.

The classic Atsumu you fucking idiot sigh, created and patened by Suna Rintarou, age seven. “It’s a Portkey, you dumbfuck,” Suna says. “You should go. Travel for a bit. Get your head out of your ass. Maybe when you come back you’ll be tolerable again.”

Atsumu’s fist clenches and unclenches. More than a Portkey, this is a ticket out. Suna’s handing freedom over to him on a silver platter. But: “Samu,” he protests. “And—and Omi.”

“Your Omi’s not speaking to you. Tell me you know that.”

“Shaddup, you get what I mean. I can’t just leave.”

Last time he’d tried to hatch an escape plan, Osamu had physically sat on him until the structural integrity of his ribcage began to crumble and mold into a shape not meant for the human body. Suna should remember this. Suna, also, doesn’t care and has never cared. “What are you, five?” he asks. “You can go for an hour to start.”

“Samu—”

“My god, I’ll cover for you if you’re so worried.”

There’s a suspicious note to his tone. That type of exasperation is rehearsed. Well-rehearsed, granted, but rehearsed.

“This is gonna cost me something bad, isn’t it,” Atsumu realizes.

Suna gives him a close-mouthed smile that’s about three thousand percent more threatening than if he had a knife to Atsumu’s jugular. Usual business with Suna Rintarou. That leaves one last thing.

“What if I like it?” Atsumu asks. “If the hour isn’t enough, and I like it so much that I won’t want to come back. What then?”

“We leave you there, I don’t know.”

“Suna,” Atsumu pleads.

Suna clicks his tongue. “Someone finds you and beats your ass until you come back again. It’s not like you can stay away from Osamu’s cooking for that long, anyway, you baby, I don’t know who the hell you think you’re fooling.” That gets Suna a weak grin. At that Suna’s voice changes: something softer, gentler, like a stone in the riverbed rubbed smooth by the water’s course. “Atsumu. Go. One hour, to begin.”

For the first year Atsumu hops from country to country like he’s being hunted again. Hellish as that seventh year was, there had been something he loved about it. The breakneck pace, or the way shit made sense for once. Finally his reality had matched the rest of his surroundings. He had no time to think, much less make roots. It often occurred to Atsumu how perfect a living this was for him: on the run, far from anything that felt like home. After all, there was nothing at his rotting core that was built to last long-term.

A week of travel does more to settle Atsumu than the four months he’d spent in the castle surrounded by friends and family. There’s an itch under his skin that’s only appeased by the crushing squeeze of Apparition, the nausea of whirling Portkeys that spit him out to vomit on unfamiliar countryside roads.

Most of the time he doesn’t spend it as a human. Life as a fox is easy; he forages, he burrows in makeshift dens, he sleeps. If he’s feeling particularly peckish, he pulls the cute animal routine in the backyards of houses inhabited by elderly grandmothers. Never the houses in areas where people are permitted to hunt, though—he learns that mistake via a bullet in his thigh that takes him four months to recover from.

Before he thought that nothing could hurt half as much as the countless Cruciatuses he’d endured. Startling and also unpleasant to discover that there were new pains he hadn’t known about.

The whole letter cycle doesn’t let him forget his humanity. Osamu’s underhanded like that. He’s a fucking dictator, sure, but he’s a dictator who knows Atsumu inside and out. The only thing worse than being aware of himself and the time passing is the thought of Osamu dragging him back. All that fucking surveillance and thinly-veiled worry. So Atsumu writes the letters, delivers them, and moves on to the next country.

Midway through the year the stranglehold eases. For their eighteenth birthday, Atsumu sends Osamu a deed to an empty building in Hogsmeade where he can build his new restaurant and nurture his dreams, live out his happy ending, raise three children and a dog, whatever.

In return, Osamu says, “Well, I guess we can do every two weeks.”

“You gotta be fucking kiddin’ me,” Atsumu says, incredulous.

“What, you want every eight days instead?” Osamu says.

“You fucking cheapskate,” Atsumu snarls, and Osamu flips him off and hangs up.

He recovers from the bullet wound without anyone to the wiser, full range of movement and clean bill of health aside from a puckered scar left on the skin. The extra wiggle room in time between letters allows him to spend more of his days checked out of his own body, which is fucking great. Day after day of watching the sun go up, sleeping, sundown, eating, sleeping again. Like hibernation in March.

Then he accidentally misses a letter delivery day, and Osamu damn near sets an entire continent’s worth of Aurors on his ass.

The newspapers even in the backwaters of Canada report on it. CHOSEN ONE MISSING? LAST SPOTTED IN OUR TOWN, reads a magical student newspaper he scrounges out of the trash for his den.

It makes Atsumu so furious that he sends Osamu a letter the next day. Six pages torn right out of a cheap spiral notebook. No location, no date. Red pen. Fury drives every single fucking line, just fuck you fuck you fuck you on repeat from start to end. Osamu is waiting for him at the tree trunk when he Apparates in to deliver it, but he vanishes to Mumbai before Osamu can catch him.

Three weeks later, Suna tracks him down in a market street in Shanghai, mid-transaction. “I’m not here to tell you to come back,” he says over the noise of the bustling crowd, while Atsumu ignores him to grab the bundle of tanghulu. “But that letter you sent him. Even you should know that was underhanded.”

Purchase complete. Atsumu bites off a candied strawberry and takes his time chewing. Suna’s mouth thins. Okay, real pissed, then. He can’t chew forever. Eventually he has to swallow and snap, “Tell that to him. Putting out the fucking Aurors? He doesn’t get to say jack shit about being underhanded.”

“Oh you are fucking unreal,” Suna says, and raises his voice when Atsumu begins walking: “Listen to me, idiot!”

Atsumu starts weaving through the crowd, trying to lose Suna. Suna, in a fit of stubbornness of epic proportions, refuses to be lost. He puts those athlete's legs to good use and keeps up with Atsumu, stride for stride.

“Do you even—seriously, Atsumu, do you know how many times he’s read it?”

“Nope. Don’t particularly care, so if you don’t mind—”

Suna’s gaze hardens, like he’s shifting back into war mode. It’s the only warning Atsumu gets before his hand clamps around Atsumu’s wrist and he yanks Atsumu into an empty alley, hurling him into the trash bags. His voice drops: low, fast, angrier than Atsumu’s ever heard him. A story unfolds. It isn’t a recent one about Osamu in the past few weeks, but much older. You remember that time in fifth year when he took over the kitchens to stress-cook, and you idiots got into that huge fight about your career plans so he didn’t sleep for three days to make future menus that he didn’t even end up using? No? Yeah, I forgot you didn’t see that because you were too busy angsting. Okay, how about that time when he almost fell off his broom after he helped you research Quidditch teams all night? What about the first few nights after you died? Fun fact for you, you son of a bitch, he stayed up for something like thirty hours to make sure you were still breathing. You care about that at all? You die for him and this is how you try to get even?

The tanghulu has dried sticky to his palm like cold sweat by the time Suna finishes. “So he didn’t burn the letter,” is what Atsumu says.

“Of course not,” Suna says, scathing. “He’s read it about two hundred times since you threw it at him and told him to fuck off.”

It’s not the lowest Atsumu has sunk since the end of the war, but it’s pretty fucking close.

After the six-page fuck you letter fiasco, Atsumu tries to spend some more time in one place and crush that restlessness for good. The way he’s been living, it’s unsustainable. That’s clear to him now.

In June, Atsumu shifts his itinerary. France for as long as he can stand. A new challenge. It’s close enough that he doesn’t have to take too many Apparition trips for the letter delivery, far enough that he doesn’t feel strangled by the proximity, busy enough that no one recognizes him and he can blend into the crowd unnoticed when the passing sight of curly black hair throws him into an aneurysm.

France is also where he experiences yet another kidnapping. He’s digging into a burnt baguette that a bakery had tossed out when hands scoop him out of the alley and take him into an apartment building nearby, grip on his collar so tight that he can’t transform or scratch at the kidnapper’s tanned hands.

Then the kidnapper makes the mistake of setting him on a table.

Atsumu shifts without thinking twice. All his battle instincts pull out his wand in a flawless draw. “The fuck youwant,” he barks, voice hoarse from disuse.

“Oh, you’re not a fox,” says his kidnapper in surprise. The head of orange hair doesn’t lend credence to the kidnapping thing. Neither does the soft face and those bright eyes, which go wide in recognition. “Wait, I know you!”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do! Aren’t you Miya Atsumu?”

“No,” Atsumu tries again, but the kidnapper steamrolls right over him.

“Wow! Miya Atsumu! How have you been? It’s been forever since people saw you around! Last I heard you were in like, Antarctica or something. What are you doing in France?”

“Do I know you?”

“Well, we used to go to school together, but you don’t need to think about it too hard if you don’t remember. I’m Hinata Shouyou.” Hinata cocks his head at him. Suddenly there’s a razor intent in his eyes that sends a shudder down Atsumu’s spine. “You know you’re kinda skinny?” he says, like Atsumu isn’t aware of his clothes hanging off his shoulders. Perks of being unable to shop for months. “And you’re shaking. Do you wanna sit down? I’ll make some tea and food.”

“No thanks,” Atsumu says.

The last person who’d cooked for him had been Osamu, prying open his jaw to shove clumping bits of rice down his throat as punishment for vanishing. Before that, it was the servants in the kitchens, asking him if he still wanted a cake meant for two. Not great memories, either way.

“It’s no trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about?” Hinata says, completely missing his fuck-off tone. “I love cooking for people, but I haven’t had the chance recently. You know, ‘cause of the language barrier and all, it kinda gets lonel—”

“Listen,” Atsumu interrupts, because it’s clear this kid will go on for as long as Atsumu lets him. “That sounds nice, but I ain’t particularly interested in staying. Hope you understand. Make the offer to the next fox you kidnap, maybe they’ll take the bait. I’ll be going now.”

And in his head, he makes a smooth exit. Real cool and easy. He hops off the dining table and spins on his heel to Apparate out of the apartment in one fluid movement, France and his plans for long-term stay be damned, the type of move that he could’ve pulled off in his sleep during the war.

He doesn’t make it past the hopping off the table part before his legs give out, and he crumples to the hardwood.

“Um, Atsumu-san,” Hinata says, after a delicate second. “I’m not trying to be mean. Honest. But you can barely walk.”

His voice comes out in a snarl: “I don’t want your fuckin’ pity!”

But you can’t take care of yourself, is the response he hears in his head, quiet and upset. It’s driving me crazy. Can you just—is it so hard? To tell me when you’re suffering? I’m not made of glass, either. Look at you. You’re not fine.

Hinata doesn’t say that, though. Hinata says nothing at all. When the burn of humiliation passes enough for Atsumu to raise his eyes, Hinata is simply staring at him like he’s an alien.

“Why would I pity you?” he asks.

“You’re kidding,” Atsumu says, disbelieving.

“There’s no reason why I would joke about this? I don’t think it’s funny to joke about people’s health, you know.”

That has to be a lie. There’s no fucking way.

Yet a touch of Legilimency reveals that Hinata’s telling the truth. His mind is an open field of grass and wind and sun. Not a trace of pity to be found, nor the intent to use him as a quick coin for the press. In its place is a vague craving for pork buns. Leftover sadness at his spoiled milk that he knew he should’ve finished sooner. Open trust. A bit of bewilderment at how dramatic Atsumu is.

That last one, more than anything, is what makes Atsumu pull himself to his feet and stay for lunch.

Shouyou isn’t a better cook than Osamu, but then again, no one is. He does make a mean miso soup, though. Points to him—it’s not even from an instant package. On the other hand, it’s the only meal in his arsenal. Atsumu sticks around to teach him how to survive; for someone who’s lived alone for a year, it’s a miracle he hasn’t succumbed to natural selection.

In general Shouyou believes in sparse living. His apartment is wide, floor-to-ceiling windows, scenic white curtains that billow in the summer wind. The curtains had come with the apartment, along with the dining table that lies unused without chairs to sit in. His only furniture: a mattress with no bed frame, an aging TV about three decades too old, and a broom that’s so carefully maintained that it’s possible Shouyou worships it.

Hinata tells him after a shopping spree that he’d meant to go for Quidditch professionally after graduation, but his mom asked him to take some NEWTs and explore his options first. France was supposed to be one option. Temporary. Two months at most. Then he’d discovered an opportunity.

