Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Atsumu has hit his final roadblock. 

It’s Tuesday morning. Every Tuesday morning, they have practice, just like every other morning, and afternoon, and evening. This isn’t something new.

On a regular Tuesday morning, Atsumu hits the gym at the ass crack of dawn, and then he’ll shower, grab a post-workout bite, pre-practice protein shake, and head for the gymnasium that MSBY does their practice at. He’ll come in with a smile, or maybe a groan about overstretching his legs at the gym, or a funny quip towards someone nearby and whatever topic they’re talking about. 

This specific morning, he misses his gym-at-the-crack-of-dawn, his post-workout-pre-practice breakfast, and most of all, his smile. It’s the fifth night this week he couldn’t sleep properly.

He tells himself not to let it bother him. He’s capable of overcoming whatever’s plaguing his mind, and nobody else seems to notice something’s off or that he’s a little too tired to jump just high enough for the ball coming his way. 

His fingers slip off the side of it, sweaty and calloused, and the ball tumbles painfully to the floor. He watches his lost set, Sakusa standing across from him and staring at him with an unreadable expression, and he knows he’s fucked it up. 

“That’s your third miss this session, Miya,” he bites out, hand on his hip. “Not to mention every other practice that you’ve flunked out on receiving or serving.”

Atsumu lets out a sigh, staring back down at the ball that’s rolling away ever-so-slowly. He hums in acknowledgment, but can’t say much else. It’s when his coach walks over and pats his shoulder that his posture sags further. “Why don’t you sit out for a minute, Miya?” 

He’s been dreading this. He can’t stand being benched, especially during practice. It’s embarrassing, and just another reminder that he hasn’t been at his best all week. But his coach is right. He’s dragging the team down. Both Shoyo and Sakusa have landed harsh jumps without getting a spike in. One time, Barnes went flying into the net. He hit Meian in the back of his head with a failed serve the other day. 

His coach frowns in his direction and crosses his arms while Atsumu shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Maybe you need some time with the personal trainer.”

Iwaizumi has been their temporary personal trainer ever since their older one retired. He’s sort of new, only a year older than Atsumu, but he’s thoroughly experienced as an ex-volleyball player himself. And he’s real kind, so Atsumu doesn’t do too much grumbling as he makes his way towards Iwaizumi’s office (though it’s more like an empty room with a desk smacked in the middle of it) for want of not disrespecting the man.

Atsumu has half a mind to knock, and slides the door open at the confirmation. “Ah, Atsumu-san,” Iwaizumi says, voice gruff but welcoming. “Did practice end early?” The trainer checks his watch and sees that there’s another hour, shaking his head to himself. “Did coach send you in?”

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” Atsumu murmurs, taking the seat in front of the desk. Iwaizumi has some paperwork on it—from what Atsumu can see, it looks like different dietary plans. He scans the rest of the make-shift office and takes note of the different trinkets Iwaizumi has lying around, all centered around physical fitness. A dumbbell paperweight. An oddly positive and sentimental poster of encouragement. Different medical muscle sheets with highlighters and circles. He’s got it all.

“Tell me what’s going on, Atsumu,” the man in front of him says, taking a seat. Since Iwaizumi is a little new to this, and is on temporary contract with MSBY for the meantime, he and Atsumu are a little less formal. Besides, they don’t have any seniority compared to the other. Atsumu finds it relaxing and sighs a little.

“I dunno.” The chair underneath him creeks awkwardly as he tries to cross his leg in the minimal space he has. The silence stretches for a second and he shifts again. Another creek. “I guess I haven’t really been at my hundred percent lately.”

Iwaizumi hums and fiddles with the end of a multi-colored pen. “Do you have an injury? Any sore muscles?”

“No sorer than a usual day.”

“Ah. And what about any schedule or diet changes? Maybe a change to your routine that your body is getting used to?”

Atsumu sits back and tries to think about anything he’s changed lately. Aside from visiting Osamu two weeks prior, he hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary. “Nothin’ that I’ve done to change it.”

“What type of setbacks are you experiencing?” The man has a quick moment where his eyes look past Atsumu’s head, and then he refocuses. “I remember the rough game we had last week. You seemed like you were struggling then, too.”

