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Like an animal emerging from its cave after a long hibernation, Atsumu stumbled out of his room on unsteady legs. Even with the thin curtains drawn, the soft mid-afternoon light streaming through the windows was too bright, too exposing; he nearly turned on his heel and retreated back into the comforting darkness of his room. Only nearly. More than half the day had already gone and if he did not push through it now he would lose yet another one to the dark, grey haze that had enveloped his brain recently. He had spent long enough as a prisoner of his own mind, he was ready to move on.
The rest of the flat was fairly neat, considering that he hadn’t left his room for any longer than the amount of time it took to quickly run to the bathroom in— well, he wasn’t sure how long. When was the last time he spent time somewhere other than his bed? Was it yesterday? Maybe two days ago? Time seemed to melt into a jumbled mess whenever he got like this. He wasn’t sure how many days had passed since he first holed himself up in his room. He could probably tell how long it had been by looking at how many check-in texts Osamu had sent, but somewhere between his latest thumbs-up to Osamu’s text and now his phone had gotten sucked into one of the deep dark corners of his blanket cocoon and he had yet to find it. It was fine, it probably hadn’t been that long anyway. He hoped. At least this time there were no trash towers teetering precariously on every surface or mysterious containers with contents that seemed more mould than food. A little tension bled out from his shoulders. Sometimes the clean-up required for him to return to normal after an episode felt even worse than the episodes themselves. It seemed this time he would be spared that particular angst.
He padded towards the kitchen, a little listless yet determined, like a child searching for their parents after waking up from a nap. His eyes swept over the space, and he was relieved to see that the kitchen was also clear of mess. The sink was empty and wiped clean, his countertop appliances were left in more or less the same position he recalled leaving them in. The only things amiss were the two pots and the couple of spoons resting in the drying rack, and the very familiar-looking flask and mug sitting on the counter. The brushed metal of the large flask and the insulated mug sitting on the counter stood in stark contrast to the black granite. He drifted towards them as if compelled by some unseen force.
There was a fox-shaped sticky note sitting in front of the two containers. He recognised it as one of the ones from the larger set he bought a few weeks ago while in the throes of what his therapist believed to be a hypomanic episode. Once his mood returned to something a bit more neutral he found himself with dozens of sticky note sets that he didn’t need. He gave most of them away to his friends and teammates, though he did keep a few of them for himself. There wasn’t much written on the note—he guessed it couldn’t have been more than a dozen words—the black ink standing in stark contrast to the cream colour of the paper. His breath hitched involuntarily as he took in the all too familiar slanting scrawl:
Dear Atsumu,
I made you lemongrass tea and miso soup.
Sincerely,
Shinsuke
The laugh that bubbled up in his throat caught him by surprise. His voice was scratchy from days of disuse— he hadn’t laughed, or even spoken, in days. The note was short and direct and so similar to another note he had gotten from the same man years ago that he felt a bit like he had travelled back in time. Atsumu could easily imagine him bent over the counter scribbling the note in that haphazard way of his that never quite matched his calm and put-together demeanour.
Suddenly the cleanliness of his place made a bit more sense. He turned to look around his kitchen and living room. Upon second glance, it was obvious that the place had been tidied recently— the faint lemony scent of the surface cleaner he only started buying because it came highly recommended by a teammate, the small droplets of water still clinging to the pots drying in the rack, the neatly stacked books on his coffee table. Atsumu was not a messy person by any means (no matter what his twin brother might claim) but the life of a professional athlete was a busy and physically demanding one, so there was often a little build up of clutter from time to time despite his best efforts.
He turned back to the containers on his counter, feeling his heart swell with love. It wasn’t particularly odd that Kita had come and gone without him knowing. The man did have a spare key— boyfriend privileges— and Atsumu had spent most of the morning in a deep yet unrefreshing slumber, but Kita was supposed to be five hours away in Hyōgo. It was nearly rice harvesting season and Kita always liked to oversee the preparations himself. In fact, Atsumu was supposed to have joined him if not for his brain deciding not to cooperate. It touched him beyond words, the thought that Kita took time away from his farm during one of the busiest times of the year to clean up Atsumu’s place and make him something to eat. He idly wondered when he would stop being so surprised that his boyfriend cared for him. He secretly hoped the answer was never.
His stomach growled loudly, and he was struck by just how hungry he was. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate, but his body hadn’t complained much until that moment. The impending promise of food seemed to have kicked his normal body processes back into gear, a good, if not mildly bothersome, sign. He opened the flask, savouring the scent of the soup that wafted up to greet him. After some internal deliberation he decided to start with the tea, it was probably better to start with something that was completely liquid before moving on to the soup.
He lifted the mug to his lips and took a tentative sip, his brain perking up slightly at the sweet, lemony flavour when it hit his tongue. The tea was warm, not as hot as it would have been when it was first made, but just warm enough that the heat of it spread through his chest and settled comfortably behind his ribs. It felt so much warmer than what he thought he deserved. There were little pinpricks of heat behind his eyes, but he quickly blinked them away. He would not ruin Kita’s hard work by crying into it.