“There’s this crazy artisan Snitch crafter here,” Hinata—call me Shouyou—chatters on. “And it turns out that if you work with building Snitches, you can get a sense for how they work, like their flight patterns and stuff like that. You can even get used to the speed, and your eyes learn how to track them better. Isn’t that cool? I’ve never been on the building end, just the catching end, so everything’s new to me. I mean, ideally I’d already be playing in the big leagues, but I couldn’t do anything about the fact that I didn’t get recruited. Then Ukai told me to try to get my name out there through other ways and polish my skills in the meantime, learn something new. So that’s why I’m here.”

“Didn’t expect all that from one question,” Atsumu says, amused. The past few days have imparted him with a working idea that Shouyou could converse with a potted plant if he put his mind to it. The conversation is endless, even when Atsumu’s responses have mostly been half-assed grunts and dead silence.

Discouraged isn’t a word that’s in Shouyou’s vocabulary, and even Atsumu—conversational skills ranking slightly higher than a plant—finds himself reluctantly tugged into Shouyou’s orbit.

Shouyou hums around a mouthful of rice. “Well, like I said, language barrier. Everyone who knows I’m in France knows this stuff about me, anyway.”

“So you got lots of friends?”

“Some, yeah!” Shouyou stops inhaling the miso soup long enough to look up at him. “What brought you, Atsumu-san? Are you here to learn too?”

Chosen one living as a stray fox feasting on scraps of burnt bread, learning from artisans? Hysterical. But Shouyou doesn’t seem to mean it in a cruel way. There’s something about his gaze that’s so sincere it makes the retort die on Atsumu’s tongue.

“Nah,” he says instead. “I’m… wandering, I guess.”

“Oh,” Shouyou says.

“Not very exciting for the hero, I know,” Atsumu says. The delivery is dead wrong—not light and self-aware, but about forty tons too bitter and soaked in poison.

Shouyou doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he says, “Atsumu-san, has anyone ever told you that you can be a little self-absorbed?”

It’s so far out of left field that it punches a laugh out of him. God, he misses Samu.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “A lot, actually.”

“Well, as long as you know. By the way, if you’re free, how do you feel about coming with me to learn from Washijo tomorrow? In exchange you can teach me how to become an Animagus.”

“I—what?”

“You bought me furniture, so it’s only fair, isn’t it?”

Atsumu files away another fact in his Hinata Shouyou database: he sings in the shower at a deafening volume, but gets screechy-embarrassed when called out on it. He loves vegetables and cultivating them in garden pots even more. He absolutely does not know how to take no for an answer.

It’s a cardinal rule in Washijo’s workshop that no air conditioning is allowed in the workshop: you adjust to the heat or you leave. Steel, wood, fire, that’s Washijo’s blacksmith in essence. Every surface is dusted with ash and smoke and leftover packets of herbal extract that Washijo doles out like presents. Drink them for the taste and you’ll live forever, is his motto.

Certainly Washijo seems to be living proof of it. He’s an old grandpa whose only love in life is the furnace he lives and breathes, but he hasn’t tired of it yet after six decades. On top of that he’s brilliant, inhumanly steady considering he’s made of wrinkles and also two hundred years old, and—best of all—he doesn’t give a fuck about Atsumu.

To Washijo, Atsumu is something like an alley cat that Shouyou dragged in, worth yet to be decided.

“Oh, c’mon, that was shaping up to be a good one!” Atsumu protests, while Shouyou lets loose a maniacal cackle behind him at his own workbench.

Washijo—uncaring, unfeeling, possibly undead Washijo—ignores him and chucks the lump of steel back into the dragonfire. Atsumu stares at the fire in mourning. Farewell, six hours of work. He didn’t even get a kiss goodbye.

“Kids these days,” Washijo mutters, stomping back to his table. “So full of arrogance. Where do you get that much confidence, huh?”

Obvious answers: he fought a war and won. He died once, and came close a dozen other times. He doesn’t have anything else to lose.

But that’s not so true anymore, is it?

“Y’know, I had perfect marks in school,” Atsumu says instead.

“Pathetic,” Washijo barks, then: “Well? Get back to work, stray.”

On bad days, Shouyou reminds him to write to Osamu and accompanies him for the half dozen Apparition jumps to the tree hollow. It’s the only activity for the day because Atsumu doesn’t have the energy to leave the apartment afterwards, and Shouyou doesn’t force him. Even Shouyou, who seems to be aware of the existence of limits but disregards them as concepts ill-suited for him, understands that there are some lines that can’t be crossed. Every single one of them involves the street of bookstores on the way to Washijo’s workshop, always advertising the latest magazine or newspaper behind the window fronts.

It’s the headlines, see. They jump out too much at Atsumu. A year out from the war, and it’s like they’re written with the sole purpose of fucking with his head.

MSBY’S #15 TAKES THE QUIDDITCH WORLD BY STORM!

THE CHOSEN ONE IN FRANCE: EVERYTHING YOU MISSED ABOUT MIYA ATSUMU.

CHOSEN ONE’S BROTHER ENGAGED?!

His favorite, though, has to be a paper he sees two months into living with Shouyou. The article features a grainy picture of him and a shorter, faceless person, losing their damn minds in a dessert cafe Atsumu had discovered. It’s a nice picture. The headline? Not so much. CHOSEN ONE SPOTTED IN THE CITY OF LOVE WITH NEW MYSTERIOUS LOVER!

“You’re not even my type,” Shouyou says when he sees it on the way back from grocery shopping, offended.

“Oi.”

“Don’t take it personally! Plus I have a boyfriend. And you’re not very charming, Atsumu-san.”

“I’m not very likable,” Atsumu agrees—it’s something Osamu said to him once when they were kids, and he’s never forgotten it.

Shouyou frowns at him, the equivalent of reaching across the table to strangle him with garroting wire. “That’s not what I said. Don’t put words into my mouth.”

“That wasn’t what I was doing.” Quick pause, to reevaluate. “Was it?”

“Some self-awareness would be good for you,” Shouyou responds. Coming from Shouyou, it bites.

On normal days, Atsumu hurls himself into the work with Washijo and focuses hard enough that he forgets his own name, blinking back into existence like a half-remembered dream—out of the fog, into the light. He crafts lopsided spheres, mini broom keychains to be snuck out under Washijo’s careful watch, and riceball charms that he relishes in attaching to his letters for Osamu, who keeps every single one like the fucking sap he is.

Atsumu even makes a ring once, before the self-awareness that Shouyou preaches about kicks in and makes him toss it back into the fire. Not in this fucking lifetime, he thinks. He’s starting to make his peace with it, though. Win some, lose some.

What about the good days? There’s one, two months into living with Shouyou. Atsumu heads into the workshop at six in the morning, loaded up on Shouyou’s breakfast. The world fades away. Steel, fire, magic, repeat.

In the afternoon he finishes his first Snitch. It’s perfect. Lovely, golden, thrumming with the magic he’d breathed into it for four whole hours. A vague thought enters his head that this could be a good present. If he wrapped it up nice and pretty, engraved the right words into it, then—

He doesn’t get that far into the daydream. Washijo’s a harsh taskmaster, and months of mentorship don’t soften his edges one bit. Dear old Washijo takes one look at the Snitch, snorts, and chucks it back into the fire to be melted down again.

A mournful noise leaves Atsumu without his consent.

Shouyou slides over to elbow him in the ribs, “It’s okay,” he whispers. “He threw out like, six of my finished ones before he let me keep one. We’ll get there.”

Getting there, he says, like Atsumu knows what that is. Six hundred miles from anything familiar. What a fucking idea.

But in Washijo’s workshop on one August afternoon, a year and some spare months after the start of his wandering, Shouyou is right. From the fire emerges something new. Rounded edges. Gentle wings. There’s the second Snitch. Wasn’t so hard, was it, Atsumu-san?

Yeah, it wasn’t. Here’s another piece of tranquility, grounding him to earth.

Shouyou’s Animagus is a red wolf pup. It’s like a fucked up blend between a real wolf, a golden retriever, and a deer straight out of Bambi. Serious optical illusion, made worse with the way Wolf Shouyou always wants to wrestle in the living room, furniture be damned.

Atsumu lasts about three days of the wolf yapping his damn ear off and the methodical gnawing of his hind foot before he has to shift back and say, “Alright, I’m leaving today.”

“Was it the ankle thing?” Shouyou asks sadly.

“That, and you peed on the couch,” Atsumu responds, which makes Shouyou droop more, like he can actually see the wolf ears flopping. What the hell? So he says, “It’s fine. I’ve been meaning to go for a while now, anyway.”

“But you only finished two Snitches that Washijo approved! And we haven’t gone out to fly together!”

Atsumu was hoping Shouyou would forget about that drunk promise. “Right,” he says. “Uh, we’ll do that later.”

There’s this way that Shouyou stares at people sometimes. All creepy and glowy, like he’s been possessed by the spirit of a mass murderer or an immortal alchemist or the like. “When?” Shouyou says, with that creepy murderer stare.

“Uhhh, can’t say.”

“You’re not going to keep your promise?”

The stare intensifies. Atsumu doesn’t shudder. He very notably does not shudder. “Will you calm down?” he says instead. “I said I will.”

“So you’ll come visit.”

“I never said anything like that, what the fuck.”

“So you’re lying? You lied to me?”

“My fuckin’ god, will you stop staring at me like—okay, fine, I’ll visit! Jeez.”

His time with Washijo might not have taught him to fully master the art of Snitch crafting, but it has given him enough skills to craft a locket with an Extension Charm to toss his stuff in. Between the locket, downsizing charms, and the scarce number of belongings in his possession—really just a single Snitch that Shouyou crafted and some clothes—packing takes no time at all.

“You’ll let me know if you land safely,” Shouyou says, wringing his hands.

“It’s a Portkey, not rocket science,” Atsumu says, flicking his forehead, and he’s off to Egypt before Shouyou can get another word in.

More continent hopping. The countries pass by, but this time he stays long enough to enjoy each place. He checks off all the wonders of the world and then some: a forest grove on an uninhabited island in Sweden, where the sun always rises pink over the trees. A grungy music bar in New York with sticky countertops and cloyingly sweet cocktails. There’s a sheet of ice in the Arctic that cracks off with such a deafening boom that Atsumu sometimes wakes up in the night, months later, still hearing it, still feeling the residual bite of cold in his fingers and the way his body thawed out after taking the long way home.

Their nineteenth birthday dawns on them without much fuss. “You lost weight again,” Osamu accuses, unfairly.

“Just the light,” Atsumu says, fibbing only a little. He’s curled up against a tree that’s almost two years withered, and he wonders if Osamu recognizes it. Morbid to celebrate your birthday in the clearing where you died, but sometimes it’s nice to come back to evaluate how things have changed.

Osamu doesn’t say a word about it. He’s also forgotten things from the war, it seems.

“You get my present?”

The knife set in question is in view of the mirror’s reflection, and Osamu hasn’t stopped trailing his fingers across the handle since he’s picked up the call. “Dunno where ya get the fuckin’ money,” he grumbles.

“Didn’t spend a dime,” Atsumu promises. “Went back to Washijo for a week to borrow his furnace.”

Osamu’s face flickers: first the surprise, and then affection so open and vulnerable that Atsumu has to avert his gaze.

“You made this?”

“I’ve always been more talented between us,” Atsumu mumbles, ears hot. “Ain’t a big deal.”

“You see Shouyou-kun while you were there?”

“A few days, sure.” He tells Osamu about it, unprompted. How Shouyou shoved another personally crafted Snitch at him, less lumpy than the previous. The homemade tamagoyaki pressed between cafe ham-gruyere sandwiches. All the hours they spent scampering around on the rooftop of Shouyou’s apartment building stranded between feeling like themselves and something completely new.

At the end of it, Osamu nods and says, “Alright. Every month, then.”

Atsumu’s head snaps up. “You’re serious?” he demands.

“Don’t sound too fuckin’ excited, scrub!”

Atsumu tries, but he can’t bite down on his grin. A whole month between letters. At the heart of the matter, he knows what this is: it’s trust, another notch on the noose loosened. Soon his feet will touch the ground, and he’ll be good to come home. No more worry. No more check-ups. None of the bullshit before he fucked it up.