“Uh, well, like...” Atsumu’s throat clams up at the thought of their last game. To put it bluntly, he played like shit, and lost even worse. He didn’t go to any outings afterwards and sulked the whole way home, mind running. He probably only got a few hours of sleep that night. “I guess ever since then I haven’t been able to focus like I usually do. Like, when I’m out on the court, everythin’ just kinda disappears, y’know? But now it’s not happenin’. And I’m not makin’ any progress at the gym. I either can’t hit my rep-count or have to lower my weights. I dunno what’s goin’ on, it’s like my body is buggin’ out. I can’t sleep properly, either.”

At the last sentence, Atsumu watches Iwaizumi’s eyebrows twitch up a little bit. “Not sleeping well? Why didn’t you mention it when I asked about your routine?”

“Well, I just kinda figured it had nothin’ to do with it... but this mornin’ I had to skip goin’ to the gym cause of it. I guess it is kinda gettin’ in the way.”

“Atsumu, do you think this might be something less physical and more mental?”

“Excuse me?”

Iwaizumi sighs and softens his eyes. “Not in an offensive way, please, just listen. It seems like you’re creating some sort of mental roadblock for yourself, like a hurdle you can’t quite get through. If you overwork yourself or rush progress, say, in the gym, then you’ll end up regressing. Your body won’t be able to keep up with what you want it to do nor with what you’re doing right now. Is there anything you could be thinking about, outside of volleyball, that might have you feeling stumped or keeping you up?”

The question, at first, seems ridiculous to him. There’s nothing else that comes to mind right away when he tries to think back on his past few weeks. The game sucked, sure, and his visit with Osamu was tense, but aside from that and his lack of sleep, he hasn’t had many issues. Except now, he’s facing trouble on the court, unable to set properly or hone in on the ball like he’s used to. He feels like he’s holding everyone back, both in games and in practice.

He eventually crosses his arms and mutters a stubborn, “I guess there is some stuff.”

Iwaizumi nods, turning to his computer. Atsumu watches as he scribbles something down on a sticky note, handing it to Atsumu a minute later. “My door is always open, but I think when it comes to your mental health, it would do you better to see a designated counselor. Teams like the Black Jackals and other first division sports always have a counselor available free of charge to their athletes. They can specifically help with things like stress when it comes to being a professional athlete, but also serve as therapists for more general things, as well. You can think about it and either contact her directly or come to me and I can schedule the appointment, if it’s something that interests you.”

Atsumu stares down at the paper. It’s a pink post-it note, and has a series of numbers scrawled under a woman’s name. He’s never once thought about seeing a mental health professional—not on his own, at least, because his mother has mentioned it before, just vaguely, while they were tight on money—and now that he’s grown out of the hormonal-teen phase, he feels like there’s no need for it. But Iwaizumi is earnest and knows what he’s talking about, so for the sake of respect, he folds it neatly and puts the paper in his pocket. “Thank you, Iwaizumi. I’ll consider it.” It might be a lie, but Iwaizumi seems to be happy about that reassurance.

“Of course, Atsumu. And you can always come to me, even if you decide not to pay her a visit. Just remember I’m a medical professional, not a mental health one.” At that, Iwaizumi leads Atsumu out of his office. It reminds him of when he was in senior high, coming out of the school counselor’s office after a fight, and she patted his shoulder and told him he might want to look into some coping mechanisms. What for, he didn’t know. 

He thought he found them, but clearly, his workout routine is failing him at the moment. He waves goodbye to Iwaizumi and returns to the locker rooms in the gymnasium, sure that Coach Foster would have him sit out for the rest of the day. Instead of worrying about it, he hops into one of the showers, all of them open seeing as practice doesn't end for another thirty minutes. It’s quick enough to get the sweat off, and he throws on his post-workout clothes. 

He doesn’t know why, but some part of him goes to grab the paper out of his pocket before he throws the dirty clothes into his bag, and the rest of his body listens to it. He transfers it into his sweats and leaves it there, half-crumpled. It’s as he’s drying his hair and about to put his other shoe on that the locker room door swings open. They still have fifteen minutes left of practice, and then cool-down laps, but Sakusa enters the room nonetheless. 

He doesn’t seem to notice Atsumu until he looks up from his wrist guard. “Oh,” he says as acknowledgement. “Did you finish up with Iwaizumi-san?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu tells him, reaching back to finish tying his lace.

“I was going to wait so I could stop by.”