He took a careful sip of the soup and felt the same muted warmth travel through his torso. Something deep within him cracked and he shuddered through a sob. Like that, the dam was broken, unleashing a flood of hot tears.
He bawled like a baby as he alternated between sipping at the soup and sipping at the tea. Bit by bit, the gaping void in his chest filled. And there, hunched over his kitchen counter drinking miso soup and tea seasoned with the salt from his own tears, Atsumu pieced himself back together.
He sat back, staring down at the bottoms of the now-empty containers, and he felt lighter than he had in days. Even without consulting a mirror, he could imagine the state of his face. His skin was pink and splotchy, his nose bright red, his eyes were definitely and probably swollen. He could practically hear Osamu scoffing and saying something about how he’s such an ugly crier. He felt the corner of his lips twitch upward in the closest thing to a smile he’d done in what felt like an eternity.
With a deep breath, he straightened. There was a lot that needed to be done, but first he needed to clear the dishes— he didn’t want to upset the already clean state of the rest of his home. He made quick work of the dishes, placing them to dry next to the pots in the dish rack and idly noting that he would need to return them to Kita when he eventually made his way to Hyōgo.
Feeling a bit more like himself, he walked back to his room, throwing open the blackout curtains and allowing the sunlight to stream in for the first time in days. He cringed at the mess of wrappers, plastic water bottles, sheets and clothes piled up on and around his bed. It was always a bit embarrassing to see the aftermath. There was a lot he needed to do: the trash would need to be gathered up and taken out, the sheets and clothes all needed to be washed, and it’d probably be best to sweep the floors and wipe down all the surfaces. He also needed to shower, brush his teeth and wash his hair, between all the rotting in bed and all the crying he felt grimy.
But there was something more pressing that needed to be done first. He sat down and rooted around in the sheets, frowning as his fingers brushed against some crumbs lodged between the blankets. It took a few moments but he was finally able to pull his phone out from its plush hiding spot. Ignoring all the notifications that sat expectantly on his lock screen, he navigated to the phone app. He quickly dialled the number, it was one he knew by heart by that point. The other side picked up after just two rings.
“Hello?” To the untrained ear, Kita’s voice sounded nice and neutral but Atsumu had spent the better part of a decade learning how to read Kita Shinsuke. He could hear concern laced in the other man’s voice. It made him smile and then made him wince at the way his dry lips pulled tight even at the movement. He made the mental note to add a lip mask to the list of things he needed to do that afternoon.
“Hi Shin.”
“How’re ya feelin’?”
“Better. Not quite good but I’m feelin’ better.”
“Mmm,” Kita hummed thoughtfully.
The silence that followed was a comfortable one. Kita Shinsuke was not a talkative man, he was as careful and thoughtful with his words as he was with his volleyball practice. Usually, Atsumu managed to talk enough for the both of them but contrary to popular belief, even he ran out of things to say. Sometimes a day spent pushing his body or fighting with his brain (or occasionally both) left him too tired to talk. When he was with Kita he didn’t need to be Miya Atsumu, media darling and superstar volleyball player. He could just be Atsumu— whatever that meant at the moment.
Atsumu could hear the soft shuffling of papers on the other end. Kita was probably checking the rice orders for what was no doubt the fifth time. He closed his eyes and he could see the image so clearly: Kita seated behind the walnut desk Atsumu got him as a gift with his first MSBY jackals check, flipping through the papers. His black square-framed reading glasses sitting low on his nose as he double checked how many bags of rice were supposed to go to each buyer. There’d be a little furrow between his brows as he read over the documents, the one Kita always got when he focused on something and Atsumu’s hand reflexively twitched against the phone with the impulse to smooth it out.
“Shin?”
“Mmm?”
“’m sorry.” For not coming out to visit. For making him take time away from the farm. He had so much to apologise for.
“There’s no need fer ya to apologise to me, Atsumu.”
“But ya—“
“Atsumu,” Kita’s voice took on a stern edge, halting Atsumu in his tracks. He fiddled nervously with the edge of his sweatshirt. “Tsumu ya don’t owe me any apologies. I did it because I wanted to. I know ya feel like yer burdenin’ me ‘nd everyone else when ya get like this but yer not. There’s nothin’ wrong with needin’ a lil’ extra help, everyone needs it from time to time.”
Fresh tears sprung into Atsumu’s eyes. Kita was right. He knew that even before he apologised, but some part of him always held onto the idea that he could be wrong. Hearing Kita say it so plainly was enough to silence that part of his mind, even if only temporarily. “Thank ya.” He whispered into the phone.
He could practically hear the soft smile spread across the other man’s face. “Of course, Atsumu.”
Kita shuffled more papers around and Atsumu allowed himself to bask in the soft warmth that draped over his body like a blanket. For a few moments they were the only two people in the universe, and he felt the last few vestiges of the haze slip away.
“Shin?”
The other man hummed.
“I think I might be able to come ‘nd visit ya on the farm this week.” I love you.
“Don’t push yerself too hard, Atsumu. But if ya can make it, I’d be real happy to see ya.” I love you too.