Just him and Samu, the way it used to be.

“We’re getting better at this whole thing,” Atsumu says. “Aren’t we?”

Again Osamu’s face does that thing. That soft, gentle thing. “Yeah, Tsumu,” he says. “Suppose we are.”

But things can’t stay that way, can it? Nothing is ever that easy. Especially not for Atsumu. It’s how the world has always worked for him: here’s a scrap of happiness. Go fetch. Now bring it back and watch it die.

Shouyou encloses his birthday gift in an ordinary letter that arrives at his hotel window in Copenhagen, two weeks after his call with Osamu. Shouyou’s handwriting is jagged with excitement, ink blotches smearing half the page. All caps, obviously. Shouyou doesn’t know how to write any other way.

I FINALLY GOT RECRUITED, it reads. I KNOW YOU HAVE YOUR THING WITH QUIDDITCH THAT I DON’T REALLY GET BUT I WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW ASAP. I’M GONNA BE A STARTER CAN YOU BELIEVE IT??? HINATA SHOUYOU #21. ME!!! THAT’S ME!!! WOW!! ANYWAYS I KNOW WE ALREADY CALLED FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY AND THIS WILL PROBABLY ARRIVE LATE AND YOU’RE PROBABLY ROLLING YOUR EYES AT ME FOR GIVING YOU A GIFT AT ALL—DON’T DENY IT I KNOW IT’S TRUE—

Atsumu snorts.

—BUT I JUST WANTED TO SEND YOU SOMETHING ANYWAY. YOU CAN’T GET MAD AT ME SINCE IT DIDN’T COST ME ONE KNUT. BY THE WAY YOU DON’T HAVE TO COME IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BUT IT WOULD MEAN A LOT TO ME IF YOU DID BECAUSE YOU’RE MY FRIEND. WE CAN EVEN GO FOR DRINKS AFTER IF YOU’RE UP FOR IT AND I’LL INTRODUCE YOU TO ALL MY FRIENDS SINCE NO ONE BELIEVES I’M FRIENDS WITH YOU, LIKE WHAT’S WITH THAT? ANYWAYS. HAPPY BIRTHDAY AGAIN ATSUMU-SAN!! HOPE TO SEE YOU AT THE GAME (NO WORRIES IF YOU DON’T COME THOUGH)!!

Atsumu flips the page. Dread is already pooling in his stomach.

Sure enough: Shouyou has attached a front-row ticket with locker room passes to a Quidditch game in a month and a half on the back of the letter. December 1st. It’s not just any Quidditch game, because that would be too simple.

Instead, it's a game between the famous EJP Raijins and the season’s up and comers, the MSBY Black Jackals.

MSBY, huh. What are the chances?

A fog settles over into his head like ashes in the dirt. Hello, bad day. Long time no see.

Chapter Text

The last weekend before the big game, Atsumu acquires a handle of Firewhiskey and works through it methodically with pen and paper in hand. The paper gets divided into two columns for pros and cons. The con side fills up quickly over the course of two hours: MSBY #15. Drinks with Shouyou where he’ll extort me into some other life-binding promise. High chance of being recognized, maybe mobbed. I fucking hate gossip rags. Might have to go in disguise? Polyjuice debatable. Sit in the stands as a fox? Cold as fuck in December. Need new clothes. If Osamu shows up to support Suna I’m fucked. What team should I root for morally???

Pros, only one: I owe Shouyou.

Atsumu procrastinates by tabbing through dictionary websites on his phone. Ideally he’d be flipping through a physical dictionary to eat up more time, but the libraries and bookstores have long since closed, and the only book in his hotel room is a sticky, tattered copy of some cowboy romance that he’s sixty percent sure that housekeeping missed.

It’d been a delightful discovery. Real gem full of raunchy sex and horses and the broad, sunbeaten fields where the heroine could discover herself, nature’s beauty, and the pleasures of the female orgasm.

Atsumu gets it. Kind of.

The dictionary, catching onto his mood, suggests apprehension. The feeling for when you know you have to do something but by fucking god you will do almost anything on Earth to avoid it, what’s that called? The dictionary can’t respond. It’s not built to answer those types of questions.

New tab. Google thinks it could be anxiety. Below the drop down box, a Q&A site scolds him for being a bad son and refusing to do the chores on his own—his mom wouldn’t have to tell him to do anything if he just took the initiative!

Initiative, right. Atsumu scrolls on. Ooh, trepidation. Four syllables. That’s a whammy. He switches to a notes app and types it out.

Trepidation. Anxiety.

A letter draft forms in the spaces around the words.

Thanks for the tickets, he types first. I would love to go to the game. Unfortunately I am filled with intense trepidation at the thought because of reasons I haven’t told you and will likely never tell you. Anxiety is a funny word, isn’t it? Anyways. Chance you’d take a rain check? On an unrelated note I may kill you the next time we meet for putting me in this position. I am so fucking apprehensive. How are your plants?

Yeah, that’s not gonna fly. At the bottom of the bottle, Atsumu shoves the pro-con list between the pages of the cowboy romance as a bookmark and packs his bags, preparing his wallet for a shopping trip in the morning. The agenda—Portkey, a winter coat, new jeans that make his ass pop.

He might be a fucking wreck, but damn if he won’t look good in the throes of despair.

The following Saturday, he goes to the game.

“You came!” Shouyou yells, hurtling into Atsumu’s middle with the density of a small sun to knock the air out of his lungs.

Classic Shouyou greeting.

Atsumu wheezes and musters the strength to pull back. Shouyou’s geared up from head to toe. Shoulderpads explain the cracks in Atsumu’s sternum. Add the gloves, well-used knee pads, goggles lost in the head of fluff Shouyou calls hair, and you’ve got the marks of a professional Seeker.

He mimes wiping a tear, partially to throw off any signs that betray that he is a little emotional from seeing Shouyou in the professional league, and largely because he’s long since embraced his assholery. “My kid, he’s grown so much,” Atsumu fake-sniffles.

Shouyou, who has never fully grasped the concept of sarcasm, says, “I’ve been a legal adult for a while now, you know?”

“My kid,” Atsumu stresses, scrubbing Shouyou’s head to dig the goggles in. There’s the second part of the Shouyou starter pack: the bright beam.

Meanwhile the rest of the locker room has fallen quiet. Atsumu isn’t masochistic enough to raise his sightline beyond Shouyou’s face. His periphery narrows down: gray tiles, the first row of brown lockers, nothing else.

“Warmed up properly?” he asks. “Wouldn’t want ya to get another fever and pass out in the sky again.”

“Will you ever stop bringing that up, Atsumu-san? I’m way better than that now!”

“I’ll stop when it isn’t so funny, maybe.”

“And when will that be?”

“Oh, the next century, you know how it is.”

“That means I’ll have to invite you to more—”

“Wait, I know you,” a voice cuts in. Unfamiliar, thank fuck, but Atsumu tenses regardless. The MSBY locker room is like a thrilling game of surprise onigiri that he and Osamu used to play all the time as kids—maybe this one will be umeboshi, then tuna, then so much wasabi it’ll make him wish he was never born. Replace the wasabi with the ticking time bomb of Atsumu’s presence, and you’ve got a recipe for mental backslide.

Atsumu lifts his gaze and registers white hair, a short stature similar to Shouyou’s, feline-like eyes squinted in thought.

The eyes light up in recognition. Ah, here we go again.

“Oh shit, you’re Miya Atsumu,” the guy breathes. Atsumu tries for a smile that’s more of a grimace. Guy doesn’t notice, too busy losing his mind. “What the fuck, Shouyou? You weren’t kidding?”

“Why would I lie?” Shouyou asks, frowning. “He’s not that cool.”

“Hey.”

“No offense, of course.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to retort, but the unnamed teammate might have worse conversational skills than Atsumu and interrupts again, “How d’you know him, anyway? You met in school? No, wait, lemme guess. You did your talking thing in the grocery store or whatever and he became another one of your besties. I bet it didn’t even take a day.”

“Inunaki-san—”

“My god, you freak!”

This conversation is rapidly veering into dangerous territory. Two years of dodging landmines like these have taught him to catch it before they explode under his feet. “I’ll leave ya to it,” Atsumu announces, starting to edge out of the room.

Shouyou shoots him a look with those glowing eyes—I don’t know what’s up with you, but I’m onto you anyway.

I’ll explain later, Atsumu should say. They both know he won’t. Those lines Shouyou never crosses. It’s one of the reasons why he talks to Shouyou so often in the first place.

“Miya Atsumu,” Inunaki is musing, as Shouyou leads him to the door. “Everyone in your generation know you or something? Heard you’re friends with Raijin’s #7 too, plus someone else… Oh, fuck, who was it…”

Atsumu can’t escape out of the room fast enough. Time seems to slow. The feeling in his body slides away in a smooth click. Somewhere in the room a locker slams shut.

Moments before he reaches the doorknob, the landmine hits.

“Wait, it was you, Sakusa!”

Atsumu freezes at the name. So does Shouyou, a half-pace behind.

“You know him too, right? It was in all the papers. You guys actually dated or was that a rumor?”

Shouyou has the door open now. His eyes dart between the hall and Atsumu and something behind him. For someone who was able to wrangle the worst of Atsumu’s temper for the better part of three months, Shouyou can be shockingly jittery. The panic’s all but bubbling out of him, like he’s a soda can someone shook too many times.

In objective terms, it’s a hilarious situation. Shouyou has nothing to be stressed about. Now would be a fantastic time to crack a joke and lighten the room. It’s no big deal. Everything’s fine. How are your plants, Shouyou?

“Atsumu-san,” Shouyou whispers.

Atsumu should go. Laugh it off, motherfucker. Or walk out the door. Do something besides stand there like a fucking idiot waiting for something that’ll never come.

His feet don’t move.

Someone else breaks the silence first.

“You shouldn’t believe everything in the papers,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu’s whipping around before he finishes processing the sentence. Magnets snap into place. Sakusa’s gaze is already locked onto his.

Atsumu drinks him in: the sight of Sakusa Kiyoomi, two years later, still so fucking beautiful that it should be a crime. Yeah, sure, you can’t believe everything in the papers. Sakusa got that right. They lied about everything. The sports section was diligent in reporting MSBY #15’s feint maneuvers and his unbroken double-digit scoring streak from his very first game, but they couldn’t get those glossy, dark curls right, or the sharp slope of his nose. The irritated, stuck-up, aristocratic air to him when he makes his presence known, like he’s hosting a dinner party that he despises with every fiber of his being? Nothing about that in the papers, and Atsumu checked more times than he should admit.

What else? The bitchy pinch to Sakusa’s mouth. Those high cheekbones that fit so perfectly into Atsumu’s palms once upon a time. He’s lost fat in his face, got half a shade tanner. Those broad shoulders are something new. He used to be lankier before, fit into Atsumu’s side so neatly. That’s a change. It’s a good one. It comes with better posture, too—he stands properly upright, with no slump or a trace of exhaustion in his dark eyes.

Is it possible to have your heart broken and stitched back together simultaneously? Atsumu is bleeding out at the edges, just looking at him. Dying was easier than this. How is everyone in the room managing to breathe in air? Does no one else feel like they’re getting their faces dunked into frozen lake water again and again?

The years have treated Sakusa well. To be more accurate, the years without Atsumu—they’ve treated him so fucking well.

A calloused palm tugs on Atsumu’s hand. Sakusa’s gaze slides down, where Shouyou’s hand is pulling on his. An unreadable expression shutters across his features.

“Atsumu-san,” Shouyou is saying.

The pressure of the water eases. Warmth floods into Atsumu through the single point of contact and reboots his system. Atsumu, that’s his name. Not Chosen One, not Sakusa’s boyfriend, not anything else besides Shouyou’s friend to support him in the stands.

Shouyou offers him the life preserver. “You should grab your seat since the game’s starting soon,” he says, quiet. “I’ll lead you there if that’s okay.”

“Sure,” Atsumu hears his voice say, as if from a distance. “Thanks, Shouyou.”