“Yer wrist buggin’ out again?” Atsumu asks him as the man makes his way to his locker. They aren’t particularly friendly in the way Atsumu usually is with everyone, but this is neutral ground. Sakusa has been slowly but surely coming around when it comes to making small-talk, and Atsumu has learned to not be so quick to frustration with his bluntness and straight-forward answers. “Told ya not to use it so fast after a sprain like that.”

“You know what it’s like to get benched,” Sakusa bites back. “Today was an example. Don’t preach to the choir, Miya. I was gone for three weeks, which was more than enough time. You, on the other hand, can’t seem to know when to stop.”

He spoke too soon. Sakusa is kind of a bitch.

“Okay, well, it’s not like I’m hurt or nothin’.” Grabbing his bag, Atsumu dries his hair one last time and throws his towel over his shoulder. He’s ready to be done with the conversation, but Sakusa has selective hearing, and, of course, has to latch on to that piece of information.

“You’re not? What happened out on the court these past few days, then?”

His feet stop moving before he feels his body catch up. He’s facing away from Sakusa, but he can feel the man’s eyes staring at his back in confusion and suspicion, piercing through his neck and running down his spine. “None of yer business.” He hopes he doesn’t press it further.

But, of course, Sakusa has to press it further. “I think it is my business when the main setter of our team can’t set his spiker’s balls. A lot of the team has suffered from your ‘harmless’ screw-ups this week. If you’re not hurt, I’d prefer to know if you had a cold or not. You shouldn’t be coming to practice at all if you’re sick.”

Yeah, right, he scoffs to himself. Sick. First Iwaizumi’s insinuation, and now Sakusa’s, have set him off. He’s got nothing wrong with him and doesn’t need to see any type of professional to get himself fixed. He just needs some good sleep and to eat a bit heartier. “‘M not hurt, and I’m not sick, so just can it, will ya?” 

Sakusa seems to finally, finally, leave it be. Atsumu is sure he’s still being watched even as he makes his way towards the door.

“Just watch. I’m gonna come in tomorrow and wreck all of ya on the court, okay? So just drop it. Nothin’s goin’ on.”

At that, he slams the locker room door shut, and heads towards the garage for his car. He’s grateful that the sharehouse is so close, and he can forgo public transportation, especially since he’s so on-edge like this.

The sharehouse is empty when he gets back. To clear his mind, he spends some time in the kitchen prepping a few eggs, and hits the phone app the second he has them cooking. 

Osamu’s voice comes through his speaker two rings later. “‘Sup?” he asks, a faint background noise following his voice. “‘M on break for like, three more minutes. Ya never call me during practice, what’s goin’ on?”

“I’m not at practice anymore,” Atsumu tells him, watching his eggs closely on the stove, phone set to speaker mode. “Got out early ‘cause of Coach.”

“What happened?”

“He told me to sit out because I was missin’ my sets.” It’s not the full truth, but he’s not lying. There’s just more to it than that. Osamu only has to know what Atsumu wants him to know, though. “Went to our new personal trainer, y’know the guy, Iwaizumi, nice guy, and ya wanna know what he said when I was tellin’ him about—” he almost slips up and mentions not sleeping. Osamu would flip. He stops himself and says, “about how I was strugglin’ in practice?”

“What?” Osamu says, but he doesn’t sound particularly interested, as if he’s doing something else. Probably paperwork. Atsumu frowns.

“He told me to see a shrink.” He flips his egg, watching it sizzle around the edges, waiting for Osamu’s response.

All that comes is a delayed, “...and?”

“And I don’t need to see any shrink!” Atsumu protests, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Why isn’t Osamu surprised? 

“Look, I got like, another minute, but lemme tell ya, everytime yer strugglin’ in volleyball, it’s always cause yer strugglin’ with somethin’ else. Listen to the professional, for once.”

“I am a professional, ‘Samu.” He pouts and turns to the phone, as if Osamu can see his distress through the line. “A professional athlete that doesn’t need’ta see a therapist.”

“Remember what happened with that bad fight yer third year? Counselor told ya to try and see someone, and ma, too, but ya refused. Ya really gotta listen to people sometimes, ‘Tsumu. Get it through yer thick skull that whatever yer going through, ya can do it with someone. And no, that person can not be me. At least not always.”

The complaint dies on his tongue as Osamu automatically finishes his thought. He has no solid argument, except for a short, whined-out ‘but.’ Osamu tsks at him and interrupts. “I gotta get back ta work. You go see that shrink, or counselor, or therapist, or whatever it is, okay? Don’t need’ya overworkin’ yerself and cryin’ ta me ‘bout it. See ya later, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu grips the edge of the countertop as he looks at Osamu’s contact name. “Okay, ‘Samu,” he half-whispers, because he can’t argue, not right now. It would make things worse. “See ya later. Love ya.”

There’s a small break, and then Osamu’s voice is back. “Love ya, too, ‘Tsumu.”

The line cuts, and Atsumu sags against the counter. It feels like the world is against him. It’s easy for Osamu to tell him stuff like that—Osamu never had the issues he did during school, especially when it came to being emotional. It was mostly him dragging Atsumu either out of bed in the morning or out of fights during lunch. He’s not sure why those same issues are plaguing him once more. But he doesn’t need to see someone. He just needs to eat some good food, relax and watch some games, and get some rest.

He looks down to his eggs, ready to flip them off the stove and onto his plate. Instead, he’s greeted with a browning sight and a sharp, unpleasant smell. The paper in his pocket burns a similar fire into his leg as he tosses the burnt eggs.

He doesn’t need to see someone, he tells himself as he makes his way up to his room for the day.

-

The next morning serves him just the same, but now, he forces himself into the gym, even if he really feels like death this time around. Some of what Iwaizumi says gets to him, so he lowers his intensity and goes for more of a calming run rather than doing his usual leg-specific regime he does on Wednesdays. It warms his muscles up enough for the practice coming up, and helps him to clear his head, just a little.

All goes well, feeling good as he enters the locker room for once, until he sees Sakusa already there. The memories from yesterday crash back into his head, and his muscles tense up the slightest bit without him meaning to.

Sakusa seems to notice his presence, because the mood between the two automatically sours as he turns and they make eye contact. Along the locker room, the other handful of teammates they have are minding their own business, unaware of how Atsumu cowers against Sakusa’s gaze.

It’s when the man walks forward, towards him, that he turns his shoulder to open his locker. “How are you feeling today, Miya?” Sakusa asks. To anyone else, it’s a friendly question, one out of genuine concern. To Atsumu, he knows what’s coming next. Sakusa stretches a loose arm across his chest, looking uninterested as he warms up. “Still up to fight against your team, today? Oh, wait, how was it you put it... to “wreck all of ya,” was it?”

His mock-accent and squinted eyes, like he’s looking down on Atsumu (which he might really be, because Atsumu is cowering and Sakusa is taller than him by a fraction,) make the hairs on Atsumu’s neck stand up. A sick sort of feeling makes itself home in his stomach, and he swallows down the regret of lashing out at Sakusa. The man is his polar opposite, riling him up and almost always proving him wrong. It’s so frustrating that it makes him want to scream.

Instead, he pushes his bag into his locker and shuts it. “Yup,” he says casually. “Feelin’ my best again, which means everyone’s gonna watch me wreck yer ass.”

He bites his tongue. He doesn’t know why he keeps making these declarations, especially when he isn’t feeling his best and isn’t sure if he’s going to wreck anyone today. But he’s going to make damn sure it’s not getting in the way of practice this time, because Sakusa, as always, is right. It bothers him, but he has been fucking up enough to interfere with proper training, and he has to get his shit together.

Which he will do by practicing and locking in. Not by seeing a therapist. 

His warm-up laps go well, because he’s already halfway there, and he sees promise in his hands when he starts setting up the nets with everyone else and taking the ball carts back out.

“We'll do some rotations today,” his coach announces, walking up to the large court in the middle of the floor. “Rather than our regular six-rotation schedule, we’ll set up a twelve. Each rotation will follow the full court, so that we can target weak spots between different positions. Sakusa’s absence over the past few weeks has made it clear how important resting is, but also being prepared for any switch in our usual lineup.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes to himself. Being praised for a recovery is one thing, but being praised for throwing the team off kilter is another. Maybe that’s why he’s been so off lately. Their coach finally sets them up in their starting positions, with Atsumu in the back row and preparing to serve. 

And, despite being just a little tired and just a little stuck in his head, volleyball is probably the only thing to come natural to him. He takes a small breath and turns the ball over in his hand, letting the muscle memory take over as he starts the volley. His serve is swift and precise, slamming to the left of Barnes, who barely clips it up into the air with his hand. He sighs at the missed point, but doesn’t bother feeling too upset over it when someone in front of him comments “nice serve.”