The game is exhilarating. Every player goes for points like the results will determine the course of their lives. Suna’s become sharper with his blocking since Atsumu’s last saw him play a few months back; trying for straightforward points leads nowhere. He’s too snappy, covering the whole goalpost as if it’s the size of a dinner plate rather than an empty space worth dozens of him.

MSBY adjusts fast. In come the unpredictable goals. Their second Chaser and #12, Bokuto Koutaro, distracts the field with his booming presence and obnoxiously loud plays. Eyes on his ball, because if you don’t track him, he sneaks up when you least expect it to slam a goal home.

But Raijin’s offense isn’t anything to scoff at either, and the game’s pace hurtles into overdrive from the whistle, racking up points faster than any game Atsumu has ever watched.

Then there’s Shouyou. Silent killer. For most of the game he’s flying smooth laps around the circuit. His balance is easy and effortless, almost lazy—he’s working at a pace of his own. No one sees it as a result. One moment, the audience is screaming at the latest blocked goal from Suna, and the next, the Snitch has dropped into Shouyou’s hands, like he was waiting for it. One-hundred fifty points to push MSBY past the qualifiers and into the thick of the upcoming tournament.

What a move, the announcer shouts. Unprecedented in all of Quidditch history, no one’s ever seen anything like it! The crowd goes fucking wild. When the hell did that happen? No one knows. Did you see that? No, of course not, I was focused on the Chasers, what about you? Did you catch it? No, but I wish I had! Wasn’t that fucking crazy? You ever see a game end like that?

The highlight, though, that has to go to MSBY’s #15. He’s relentless in scoring point after point. The trajectory of his hits don’t make human sense. They swerve, they bend, they loop around the goal to score in from the opposite side. It can’t possibly be real. It has to be some sort of mass hallucination, how does someone score like that? Better yet, how does someone fly like that?

This has to be a dream. This has to be a terrible, lovely figment of his imagination. Atsumu has finally succumbed to the elements, or withered away in some remote hotel room thousands of miles away, or maybe he’s still seventeen years old, kneeling in the forest, seeing a vision of what could’ve been as the curse ravages him from the inside out. This is just the world’s one last kindness. A I saw what the love of my life was doing while I died uselessly visions.

But his imagination can’t come up with something this beautiful. That’s the pure and simple truth.

Atsumu can’t take his eyes off #15, and he doesn’t want to, either. Two years he’s spent running from this. It’s not enough time. He could run for two hundred years. He’d still be looking the same way, still be feeling the same way. What a fucking idiot he was, to think this was something he could get over.

Hey, #15. Look at me. I’m right here. Did you miss me half as much as I’ve missed you? Look at me, Omi. Please.

Sakusa doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the goal, high above the stands, and Atsumu slips out of the crowd the moment the game ends.

The routine kicks in. Fox form. New cities, new places. No more people. Missed meals. No sleep. Don’t fucking touch me—I don’t want to be human anymore. You think you know me? You don’t, and let’s be honest, you don’t want to know me either. I’m not putting words into your mouth this time. It’s true. Let’s be real with each other; how can you stand me when I can’t even live with myself? Let me go. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know where I’m going next. Quit fucking asking me that. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. In fact there’s nothing I know, okay, does that make you fucking happy to hear? You want to rub it in my face? Go ahead, laugh, I know you want to. Bet it makes you real fucking happy to know that you were always the better twin. Go fuck yourself, Osamu. Stop playing such a fucking goody-two-shoes. You wanna know why I’m mad? Why the fuck do you think? Always fucking lying to me, you think I don’t know? If you were honest with me you’d tell me that you were happy I died; look at you. Look at this fucking house, look at all that you’ve done without me. You don’t need me. You don’t need this bullshit. Let me go already.

“You can’t keep running,” Suna says to him. “I didn’t mean forever when I told you to go. Just until you got better. But nothing’s changed.”

They’re sitting in a little rented cottage off the coast of Sardinia. Old place. It’s got weathered suntiles on the roof, vines crawling up the stone sides. One side of the house had been almost caved in by the time Atsumu stumbled upon the cottage; the wood had been ocean-beaten, salt-soaked, warped from the humidity. He’s fixed it up since. Nothing that magic and some spare supplies from the hardware store half a city away couldn't solve.

The owner, some aimless thirty-something landlord with too many properties to spare, graciously told him that he could stay until the summer tourists flew in.

It’s been enjoyable. Only him and the sun and trips down to the beach when he needs to get out of his own head. The walking has been good for him, in the sense that he’s built up some muscle. Bad, in the sense that he isn’t eating enough to sustain it. Atsumu has been whiplashing back and forth between mid-fifty and eighty kilos for two months now. No more letter deliveries. As for sleep, four hours a day. That’s if he’s lucky.

It’s exhausting to him, much less Suna, who’s embarked on an endless quest to keep him healthy on Osamu’s behalf.

Atsumu hadn’t had the energy to stop him back in December. He still doesn’t, in February. The tracker bracelet Suna had slapped on him a few weeks after the Quidditch game is another one of Suna’s inventions. Comes with location and weight tracking, and alerts Suna and Osamu personally when Atsumu dips below a certain weight threshold. How convenient. How charming!

Anyways, Atsumu can count his ribs, which apparently isn’t a good thing. Hence, this meeting in Sardinia.

“I know,” he says, and doesn’t say anything else.

“You want me to Obliviate myself?” Suna asks. Atsumu jerks, but Suna pays him no mind. He’s an asshole like that. He’ll start a fire, wait until someone discovers it, and pretend that it’s their fault that the fire exists in the first place, because why would you be scared of the fire if you didn’t start it? Are you overcompensating for your guilt, perhaps? That’s suspicious. Either way, it’s your mess now.

Delightful character quirk when Suna uses it on others. Decidedly less delightful when Suna turns it on him.

Best way to proceed is to pretend the fire doesn’t exist. Atsumu stands up and plops down on his bed by the window. Oh, look, blue ocean. No fires there.

Behind him, Suna continues tossing his Quaffle up in the air. Whoosh for the uprise, fwoosh on the drop. “You like it more when people don’t care about you.” Whoosh. “Best if they don’t know who you are at all.” Fwoosh.

Soon he’s gonna toss it high enough to rip a hole into the ceiling that Atsumu so carefully fixed. “That ain’t true,” Atsumu says.

“Doubtful.”

“I know you care about me too, Sunarin. That’s why you’re here.”

“No, I’m here because you think I’m pissed at you for what you did to Osamu and you’re fucked up in the head—” A whoosh so loud that he hears it scrape against the light fixture, before it hurtles back down again. “—so you probably dream of me killing you in this cottage on the daily. You might even fantasize about it, since you’re crazy.”

“You mean you aren’t pissed?”

“Well, you tell me. I’m about two seconds away from breaking your nose with this ball. What emotion do you think that is?”

Point of consideration. But it could be worse. If Suna were pissed, he’d pry Atsumu’s jaw open and shove the Quaffle into his throat and use the creaky leg of the wooden table to gut him into two halves. Then he’d take the retrieved ball, shove it into the other end, and light him on fire while he was at it. For the grand finale, he’d spit on Atsumu’s gory corpse and call their friends to celebrate the impromptu HURRAY MIYA ATSUMU IS FINALLY DEAD GOOD RIDDANCE party. Complete with dollar store streamers, limp balloons, and food in the form of a heartwarming community potluck. Suna’s rather creative.

Atsumu says, “I think you might be irritated at me.”

“I think there aren’t enough languages in the world to describe what I’m feeling, but we can settle on ‘irritated’ for now,” Suna agrees. Whoosh, fwoosh. He’s getting faster.

“Never pull your punches, do you?”

“Neither do you, asshole. You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?”

“It’s been brought to my attention, yeah.”

A memory resurfaces, like dirt stirred at the bottom of a pond. Osamu’s furious face. His fists twisted into Atsumu’s collar, shoving him up against the wall. If you want to be dead, then be my fucking guest, asshole. Not like I asked to care about a sonuvabitch like you anyway!

“I won’t Obliviate myself for you,” Suna says suddenly. “That was hypothetical.”

“I figured,” Atsumu says, cautious now. Putting out the fire means Suna’s trying a different tactic, and he can’t figure out what it is.

“Okay,” Suna says. Pause. “I was just saying.”

“Right.”

“Because I thought it might be something you like.”

“First time for everything.”

Suna doesn’t take the obvious bait. He means serious business. “It appeals to you, doesn’t it?” he continues. “Obliviation. Not for me, but for you. If you wanted to remember, you could look into a Pensieve, but it wouldn’t be the same since you’d never remember it as your own experience. Memories without the baggage. Right up your alley.”

Option one: no response. Too risky. Silence is neutrality, or worse, agreement. Suna will pry his jaw open to shove the Quaffle down his throat.

Option two: vehement disagreement. It’s an obvious admission of wrongdoing. Suna will break his nose and then drag him back to Osamu by the ear.

Option three: a fight, fuck off, what do you know about me? Okay, Suna will say. What do I know about you? I know you’re a coward fucking son of a bitch who keeps getting angry because you don’t know how to be anything else, and you need to quit it with your fucking tantrums, it’s getting really fucking old. I’m not your brother, I’m not your best friend, I’m not your boyfriend or your fucking dog, and I don’t have any responsibility to put up with your shit, but I will because I’m a loyal motherfucking friend who’s clearly too stupid to know when to give up, so let me turn it on you and ask, what the fuck do you know about me? You think I’ll give up now? Go fuck yourself. You’re fucking unbearable and most days I wish I never met you, you sad sack of shit. Motherfucking orphan who thinks he has it the worst. Boo fucking hoo. Pathetic cocksucker.

Ahhh. Okay. Now Atsumu sees the trap. And Suna thinks Atsumu is underhanded.

“Miracle that they let you play with that personality of yours,” Atsumu says. True neutral, change of topic, perfect diversion. It’s even a concession: look, I’m talking about Quidditch. I’m recovering at least a little! Surely my other problems aren’t as bad as they used to be.

“Oh, you know Quidditch players,” Suna says, not missing a beat. “Speaking of which, how’s Hinata? Heard you don’t talk to him anymore.”

Motherfuck of all fucks. Atsumu groans and slams his head against the wall. “You’re sick.”

“Says the famous recluse.”

“Can you just kill me and get it over with?” Atsumu begs. “Put me out of my misery already. I ain’t built for these mind games like you.”

“I’ll consider it if you tell me why you cut him off,” Suna says graciously.

Okay, what the hell. “Shouyou moved out. New place. It has a second bedroom.”

“Mhm.”

“Like, a place for guests.”

“So?”

“So he’s not supposed to do that. That’s not how it works.”

“You stopped talking to him over that?”

“He also asked me something after the game. Asked me who Omi—who Sakusa was. To me, I mean. He never cared before. And—other stuff, too, I guess. It was a lot to handle.”

Suna’s getting pissed now. Whoosh, fwoosh, whooshfwoosh, whoosh— “What stuff,” he bites out.

Atsumu keeps his gaze locked on the ocean. In with the water, out with the sand. “Quidditch,” he admits.

“You came to the game on your own,” Suna says, testy.

“Yeah, kinda regret it.” The Sakusa thing, for one. But it was also exactly as Suna said: it was a brutal reminder of how much he hadn’t changed. Two years down the fucking drain. He’s wasted his time trying to figure it out, and in the meantime Osamu’s nailed his restaurant business, his friends have secured their professional athletic careers, and, according to every headline on every newspaper in the past two weeks, Sakusa has even started an exciting fling with the Chaser on the Adlers team.

Ushijima Wakatoshi is handsome, stoic, built like a fucking brickhouse. He carefully opens doors for Sakusa and helps him carry groceries to his flat and lends him his coat on rainy days. So charming. Romance isn’t dead, after all.

No list on Earth is long enough to write down all the shit Atsumu is sick of. If he was smart he would’ve stayed dead. Any amount of time can pass, but that fact, at least, stays true.

“How long do I have to keep doing this,” he mumbles at the open window, heartsore. “Shit.”

Apparently he’s pitiful enough that the anger drains out of Suna. The Quaffle throwing stops.

“You think this is the part where I tell you to come back?” Suna asks.

Come back. Don’t leave. Where are you going?

There’s only one place he’d like to be, and it’s in an unburied grave. But that’s a little dark to admit, even to Suna. “Don’t think I’m ready yet,” Atsumu says instead.