He doesn’t have to do too much except for receiving while he sits in the back. While all of his skill hones in on him being a setter, he can effortlessly support elsewhere, and digs a few balls back into the air. A free ball heads his way, and with his left foot forward, he takes it as his chance to spike it, rather than sending it to the front. Nobody else sees it coming as he slams it into the other side and takes a point for himself. 

It feels good—it feels right. Volleyball feels right. Scoring a point feels right. He stares at his palm, stinging just slightly from the hit, and settles back into the comfortable space in his head where all that exists is him and the court.

Well, until he’s rotated up to the front, and things go downhill again. It happens when takes on the position of setter, a new team to his right as the outer circle switches their sides of the court. He has Bokuto and Tomas as middle blockers, with Meian taking wing spiker. Atsumu is preparing for the ball to come his way, taking a step to his left as the other side serves. 

Except, he seems to be confused, because he expects them to be on the offense. That is, until it’s his side serving again, and right, he got that point, and the ball is on the other side, rallied into the air, and he’s standing in front of the net like an idiot. He only has a split second to track the ball with his eyes before he sees Sakusa jumping, and then his time is up as he tries to get out of the way.

Instead, he meets Bokuto’s shoulder and crashes the both of them into the floor with the momentum of the blocker’s jump. 

He hears the ball hitting the floor and brings a hand immediately to his head. “Fuck,” he groans, feeling a little dizzy before he can blink away the impact. Bokuto is already up, brushing off his knees and staring down at Atsumu with confusion.

Atsumu takes the outstretched hand in front of him without making eye contact. Bokuto seems a little speechless, stumped as to what’s happening.

Atsumu isn’t any better.

Mouth dry, fingers shaking, he looks around him and sees his teammates staring back. It’s awkward. It’s embarrassing. He’s in this position all over again, and there are eyes all around. He can’t seem to shake the feeling off, suddenly more than overwhelmed. 

He wipes his sweaty palms on his shorts, inhales sharply, and then he rushes off the court. 

His sneakers are slippery on the floor as he slams the locker room door and shoves his clothes into his bag rapidly, not even bothering to change. The feeling in his head is still ringing, but rather than it being a physical ache, it’s all inside, jumbled up like puzzle pieces, and he doesn’t even have the picture. He lets out an exhale, another, a third, and shakily opens the door to the outside.

Humid air hits him in the face, and he feels horribly gross, fumbling for his car keys and speed-walking to his car in a haze. Fuck this. Fuck the looks on everyone’s faces. Fuck Iwaizumi’s words, fuck his brother, fuck these feelings. He slides into the driver’s seat, turns on his engine, and finally has a minute alone.

His forehead meets the steering wheel, and he squeezes his eyes shut, unable to keep track of his breathing. Everything is a little bit tingling, and his face feels like it might fall off. Thoughts run rampant through his mind. It’s a bad week, he tells himself, it’s just a bad week, but it’s never been this bad.

A bad week should be sore muscles and a missed receive or two. A bad week should be accidentally eating a cheat food when he’s on a strict diet. A bad week should not be all encompassing, burning hot in his face, driving him away from the one thing he loves the most in this world.

His shoes are tight around his toes, and he can feel his socks as he stares at them. He blinks and, to his surprise, sees three fat tears fall in succession right onto his feet. 

Everything is too fast and too slow all at once. His ears are full of cotton. He can’t think.

And then there’s a knock on his window.

“Shit!” he exclaims, fear and shock seizing him at the noise, kicking him into overdrive. He flings his head up and feels his neck crack as he stares at the person outside his window.

He’s met with the horrifying image of none other than Sakusa Kiyoomi staring at him, eyes wide and unreadable. He feels like a deer in headlights. Why is it always him? Why is it always the last person he wants to see that gets to watch him when he’s most worked up, at his worst?

He watches Sakusa’s mouth move before the muffled words process. “Roll down your window, Miya.” 

His eyes are still damp, lashes clumped together and breathing uneven as he hesitantly presses the button on his door. Sakusa leans down to look properly through the window, eyes squinted just enough to notice. Atsumu feels like he’s being stripped naked and judged in a courtroom with methodical fingers prodding at his emotions.

“Go away,” he musters, voice cracking. Embarrassment washes over him once more, face burning hotter and tears welling again. He doesn’t want to cry like this. He doesn’t cry like this. He doesn’t want anyone to see him cry like this. 