“Will you ever be?”

Atsumu doesn’t have an answer for that.

In May, two months later, Atsumu fucks it up again by falling out of a thirtieth floor window.

“I didn’t know you were trying to become an Animagus,” Sakusa says, at the end of April.

Is the Astronomy Tower freezing, or is that just him? He should’ve known better than to leave the books open by the doorway. Anyone could’ve walked in and blown the whole secret plan to pieces. Most people wouldn’t—it’s popular knowledge that Chosen One Miya Atsumu haunts the Astronomy Tower like the ghost everyone wishes he was. Keep a clear berth. Five meter ward at all times, or else you’ll get your fucking head ripped off. He’ll chew you up alive, that fucking crazy Chosen One.

Of course, Sakusa’s always liked being bitten. Weirdo.

“Well,” Atsumu says, trying to figure out how to not turn this into a big deal, “I was a little bored. What brings you up here, Omi-kun?”

“You left,” Sakusa says.

“Baby,” Atsumu says softly.

“Don’t,” Sakusa snaps. He’s shaking. It is cold, raining besides. Utter hell on Sakusa’s joints.

Atsumu’s eyes flicker down. His feet are bare again. Bleeding too. There’s a bunch of debris littered around the castle that they haven’t managed to clear up yet. The smart thing to do would be to wear shoes. Or, even better, staying in bed.

Recently Sakusa doesn’t seem to be doing the smart things. Atsumu knows why. Fighting with him is wearing on Sakusa too.

Some gentleness, then.

“Stay there,” Atsumu says, and he makes his way over to Sakusa and guides them both back to the top step of the staircase, where he sits them down. He tugs Sakusa’s legs into his lap and begins picking out pebbles and broken glass from his skin.

Sakusa doesn’t flinch. Instead he stares at Atsumu like he’s a stranger.

The healing doesn’t take long. Minor scrapes and bruises. But the necessity of the healing irritates him, especially when Sakusa should know better with his Healer reviews and shit. For a minute he works his jaw, trying to figure out how to say it.

Sakusa beats him to it. “You motherfucker,” he says.

Right. Reliable routine. The words don’t really sting anymore—more like a dull bruise, radiating out to the rest of him. He wonders if this is what it’s like to experience the type of chronic pain Sakusa does.

Speaking of which. Atsumu trails his fingers across the knobs of Sakusa’s ankles, digging into the tender spots.

“Me,” he says, when he reaches Sakusa’s knees, ready for the argument now.

“Yeah, you,” Sakusa says. “I tell you not to leave, and first fucking chance you get—here you are.”

“I left a note.”

“Oh, that’s helpful.”

“Omi, c’mon. You always know where I am.” No secret that Sakusa likes to keep a tighter surveillance on him than military police. That had been the focus of another article a few weeks back—SAKUSA KIYOOMI: CHOSEN ONE’S LOVER, OR PARANOID KEEPER?

“The high places. I know.”

Not a fair point. It’s not like he goes to the Tower to jump. It’s just close to the sky, where he’d be flying among the clouds in an ideal world.

“I didn’t leave you,” Atsumu sighs. “You know that.”

“Do I?”

Being unfair again. “Spare me the bullshit, Omi. You’re the one who leaves me first. You got your Healer and Quidditch stuff, so I figured I could do something on my own. The Animagus stuff. Time apart. I thought that was what we were doing.”

“You are fucking insufferable, you know that?”

Something in Atsumu’s expression must crack—he doesn’t feel it, but Sakusa catches it, anyway. He’s quick like that.

“Fuck,” he whispers. His way of saying I’m sorry and also I love you.

Atsumu kisses him: that’s his way of accepting it, and saying it back. Most of the time it dissolves their arguments. Not today.

Sakusa still looks upset when he pulls back. “Can you—you want to be alone. You don’t want to be with me. Whatever. But it fucks me up, okay? You don’t need to stay, you get restless, I get it, but at least tell me where you’re going before you go.”

“Omi—”

“Say yes, for fuck’s sake. Please.”

Impressive, how Sakusa manages to make please sound like a threat and a dying wish wrapped in a single syllable. Atsumu curls in and buries his face in Sakusa’s cold hands. “I told you I left a note. Can you believe me on that?”

Just like that Sakusa’s snapped back to seething and furious, jerking his hands back so fast it leaves him reeling. “I don’t want a damn note, alright!” he snaps. “I want you to wake me up and tell me yourself—”

“I ain’t doing that to you when you’re dead on your feet, Omi!”

“I’m fine,” Sakusa bites out, but Atsumu doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s lying. Maybe this is what it’s like to be on the other end of it. To see someone you love crashing and burning and not giving a fuck about who it hurts on the way down. No wonder Sakusa can’t stand him most days now.

“Omi,” Atsumu says, quieter, defeated. “Listen. You know I’m here, okay? Where else would I go?”

He doesn’t attend classes like Osamu or Sakusa, and he sure as hell isn’t flying circles in the Quidditch pitches. It was one time he left with that Portkey from Suna, and look what he got out of it: a relationship on the rocks, the wanderlust burning him from the inside out. But it’s too soon to leave, much less bring it up. He can’t. Not now, when Sakusa’s too anxious from everything Atsumu’s fucked up.

If anything he’s at a dead end. High up in a tower where the only way out is down. So where the fuck does Sakusa think he would be, when Atsumu’s been putting every ounce of effort to stay in place?

Slowly Sakusa folds himself up like origami. Real delicate and sharp, like the paper cranes that he and Osamu used to wish on and stuff into the tree hollow by their aunt’s house when they were little. “You never get it,” Sakusa is choking out, and he sounds far away. “Why do I try? Honestly. Why do I fucking try.”

Now Atsumu knows why the apology kiss hadn’t worked. “You’re giving up on me,” he realizes.

Sakusa lifts his head, looking about as wrecked as Atsumu feels, and tells him, “You gave up on me first.”

In stages, it hits him: the deja vu. The dread. Osamu’s fist.

“You fuckin’ idiot!” Samu’s howling, a feral animal. “What’d I say! What’d I fucking say, Tsumu!”

Atsumu doesn’t want to hear it. He tunes it out, lets himself drift. Gravitates into the points of pain in his body: his broken ribs, his shattered arm and collarbone. The bruises up and down his left side, where he’d landed hard on Shouyou’s Cushioning Charm. A tiny cut on the inside of his cheek where he must’ve bitten down without realizing. His legs are fine, miraculously. There’s no reason why he can’t get up and walk away right then and there.

The lights blind him. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, the hospital ward is empty. Perks of being the hero. Apparently people give you space when you nearly die for the dozenth time. There’s a crumpled sheaf of pages lying discarded on the floor, with distinct creases where it’s clear it’s been folded and unfolded again and again. Same two words.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, reads a familiar script.

After, Atsumu stumbles to the bathroom to gauge how much longer he can milk this injury thing before Osamu hunts him down to finish him off for good. He flips the switch, lifts his head to look into the mirror.

There’s a stranger staring back.

This guy could belong in a coffin without looking a hair out of place. Gaunt cheekbones. Collarbones so sharp that his skin stretches over like thin plastic wrap. Sleepless bruises ringing the undersides of his eyes and half a dozen bruises besides that.

“Aren’t you looking pathetic,” Atsumu mutters to himself, and, with a violent rage he didn’t realize he still possessed, rears back his fist and shatters the mirror.

“You’re not leaving again,” is the first thing Osamu says when he’s capable of words that aren’t mindless shrieking. His voice is scraped raw.

So is Atsumu’s, which is why he doesn't reply. He settles for glaring daggers into Osamu’s head. If he had his wand, he could paralyze Osamu in one quick motion and be out of Osamu’s perfect fucking house before he could blink. Or if he had control of his magical core, he could Apparate. Take the nearest Portkey to the next country, stay on the run, never get fucking caught and held down again. Do whatever the fuck he wants.

What’s it matter to them? Why’s he fucking here, again? How many bridges does he need to burn before the message sticks?

“I’m serious,” Osamu says. “Glare at me all you want. But I’m not fuckin’ doing this again.”

“Fuck you,” Atsumu rasps.

“Heard that one before. How about you get some new material, you jackass?”

The return of Osamu’s dictatorship is swift and brutal, mostly because it’s reinforced by half a dozen people, the majority of whom Atsumu hasn’t seen in years.

“I can't understand why you’re so angry,” Aran says, calm. The way he gets pissed is exactly like Kita—the angrier he is, the quieter he is, until he hits a breaking point and leaves without a word.

Atsumu's one skill is upsetting people, and he wants to be alone. He lashes out and rips into Aran. Like really fucking rips into him with the kind of ferocity that should horrify him normally, except he doesn't feel much of anything. It's very peaceful, how he goes about it.

“You don't get it, do you?” he says, almost sweet. “Never have, but it'd make you feel better to pretend like you want to, doesn't it? Poor, kind, gentle Aran-kun. Let's be honest. We've known each other long enough that we can do that, right? 'Cause you don't want to be here. You’re here out of obligation, 'cause everyone else is, and you always hated being the one left out. Well, you fuckin' got it. Your Good Samaritan deed done for the day, you can fuckin' go now.”

“That's what you think of me,” Aran says. “Really.”

“Really,” Atsumu says.

Aran nods, as if Atsumu’s said something mildly interesting about the weather. Then he continues peeling the rest of the clementines in his sports bag until there's about thirty peeled clementines scattered across Atsumu's lap, soaking citrus juice into the sheets.

“I'm not fucking eating,” Atsumu mutters.

“I'll wait you out,” Aran says.

Patience is the one thing he's never beaten Aran in. He tries, but he has to give in after three hours of crushing silence, snatching a clementine to shove into his mouth whole. The fruit burns. He’s got a split lip that hasn’t healed up yet, courtesy of Osamu. His eyes sting.

Seeing it, Aran finally gets to his feet. “Maybe you’ll drive me away someday,” he says. “But not today, Atsumu. Rest up.”

The next to come is Kita, who stares at him until Atsumu cracks and mumbles an apology, feeling like he’s eleven and back on the Quidditch field.

Kita says, “Well, it’s not me you have to apologize to.”

“I ain’t talking to that fucking scrub,” Atsumu snaps.

“He saved your life.”

“That was Shouyou, if we’re being technical.”

“Don’t play dumb, Atsumu.”

“Well, I saved his, didn’t I? So it’s square.”

“That’s not how it works when you rigged the game in the first place,” Kita points out.

“You don’t know the whole fuckin’ story, alright,” Atsumu snarls, and instantly regrets it.

Kita’s eyes are steady on his. “Tell me, then.”

What a stupid fucking idea that would be. Be serious, Kita-san.

More people flood in. His old professors during school. Suna, Shouyou, and even old Washijo, who slaps him upside the head and tells him off for making his old bones Apparate for the first time in decades. At the end of the week, Osamu’s made his point.

He comes in close to dawn, when he knows Atsumu isn't sleeping.

“Alright,” Atsumu says, after thirty minutes of deadened silence. “You win. The hell ya want, Samu.”

He means it. Whatever Osamu wants, he can have it. Atsumu can’t even die without permission, for fuck’s sake.

In June, two full years after their first deal, they renegotiate the terms of Atsumu’s existence in Osamu’s living room. It’s just as stringent as the first deal, if not more. Atsumu isn’t allowed to leave the country until his injuries are healed, the natural way. He can’t die. He can’t get injured. He has to eat three meals a day, and keep it down properly. If he breaks any of these rules, that’s another two weeks added to his recovery period.

Finally, he has to talk to someone every day—doesn’t matter who, doesn’t have to be Osamu, but there has to be someone.

Atsumu is curled up against the couch in his fox form by the time Osamu brings up the last point, so the tells are obvious. Osamu drags him into his lap and brushes out the tension in his spine until he relaxes again.

Osamu says, “Sakusa’s back in the country. I didn’t tell you ‘cause I know it’s been a while, but—”

Atsumu bites his arm, hard enough to draw blood.

Sakusa? Hilarious. Go on, Samu. Tell another one.

What’s rock bottom? Popular candidates include dying, and a little before that, that one time he kneels on the dirt and begs the monster to kill him instead of his brother, only to be tortured for twenty boring minutes—not that he can scream, because he knows Osamu will hear it, hidden twenty paces away. Or maybe it’s when he comes back with no lasting injuries, which means he doesn’t have a leg to stand on for all the times he gets so pissed for no fucking reason.

But that’s not the worst, is it? Let’s run through the timeline. Perhaps it’s in mid-February, when Atsumu gets on a broom for the first time after the war and genuinely fucking enjoys it, like the laughing, breathless type of incredulous joy he thought he wasn’t capable of anymore, up until he falls off ten minutes later. How does a Quidditch genius fucking fall off?

Well, I was a little curious about the drop and didn’t realize, would be the honest answer, but instead he says I don’t know, I don’t, can you back the fuck off, I’m fucking fine, motherfucking Christ.

Did you do it on purpose, Sakusa asks him, later that night. It’s something Atsumu can’t answer, and that’s another fight.

No one lets him on a broom after that. Atsumu would be angry about it, but he’s more furious at the way dozens of Quidditch recruiters back off for his stunt. A volatile player, goes the rumors. Brilliant, but he puts the team at risk. Dangerous maneuvers without proper testing and safety measures beforehand—who wants someone like that? We can’t take you. It’s not worth it.

In early March, Osamu is so fucking stubborn about the Auror career bullshit that Atsumu lunges for him the moment he comes out of the Defense class he doesn’t need. Fuck you, they’re screaming at each other like it’s the only words they know. Punches, hexes, vicious biting, the works. Quite a show. The papers have a field day with it, of course. CHOSEN ONE GOES CRAZY! ATTACKS BELOVED BROTHER. COULD THIS BE THE END OF THE MIYA TWINS?

Osamu gets his revenge a few months later in the first week of June. Atsumu has nothing to lose—the worst he could do is die. Been there, done that. He tells Osamu he wants to leave the country and that Osamu will let him. It’s not up for debate. He has to leave.

Yeah, that’s not something Osamu takes well, is it? Atsumu spits out half a tooth and laughs when he feels a second come loose. War, again. An old friend.

Top candidate for the worst moment, though? Late May, for sure. Atsumu has a phase where he stops checking the news in the name of self-care and tunes out any whispers around him. The most effective way is to zone out so hard that his body becomes something like an empty container. A more socially acceptable alternative is to shove in some earbuds and listen to ambient noise instead. A busy afternoon cafe—nice and quaint!

The funny thing is that it’s a pretty great month. The nightmares stop being so awful. His and Osamu’s bruises heal up without further commotion. He stops visiting the Astronomy Tower quite so frequently. What’s there to miss? The wanderlust might remain, but it’s ignorable. He’s had one bite of paradise, that’s all. Memories are fleeting regardless.

He can endure much worse than this. He knows that from experience. In comparison this is nothing.

For once, everything he needs—friends, family, people who love him—is right here.

Atsumu is the last one to know as a result. Fucking idiot the Chosen One is. So oblivious! So self-absorbed! How did you not know that Sakusa Kiyoomi, your boyfriend, the love of your fucking life, got recruited for an overseas Quidditch team and accepted into one of the most prestigious Healer courses in the world? He didn’t tell you? I mean, it was obvious, wasn’t it?

How far overseas? Atsumu asks, because they’re right, he is an idiot.

Oh, like another continent overseas. Somewhere in the Americas?

“California,” is what Sakusa tells him later, in a half-packed dormitory room.

Atsumu is a fast thinker. This part of him doesn’t magically die just because Sakusa has chosen to blown up his fucking life and future plans.

See, it makes sense. From every fucking angle lies the logic. He’d choose California for Sakusa too. Sakusa thrives in warm places. He hates sweating, but he hates the cold even more, and if you’re in California on a Quidditch team you’re gonna be sweating anyway. California. That’s great. Nothing that would put extra stress on his joints the way it does here. No rain, all sun, and the salty breeze of the ocean.

The distance is an added bonus. The American Quidditch team opens up plenty of opportunities and networks that staying here can’t grant him. Traveling is the spice of life, right? Not to mention the distance makes it easy to give up on Atsumu, probably for good.

If he’s being honest, he can’t say that this was unexpected. The fighting had to stop at some point. Sakusa is just the only one brave enough to end it first.

“You motherfucker,” Atsumu still says.

Sakusa’s face does something complicated. “Baby,” he says.

It lands like a knife in Atsumu’s ribs.

Is that how he’s said it, this whole time? Like something to use against Sakusa? Something to keep him hostage and unmoving, tied down to Atsumu even if it made him fucking miserable?

No, that’s stupid. Atsumu knows the answers already.

The better question is, how long has Sakusa resented him?

“Atsumu,” Sakusa says.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Atsumu chokes, and stumbles away.

Late May. Rock fucking bottom.

Chapter Text

Atsumu’s earliest memories have one constant, and its name is Miya Osamu. The magical photo album left to them by their parents only reinforces this narrative. Behold, the Miya family heirloom.

First page: the two of them sleeping in their cribs. One of them has the other crushed against the bars of the crib, limbs thrown out like a claustrophobic crab, one chubby hand clinging to the other twin’s foot so he can absently chew on it as a makeshift pacifier. The crushed twin, face screwed up in disgust, opens his mouth for a soundless wail. Osamu and Atsumu, 4 months. Poor Osamu! :(

Second page, more sleeping. Some vaguely familiar strangers who coo and poke at their cheeks. A hint of crawling before tragedy strikes.

After that, no more photos. Dead people can’t take pictures, and it isn’t like their aunt had been particularly inclined to continue in their parents’ stead.

Their newfound orphan status ushers in what Atsumu likes to call The Tyrannical Miya Osamu era. Ages one to eleven. Can’t ever go anywhere without that motherfucker. They’re twins; that means they have to come in an unbreakable set. Matching clothes, identical haircuts, birthday presents always presented in doubles. Whatever Osamu gets, Atsumu gets, and vice versa, because otherwise it just wouldn’t be fair.

It’s fucking bullshit, but he’s eleven, so what can he do about it?

Years eleven through seventeen are better. Finally, some goddamn independence. The first time Atsumu leaves the castle alone to buy clothes for himself, he chooses such a horrible piss-yellow robe—lined with velvet and feathers, embroidered at the hem with faux dragon scales—that even Osamu tells him to return it.

Atsumu doesn’t. It’s his prized treasure. The streak of rebellion continues. Different clothes, classes, crushes, tastes in anything and everything. Osamu, you can take the sour candies from my Halloween haul, ‘cause I don’t like them. The mini cakes and hazelnut chocolates are mine. That side of the room is yours and this side is mine. My favorite color is gold so you can take silver or something. If you do my Defense homework, I’ll do your Charms homework.

Eighteen through nineteen—what a year. Tyrant Miya Osamu makes a fantastic return. It takes two weeks before his paranoia dissipates long enough for him to leave the house for an afternoon grocery run.

“One hour, max,” Osamu warns, like he thinks Atsumu would burn the house down if he had an hour and sixty extra seconds to spare.

Atsumu spends a good chunk of it dozing off on the couch, waking up intermittently to track the minutes.

2:24. 2:37. 2:51.

At 3 PM on the dot, twenty minutes earlier than the hour Osamu promised, the door creaks open. Cautious footsteps tread in to tug at the edges of his awareness.

If ages one to eleven were Osamu from start to finish, what filled the spaces of his memories between eleven to seventeen?

Suddenly Atsumu is wide fucking awake. In the rhythm of a familiar stride, the years resurface. The Restricted Section after curfew, under a too-small invisibility cloak; the understated sweetness of a castella cake; the warmth of a shared bed not meant for two.

Atsumu should’ve known—of course Osamu wouldn’t leave him alone in the house now. There isn’t enough trust for that. But what is the Chosen One, if not a hopeful idiot who never learns?

The footsteps come to a stop before the couch.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa says quietly. “Can you look at me?”

Sure, and would he like a spoon to carve out the rest of Atsumu’s internal organs while he’s at it?

For a long moment, Atsumu imagines shrinking himself down. Tinier than a fox, tinier than that brief period of time he spent floating in the embryonic womb. So tiny that even Sakusa won’t emerge from the woodwork to try to save him in Osamu’s misguided attempts.

With a million uses for magic, there has to be a spell for that somewhere, surely. There had to have been some other sad fuck who wanted the exact same thing as he does right now.

“Sakusa,” Atsumu says, opening his eyes in time to see the tiny flinch. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“And then you chased him out.”

“I didn’t chase him out, he left on his own.”

Disappointed: “Tsumu.”

Onigiri Miya is a wonderful battleground made up of two stories. The lower level for the bustling restaurant, and the upper for a winding house with a layout so confusing that Atsumu still hasn’t figured it out, three weeks in.

For the restaurant, Osamu has taken cues from their dead parents’ house. Photos of friends and beloved customers have been tacked up beside bright advertisements. There’s a toybox in the corner for little kids who want to scamper around, and a bookshelf filled with potted plants and textbooks from their school days. None of the furniture matches. Even a hired interior designer couldn’t fix Osamu’s shit sense of taste.

It is endearing, though. An ugly ecosystem, where none of the parts should fit together, but manage to work anyway through the power of love or sentimentality or community bonding.

It’s the kind of place people would call home. Atsumu wonders what it says about him that sitting here makes him fucking furious.

“I’m telling you I didn’t do jack shit,” he snaps, to which Osamu rolls his eyes, chopping the carrots harder. “I was perfectly nice and everything. Even the meanest journalists at the Prophet wouldn’t have a problem with me, the way I was acting.”

“Sure. And that’s why Sakusa left looking like you fucking stabbed him in the gut?”

“You don’t know him. That’s his usual face.”

It’s not, but Osamu must be feeling pretty charitable; he lets it slide.

Atsumu, though, is feeling vicious. He shreds a napkin into lint-sized pieces with his good hand and reaches for more when the urge for violence doesn’t fade.

Desecrating the majority of Osamu’s napkin stock isn’t enough. After a small mountain builds up, he has to say, “The hell was up with that, Samu? You couldn’t have warned me?”

“About what? Your Omi-kun coming over?”

“That ain’t fucking funny.”

“Explain the joke, ‘cause I sure as hell ain’t laughing either.”

Atsumu retracts any generous sentiment he’s ever had for his brother. Those times the papers slandered him and painted Osamu as the good guy, or when the girls at school tracked him down and asked him to give their love letters to the nicer twin? Gather around everyone, let’s bear witness to Miya fucking Osamu being crueler than Atsumu has ever been in his near-twenty years combined.

He makes it through a book-sized stack of napkins before he can claw the words out of his throat.

“I ain’t talking about this, Samu. Not ever.”

Down goes Osamu’s knife. Gloves off. It’s lecture time.

“Look.” Predictable Osamu opener. Atsumu feigns a yawn. Osamu ignores him. “I know you ain’t the biggest fan of me or Sakusa at the moment. But c’mon, he’s—he’s your Omi. Talk to him. Shouyou-kun’s around, but he’s gotta pack it up and go back sometime. Sakusa, though, he’s here for the long run. You can’t stay mad forever. You can’t keep—keep pushing people away like this, the way you have. You ain’t built that way, Tsumu. And I know you missed him too.”

Terrible lecture. Atsumu rates it a three out of ten. Delivery could use some work, as well as the accuracy of information. No logic behind the points.

In the end it’s a matter of endurance. Will Atsumu be unpleasant enough to drive Sakusa away for good, or will Sakusa discover the grit and self-hatred necessary to stick it out by Atsumu’s side? Tune in next week for the latest installation in the Miya Atsumu Tries To Get People To Leave Him The Fuck Alone show, airing on weeknights.

It’s a shitty thing to test out. Shittier, still, of Osamu to use Sakusa like a band-aid to slather over Atsumu’s bleeding wounds.

“Should clean out your mouth, after all the bullshit you spewed,” he tells Osamu, who snorts.

“Aren’t you creative?”

“Don’t bring him around,” Atsumu says, serious now. “I mean that. Won’t do either of us any good.”

“You mean both of you, or just him?”

“Smartass.”

“Masochistic fucker.”

It snaps something in Atsumu’s temper. Pot, meet fucking kettle. “Well, you’re the sorry fuck who brought me back again!” he snarls. “So if I’m masochistic, what the hell does that make you?”