“Drink some water,” is Sakusa’s only response. Atsumu feels a cold bottle touch his face and recognizes it as his own that he left by the benches. “You need to hydrate.”

He reaches for the bottle and, for just a second, wonders skeptically if Sakusa put anything in it as revenge for being an asshole. Or if he’ll say something about Atsumu’s failed threat. Or if he’ll say anything at all. It’s all just dread as he swallows, the water rinsing his palette of saliva and tears that caught on his lips. He does feel slightly better though, able to take a heaving breath after drinking.

Sakusa still stands outside, watching him. After an unbearable amount of seconds, Sakusa opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “You said you weren’t injured.”

Atsumu is starting to doubt his own words. Maybe something really is wrong. Maybe he got a concussion on his way down with Bokuto. Maybe it was before that, at the game. Maybe he’s been asleep all this time and is stuck in one hell of a lucid nightmare. 

None of them are plausible, so he shakes his head and shrugs, mostly to himself, staring at his steering wheel again. 

“If you don’t want to talk, that’s on you,” Sakusa says eventually, helpful as ever. “But something is clearly going on, and while I actively detest you for how low on your game you’ve been recently, I don’t blame you. Talk to someone. Anyone. You think people aren’t going to understand, but you underestimate a lot.”

Atsumu grumbles and scowls at his dashboard. “Ya don’t know anything of what’s goin’ on, Sakusa.” It comes off meaners than he wants to. Or maybe not mean enough.

“You’re right. I don’t. And neither do you, Atsumu.” His name is a little bit jarring to hear in the strict tone Sakusa uses, like he’s accusing him of something. “Figure it out. Don’t keep pushing if it’s breaking you like this.” The man taps his car, and promptly turns around and leaves. “And don’t come back until you’ve sorted yourself out.”

He leaves Atsumu sitting, alone, in his car, staring at the ceiling wheel. The words resonate deep within him in an itchy, uncomfortable way, mostly because he knows Sakusa is right. And that hurts, but maybe giving himself some distance really would help him.

He doesn’t know anymore, and a nauseating wave of shame and helplessness washes over him. He doesn’t know what to do.

-

It’s when he’s home that there’s an answer.

He finds it crumpled up, half hanging out of his laundry basket in the pair of shorts he disregarded the day before. It stares at him again as he tries to bury it under the rest of his clothes, fresh out of a scalding shower and faced with himself in the mirror, bare. He feels gross, still, and doesn’t really think he can face anyone looking like this.

Circles sit heavy under his eyes. Still slightly puffy from tears, and red, his face is hot. He sits down on the edge of his bed and stares again at the laundry basket. Part of him yearns to call Osamu, but his brother is only going to tell him the same thing he did yesterday, and admitting that he broke down at practice—which, technically, counts as his place of work —is so mortifying that he genuinely can’t admit it. 

He wants someone to confide in. Someone to talk to that doesn’t know who he is or how he is and can just listen without interrupting. 

The paper.

It’s right there, just out of reach. If he unfolded it, he would still see Iwaizumi’s little smiley face and the name of a woman, with her contact information after it.

It would be so easy. It’s right there. Sakusa’s words ring in his head. 

But, be it his stubbornness or embarrassment, he leaves it, and promptly decides to pack an overnight bag, disregarding whether the clothes he’s throwing in it are clean or dirty, or whether or not he has a toothbrush. Being in the sharehouse is too... weird right now. He needs space, and he doesn’t want anyone questioning him. 

He can just crash where he goes and the person he visits won’t have a single thing to say about it. 

Rin’s face is a welcome surprise after their few months apart. And, maybe it’s a little disappointed, and a little annoyed, but Atsumu holds up his bag and smiles. “Sleepover!” he says excitedly, shoving past his friend and into the small, cramped apartment behind them. 

It really isn’t all that. EJP pays him real well, almost better than MSBY pays Atsumu, but the house he chooses to reside in is low in rent and low in structure, to say the least. So, sure, it’s a little cramped, but it’s neat and tidy and the one place where no one will find him.

“Did you really come all the way over here for a fuckin’ sleepover on a weeknight?” is the first thing his friend spits out, looking at him up and down with all the disdain in the world. “I love you. Adore you even. But uninvited guests aren't really in my schedule for today.”

“That’s why they’re called uninvited . Lemme just stay for one night, pleaseee? We haven’t hung out in forever.” Atsumu gives him his best pout, but Rin is unimpressed, arms crossed over his shoulder.