“Loyal, better than you, a good brother. Excellent chef. The hotter twin. Smarter, funnier, wittier. Has a specialty in cake-baking ‘cause of his brother’s weird mating rituals. Should I go on?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself.”

“Two out of ten,” Osamu decides.

But Atsumu’s just getting started. He shoves away the napkin pile and pushes himself up from his seat to pace around the restaurant. There’s never enough fucking room in this place. The shit fucking decor.

“You wanna talk about Sakusa?” Atsumu demands.

“I mean, I don’t, but it seems like you do.”

“You know what? Fuck you. Fine. Since you’re so smart, let’s think about it for a second. Can we do that?”

“Think about what?”

“The crazy timing. Haven’t seen a wink of him in two years and what a fucking miracle it is, coming around when I can’t get any worse. Like a fucking vulture. You think he can sense that shit? Bring it around like his grandma did to us?”

Osamu’s inhale is sharp and horrified. “Tsumu.”

“I bet he didn’t want to come, though,” Atsumu goes on. “Why would he? Be honest. I bet that you called in all the favors to get him to come around. So what’d you promise him, huh? A pity fuck? You tell him the Chosen One could be saved by some good cock and pretty words?”

“Quit saying shit you don’t mean.”

“Nah, I mean it. ‘Cause the way I see it, he’s got no reason to want to see me, and him leaving again just proves it. So maybe, he’s not the vulture. Maybe that’s you, Samu.”

Behind the counter, Osamu is tearing off his apron and taking deep breaths. Atsumu turns around again and surveys the bookcase. So many books. Who donated them, anyway? How much has he fucking missed?

Somewhere in these pages, did Osamu stick his will in there?

“I’d shut your fucking mouth if I were you,” Osamu says finally. “He loves you. Quit throwing it in his fucking face. Quit throwing it in mine.”

Oh, that’s rich. “Okay. Then maybe you can give me some ideas. How can I thank Sakusa? Would a blowjob do it? Is that what you promised him? You whore me out so I wouldn’t have to be your problem anymore?”

It’s the last straw. Osamu storms towards him and shoves him back into the bookcase, rattling the potted plants and the books.

“You condescending motherfucker,” Osamu snarls. Atsumu tries to shove back, but Osamu doesn’t give. Instead, he starts peeling Atsumu back, one layer at a time: “Think you know everything? You don’t know half of it! Oh, it must be so fucking hard to be you. Have people care about you when you’re so determined to blow yourself up—”

“Caring about me? All those letters, the fucking rules, the goddamn surveillance, that’s what you call—”

“What, like you haven’t fucked up enough to deserve it?”

“Fuck off!”

“Oh, poor fucking Atsumu! So fucking tragic that I won’t let you kill yourself in peace! That’s what you wanna hear, right? You wanna make me the bad guy for it—”

Above them a light bulb explodes. Neither of them pay it any attention.

“—but you can’t admit that it’s your fucking fault in the first place, can you? And you’re thinking, who else can I blame for this? Oh, let’s pick the scrub who let me die. The sonuvabitch I sacrificed myself for? He wasn’t grateful for it. He didn’t grovel at my feet, he didn’t bend over backwards to—”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Atsumu says, panicked now. “Don’t say that. Shut the fuck up!”

“Just be fucking honest for once, Tsumu!” Osamu yells. “You’re pissed ‘cause I didn’t do it right, didn’t die the way I should’ve—”

“No—”

“And now you’re taking it out on me, ‘cause you think I deserve—”

“No!”

“Then what the hell is it?!” Osamu shouts.

“I’m not doing this,” Atsumu says, and tries to push Osamu off. But Atsumu’s got one good working hand and he’s under by fifteen kilos, and Osamu doesn’t budge. “Move, I ain’t—fucking move—”

“We need to talk about this,” Osamu insists.

“I said no,” Atsumu says, wild.

Osamu reaches for him again. He’s looking to continue the fight, fuck the damage. Well, tough luck. Atsumu’s conversational quota is filled for the day. Try again tomorrow. He shifts into a fox and dodges the glass to scurry upstairs, his ribs and left foreleg aching with every step.

For the next few days, Atsumu evades Osamu by hiding in the linen closet, wedged between clean towels. Pitiful act of rebellion against the tyrant, with an unexpected benefit being that Osamu has to spend his time plucking fox fur off his skin every time he showers. Score one for Atsumu.

Meanwhile the towel thing pushes Osamu over the edge. His fury soaks into every last wood grain of the house. He’s on the warpath, and as such, he treats Atsumu like an enemy on the battlefield.

Interrogation? Nothing new. Predictable stuff, like truth potions spiked into his food. Spells to stretch his body back into human form. Legilimens shoving up against his mental defenses. Tell me, you motherfucker, what is your goddamn damage, huh? If you’re going to start a fight, at least make sure you can fucking finish it.

Well, Atsumu didn’t start the fight. Bringing up Sakusa first—that was dirty.

Okay, sure. If that’s dirty, then Osamu will play fucking dirty.

Atsumu’s prison cell that Osamu generously calls “a bedroom that was always waiting for you when you got your head out of your ass but this will do for now, I guess,” is three by three meters. It’s got wood-panel walls, a closet crammed with Atsumu’s old ill-fitting clothes, and a stack of old Quidditch magazines they’d bought as students piling high on his desk.

On day two of the cold war, Osamu disables the doorknob. On the third day, a stack of Quidditch magazines find their way to his desk, new and old. The window stops opening past fifteen centimeters. Kita sends a Howler that doesn’t even yell, it just booms a disappointed “STOP FIGHTING WITH OSAMU” before furiously bursting into flames. Aran sends more clementines.

The kicker is the end of the week. Atsumu’s crawling up the walls with the house arrest, and he finds that the only list of entertainment comes in the form of writing up lists.

Good time to revisit an old habit—if he cracks open the window for the night air and spreads out his bedding on the floor, it’s like going back to the days of camping and running. Nothing but paper, ink, and the ever-present numbness.

A last will is overdone and boring. Love letters are tiresome. Apologies might work, but he isn’t in the mood to spill his guts out. What else is there? Another fuck-you letter. More venom. You don’t fucking trust me, he starts to write—and at that exact moment, something brushes up against his ankles, and Atsumu—

His quill snaps in half—the chair smashes against the desk—the parchment goes flying, but it’s not a good enough distraction—he’s got no weapons, no cloak, not even a wand, but he needs to move, he has to find Osamu and tell him to run—

Meow.

Atsumu’s shout dies in his throat. He jerks to a stop. His breaths are deafening in his ears.

A meow? Did he hear that right?

In the silence, two white paws pad out from the shadows underneath the desk, followed by a sleek black body. Quietly, it sits back on its hind legs and licks a paw.

A cat. Dear fucking god. It’s a fucking cat.

“Oh my god,” Atsumu manages. The adrenaline crashes, sending him stumbling down to the floor, dizzy.

Fuck. A cat?

It’s about the size of Atsumu’s fist, if he had to compare. Doesn’t even seem like it should be out of reach of its mother, never mind with Atsumu. But it pads towards him and nudges its pink nose against the bare skin of Atsumu’s ankles. Atsumu shivers; its nose is cold. Must’ve been outside for a while, if he had to guess.

Gold eyes. They’re so intensely gold that the color is almost black. Something about it is familiar—

No. That chapter’s fucking closed. He’s not opening it again.

The cat sidles past Atsumu’s legs and towards his hip. Another meow, more headbutting. Atsumu becomes aware that he’s still holding onto a bottle of ink; he’d had vague plans of using it as a makeshift explosive if need be. No use for that anymore. He lets it thunk against the rug.

Pleased, the cat purrs and kneads its paws against his thighs.

“Fuck,” Atsumu says, shuddering. He buries his head in his hands. He’s exhausted. He should probably sleep. How would a cat even get inside anyway? The window is barely open. The space isn’t big enough for it to slip in.

The cat is still purring. It’s a strange sound, like a particularly gunky motorcycle engine running past its expiration date. Atsumu squints at it. Suspicion begins to grow—he’s never heard a cat with a purr like that, and he should know; he spent most of his dorm life living with half a dozen of them.

“Did Samu send ya?”

The purring stops as the cat tenses.

Busted.

Seconds pass without a response, while the cat tries to figure out how to maneuver the situation without making it worse. Atsumu stares at it, waiting; and then, without any other options, the purring begins again, like there hadn’t been a pause at all.

Atsumu snorts. “You’re pretty bad at being a cat.”

A petulant meow.

Am not, he imagines it saying. I’m an excellent cat. Fuck you.

God, he’s reading into feline expressions. He needs to get out of this fucking house.

“Whatever you’re trying, it’s not gonna work,” Atsumu says. He drops his voice, lets the edges harden each syllable. “I don’t need a pet. Go back to Samu. And you know what, while you’re at it, tell him he’s an underhanded bitch.”

Another meow. This one is offended. This time, when it kneads, there’s a hint of claw pricking at his skin.

“I’m serious. I don’t need a fucking watchdog. Watchcat. Whatever. You can go.”

Stubborn cat. It climbs into Atsumu’s lap and refuses to budge. Its eyes are narrowed now. You wanna toss me out? Go ahead. I’ll be back here before you know it. Waste your energy, I dare you. Go on.

Atsumu debates the merits of getting angry—there’s none. It won’t get rid of the cat, and Osamu will continue to be underhanded because it fucking works.

Goddamn cheat.

“You’re not leaving, are you,” Atsumu says.

Its ears perk up. Victory is in the air. He sighs and flicks it gently on the forehead, to which it rears back with an affronted myargh.

“That’s your payment,” Atsumu says. Its eyes narrow, and he elaborates, “Staying the night.”

Meow?

“You’re not sleeping on the bed, by the way. Don’t want fucking cat fur all over my blankets, so you’ll be gone in the morning, too. And Samu’s already here—I don’t need two guards on me every hour. And you’re not getting food from me, either. If you wanna find food, you can manage for yourself outside.” What else, what else. Oh— “If you claw at me again, I’ll toss you out the window. Don’t bring rats in here, too. This is a restaurant, you know.”

Its tail swishes against Atsumu’s knees, golden gaze intent.

Anything else? it’s asking.

First time someone’s listened to him since he got here. It’s an odd feeling. Something about it makes him reach out and rub at the cat’s ears, just once, before he picks it up from his lap and tosses it to the floor. He has to show it who’s boss around here, anyway.

Sending the cat, though, doesn’t resolve Osamu’s rage. If anything, time only seems to make it worse. The following week, Osamu tries for round two.

Thank god the restaurant is closed at night. It’s not long before they’re back to where they started: you can’t tell me what to do so fuck off, how about you stop fucking up long enough to make that possible, yada yada yada.

At some point Osamu’s temper snaps, and he’s yelling, “Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with ya?”

And isn’t that the question? What’s wrong with him? The better question would be what isn’t. This can’t be a real conversation they’re having.

“You want an alphabetical list?” Atsumu says, mocking.

“I’m trying to help,” Osamu snaps.

“You sure got a fucked up definition of helping, then,” Atsumu snarls.

“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to do, huh?” Osamu says, slamming the knife down. He’d been doing meal prep for the next day; no chance of that now. His eyes are burning, ready for a hunt. “You don’t talk to me! Not about the shit that matters! And I know you ain’t talking to other people, either. All that time you spend as a fox, you think I don’t know what that’s about? You’re running again. You can’t keep doing it! That’s not part of our deal!”

“Our deal,” Atsumu says. He starts laughing so hard he can’t stop.

Selfish motherfucker. This hypocritical, egocentric, dumb motherfucker.

“Our deal? That’s what you’re calling it?”

“What,” Osamu says, testy.

“No, ‘s just funny. The way you think about deals.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Normally a deal is something that two parties agree to, right? And this, what we got, that ain’t a deal. This is you telling me what I’m gonna do and me lying back and saying yessir, whatever you want, Your Supreme Fucking Majesty, because I got no other choice. Miya fucking Osamu getting his way; God forbid anything else happens under his watch. God fucking forbid that his brother dies when he’s off living his happy ending! That’d be fucking terrible! And you know what? That’s just guilt. That’s your fucked up sense of responsibility for failing once before. And that—none of that’s a fucking deal, Samu.”

“You don’t mean that,” Osamu says quietly. “You’re just saying shit.”

“Maybe,” Atsumu concedes, blood pounding. “But it’s true, isn’t it? You can’t go back and undo the fact that I died for you, so the second-best option you got is locking me up to make sure I can’t do it again.”

A crushed observation: “You’re mad at me.”

It’s dead fucking wrong. If he was mad at Osamu, that’d be easier. If he hated Osamu, how simple all of this would be. Then it wouldn’t hurt half as much. Atsumu has gained enough self-awareness to know that, at least.

“You can’t fix me,” Atsumu says finally. Osamu’s mouth tightens. “Neither can Sakusa, neither can Shouyou, neither can any of the fucking people you try to bring around. Give it up already. It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t say that,” Osamu says, hurt and furious.

“I’m being honest.”

“You’re spouting bullshit.”

Atsumu buries his face in his arms, too tired to argue anymore. The rest of this fight will have to wait another day. It’s not like he’s leaving, either way. “Whatever you say, Your Majesty.”

There’s a long stretch of silence. It’s standard procedure: they argue, they fight, they don’t talk until one of them is ready to crack. Atsumu’s ears catch the schink of Osamu picking up his knife to dice the rest of the ingredients again. Atsumu stays still.

Osamu’s pettiness has only increased in the past few years. He says, “You should know I’ve been talking to Sakusa. He asked about you.”

Atsumu’s lungs cave in. Oh, this sick son of a bitch. “You motherfucker,” he says, shaky. “You’re threatening me now?”

“You need to get better, Tsumu,” Osamu says. “There’s no other option.”

When Atsumu returns to his room, the cat is on the bed waiting for him. Atsumu doesn’t let himself think about it. He picks up the cat and hugs it close to his chest, burying his face in its fur, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

The purring starts up, awkward and unsure. Atsumu lets himself sink into it and falls asleep like that, holding the cat close.

If passive-aggressive bullshit is Osamu’s preferred tactic, then destruction of property is Atsumu’s.

He starts by ransacking the supply closets. Tissue boxes get chewed up and slobbered on. Bleach seeps into previously black towels. Labels for shampoos and body washes and lotions are ripped off with teeth and nails. He rolls around on Osamu’s bed and leaves behind a new fur coat on his pillowcase.

Osamu ups the ante by delivering a scrapbook of Sakusa’s every Quidditch exploit to his desk. Atsumu didn’t even know he scrapbooked.

“He started it a while ago when you were gone,” Suna informs him, cross-legged on the floor by Osamu’s bed. “Also, really?”

He’s referring to the growing pile of coat hangers at Atsumu’s feet. Atsumu doesn’t turn around and continues unhooking the coats, tossing each piece of fabric into a dusty corner.

“What?” he asks, defensive. “He started it.”

“You guys are five years old, you know that?”

“You’re the one fucking a five-year-old then, creep.”

“Our love is pure and sacred,” Suna says, and Atsumu shoots him a dark look.

The raid on the coat hangers—placed on the roof, to be discovered at a later date—has no effect besides Osamu’s newfound tendency of setting down plates with audible noise.

Fucking cockknob.

Atsumu has to go harder. He removes a few screws in Osamu’s chair so it wobbles on contact. He moves the furniture in Osamu’s room three centimeters to the left. He meticulously rips out the last page on all of Osamu’s unread books, cracks the spine on the old ones, and then rearranges the whole shelf according to color.

He relays all of his revenge to the cat at night, who doesn’t react other than aggressive kneading to show its disapproval.

The cold war lasts well into the blazing summer. In those weeks, Shouyou pops up like a surprise dandelion in spring. Five visits, total. Atsumu is in no condition to wrestle like they used to do. To occupy the time, Shouyou practices his unofficial gig as an emotional support animal. It becomes soothing to brush his fur out; something about the repetitive motion.

“You could get a job by doing this, Shouyou,” he tells him.

Delighted, Shouyou licks a wet stripe up Atsumu’s arm.

He ends every visit by rubbing his face aggressively into Atsumu’s thigh, as if he can just leech the bad thoughts out of him that way. “It’s off-season,” Shouyou tells him on the third visit, grinning, “and I can wait until you’re better. I have things to do here, anyway.”

“Things to do” means the Chaser on the Adlers’, obviously. Lots of fraternization between those two teams. The papers never fucking shut up about that either.

The cat doesn’t take the news of Shouyou’s extended stay well. As if to counter the sheer amount of fur Shouyou leaves behind on Atsumu’s clothes, it begins rubbing itself on Atsumu’s blankets and clothes to shed what seems like half its body weight. Then it starts play biting—Atsumu’s wrists, the tips of his fingers, the jut of his hip.

Again the familiarity strikes. Again Atsumu tries not to examine it too closely.

Time passes. Atsumu’s ribs fuse back together. Osamu stays pissed, so Atsumu goes back to raid Osamu’s closet again. This time he tracks down all of Osamu’s favorite clothes—his worn orange hoodie from sixth year, the black cotton shirt he wears on date nights with Suna, and an entire collection of new clothes that Atsumu doesn’t recognize.

Ugly pants make up a good majority of the fresh haul. Acid-washed jeans, red joggers, a few sleek slacks that clearly someone else bought for him.

Osamu’s belt collection has increased. Atsumu takes that as well, and then drags the whole lot into his room.

It takes three pairs of pants to realize the problem. First issue: Osamu’s taste. Shit as ever.

Second, and far more concerning: the pants fit Atsumu. As in, they’re snug against his body. He’s gained some weight from Osamu’s healthy eating agenda, but he’s nowhere near peak physical condition. Yet these—Osamu’s new clothes—fit him.

What are the chances that they have a third skinnier sibling who Osamu managed to keep hidden from him? Or the chances that Osamu bought these ugly pants to force on Atsumu as some form of fucked up psychological warfare? Slim to none, that’s what.

Fuck. Fuck.

Atsumu sinks to the ground wearing the stolen jeans and tries to get it the fuck together. He might be going into cardiac arrest. A seizure. A stroke. Spontaneous combustion. The world whites out for a brief moment.

By the time it returns, the afternoon sun has long since faded into night.

Suna’s babysitting tonight with Shouyou, while Osamu is off in Belgium or whatever to expand his restaurant chain. He’s chewing on green grapes that Shouyou rolls to him across the counter off the vine, like a strange version of bowling. They both straighten with Atsumu staggers downstairs.

“What happened,” Suna says immediately.

Shouyou stays quiet: glowing eyes, again.

“Did you know?” Atsumu says. His voice scrapes out of him, bleeding raw.

Suna’s eyes flicker down. Atsumu is white-knuckling Osamu’s pair of jeans. Understanding dawns, then the forced impassive disinterest.

“You’re an idiot,” Suna says.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. God, how’d he fucking miss it? “But you knew? You didn’t tell me?”

“He made sure you wouldn’t know. And what good would it have done, anyway?” Suna sits down again and reaches for a grape, practically ripping it off the stem. He chews.

The silence ticks by. Atsumu braces himself against the doorway.

Shouyou’s a wolf now. He butts his head into Atsumu’s ankles, asking to be picked up and used as an impromptu stuffed animal. Atsumu grabs him and buries his face in Shouyou’s fur.

Shouyou lets out a tiny whine, bites his arm, then licks at Atsumu’s hand.

“Say I tracked you down,” Suna says, when he deems that he’s punished Atsumu enough. “You yell at me. I say, ‘Hey, your brother isn’t doing so well because I told him you were in the Arctic fucking around with polar bears, and he’s been having stress dreams about your face getting mauled off in the classic Miya Atsumu fashion.’ Then what? You’d say I was lying, tell me to fuck off.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Atsumu says weakly.

“You have. Remember Shanghai?”

Suna might as well have fucking gutted him with a fork. Does he remember Shanghai.

“I thought that was a one-time thing,” Atsumu manages. “He shouldn’t—he doesn’t—”

“Try finishing a sentence,” Suna suggests, because he’s vindictive, and it’s never been a secret as to which side he’s on.

Atsumu sits down on the bottom step of the staircase and sets Shouyou back down on the ground, despite all of the whining. He can’t have comfort for this. He’s done nothing to deserve it.

“Okay,” he says after a while. “So I don’t get that kind of trust. Point taken. But after Shanghai, right? When I was in France, or—Europe, in general, when I was better. How come you didn’t say anything about it then?”

“Believe it or not, my reason for living isn’t to convey messages between you two.”

“Suna.”

“He didn’t want to tell you then either. It’s not my business.”

It’s a miracle that his chest is whole and intact. There should be a gaping hole caving his ribcage in, collapsing his lungs, filling his mouth with blood and tissue bits and shards of broken bone. But there’s nothing.

“Is there anything else?”

“There’s a box under his bed,” Suna says.

Atsumu breathes in, breathes out.

“I was surprised you never found it.” Suna’s already spat on Atsumu’s corpse. This is just him coming around for seconds. “The scrapbooking. It was a new hobby after the first few articles started coming out about you. Weird way to cope.”

“Okay. What else.”

“Lots of looking in the mirror. He became very obsessed with his appearance for like, three weeks after you left. Asked me what I’d think if he went blond for a change.”

“He’d look fucking ugly.”

“Yeah, I said that too,” Suna agrees. “Kicked up again when you stopped sending the letters a few months back. Huge jump in his ego. I bought him a mirror as a New Year’s present.”

“Okay.”

“I made a Portkey for him, too. It’s illegal. No one knows he has it except for me.”

Shouyou isn’t trying to leap into his lap anymore. He’s taken cues from the cat to rumble against Atsumu’s foot, and Atsumu absently leans down to scratch behind his ears.

When he feels like he’s scooped up his insides and sealed his flesh back up, Atsumu lifts his head and meets Suna’s eyes.

“Where’s the Portkey?”

The Portkey takes the shape of a tiny onigiri keychain that Atsumu made for him. Atsumu had never touched it for obvious reasons.

“One hour,” Suna tells him, and off into dizzying darkness Atsumu goes.

The ground crunches beneath his feet when he lands. Crickets chirp, birds flap their wings, and owls hoot, but every sound is off in some far distance. Atsumu’s vision takes a while to get used to the darkness. The wind is whistling through the trees, the cold air sinking into his bones.

He shivers hard. There’s something… off about this place, wherever Atsumu has landed.

He begins walking before he can finish adjusting to the low light. He only has an hour, and god knows how many minutes he’s already squandered. Roots tangle over his ankles. More than a few times, he stumbles and has to pinwheel in empty space or catch himself against the rough bark of a tree.

Eventually, he comes to a stop. There’s a density to this forest clearing that speaks of ancient magic. Darker than death, deeper than sacrifice. High above him, the trees stretch out into the inky darkness of a starless night.

Atsumu’s legs buckle beneath him. His fingers scrape against the dry dirt, into a patch of nature where nothing grows anymore.

He knows this place. Of course he does: he’d died here, with Osamu watching a few paces away. And seven minutes later, Osamu picked him up and carried him out of the forest and into the school grounds they’d once called home.

One must die, while the other must live. He’d always known that it’d referred to him and the monster. Somewhere along the way, he must’ve thought that it meant Osamu and him too. If he died, then Osamu would have to go on living.

Not so true, is it? More likely that if Atsumu had stayed dead, Osamu would’ve picked a clearing and laid down beside him once everything was over, and maybe Osamu wouldn’t have even gotten back up. Maybe, in that alternate universe where Atsumu died and stayed dead, Osamu would be right in Atsumu’s shoes, detonating himself on everyone nearby just because he could, just because he felt that fucking angry, just because Atsumu was dead and he wasn’t coming back.

God. What a fucking mess.

But there’s no use thinking about it now. Atsumu died to make sure he wouldn’t have to find out what it’d be like to live in Osamu’s position. Harsh truth, but it is. If it came down to Atsumu dying or Atsumu having to live in a world where he was without Osamu—

Fuck, what does it matter? It’s over. It’s the past, that’s all it is. And yet Osamu’s been coming back to the clearing to mourn for something that had barely even happened, for years now.

This motherfucker. If he wants to be so fucking sad, the least he could do is get his own trauma, instead of piggybacking off Atsumu’s like a fucking loser. Atsumu exhales and shoves himself to his feet.

Enough of the moping and cold war. It’s game time.