“We haven’t hung out in forever because you live by the strictest agenda anyone could’a ever had. You never even come to any of my parties. Or like, visit. At all. Without ulterior motives.”

Atsumu realizes Rin is being pretty serious, his eyebrows quirked in that way that shows he’s not just joking around. The heavy pit returns to his stomach in an instant, this time as eating guilt. His eyes flit to the floor as the words settle over him. “I know...”

“So?”

Atsumu looks up at his friend. Rin is walking towards him and then going past, settling onto the edge of his bed. He tracks him with his eyes but can’t follow the question. “...So?” he repeats.

“What’s goin’ on this time? Broke up with someone again? Got in a fight with Osamu? I’m tellin’ him your here, by the way.”

“Sunarin, if I wanted Osamu to know where I was, I would be at his place and not yers.”

“So it was a fight.”

“No!” Atsumu interrupts. “No fight!” He didn’t expect Rin to be so questioning, after all these years. Or maybe he did, because the man has this freaky sixth and seventh sense. One is for wiggling things out of people, and the other is for wiggling things out of Atsumu. But he’s matured, for sure, and it seems Osamu might’ve talked with Rin before, too, because he stares Atsumu up and down and waits for the truth. “I’m just...” A sigh escapes him. “Ya can’t tell ‘Samu this. I don’t wanna hear it from him.”

“I won’t. Now tell me what’s wrong or I’ll kick you out.”

“I kinda had a freakout on the court today.” The words come out blurted, a little jumbled and vague, but it’s the only way he can describe it. Rin suddenly sits up a little straighter at the words, eyebrows quirked up and gaze now focused on Atsumu’s face.

“Freakout? What do you mean?”

“I mean, like...” He rubs at his temples and tries to describe the feeling without enticing another wave of nausea to take over. “I’ve kinda been havin’ a bad week, and things people are sayin’ are gettin’ to me. And then I stormed out of practice this mornin’ and like... cried.”

It feels so, so, so gross to admit. He feels like a child who’s peed his own pants, someone who can’t control anything anymore. Rin looks at him for a minute, and then pats the side of the bed next to him. “Sit real quick. Sorry I was an asshole a second ago. Seems you really need to get this off your chest.”

Atsumu is grateful for the offer. Sunarin is someone he both knows and trusts, and who can be serious when he needs to be. Atsumu explains the events of the days the best he can, omitting the parts where he taunted Sakusa and hyperventilated in his car only a few minutes later. But he goes over the missed sets these past few practices, what Iwaizumi said, and hitting Bokuto into the ground during a rally.

Rin watches and listens all the while, quiet as he nods. When Atsumu finishes, he puts a palm over his hand and looks at him earnestly. “You’re not gonna like what I’m about to say.”

“What?” Atsumu asks.

“Iwaizumi and Osamu are right. And let me repeat—I know you really don’t like hearin’ it and just told me how much it bugged you, but maybe, this is like, the one thing you’re going to have to suck up and do. Because it seems like you can’t even focus at all, and maybe you’re struggling with a little bout of depression.”

Atsumu groans, irritation at his skin once again. “But I’m not depressed, Sunarin!” 

“Maybe not! Maybe it’s somethin’ else. But nobody but a professional is gonna know how to help, honestly. You trust Iwaizumi, right? He wouldn’t sabotage you with somethin’ like this.”

He bites the inside of his lip, pulling at the layer of flesh there. Sure, Iwaizumi wouldn’t. Hell, not even Osamu would be so mean. But Sakusa. Atsumu would rather die than ever listen to his advice, or admit that he was right, or obey him in any way, shape, or form.

“Whatever hesitations you have, you need to suck them up. I know it’s not really my place to say shit, but man, get yourself together. For your own health. Okay?”

Feeling like a scolded dog, Atsumu drops his head and nods. There’s not much he can argue here, especially against the one person he feels he’ll actually listen to. Everything is against him right now and maybe, just maybe, he should fall into it instead of straying away.

“...Can I still stay the night? I’d feel weird facin’ everyone right about now...”

Rin sighs as he stands up and opens the tatami closet to the right of the bed. There’s a rolled up futon and a few pillows, and he promptly slams them into Atsumu’s chest. “Here. But go back to your place in the mornin’, okay?”

“Yes, mom.”

“You’re on thin ass ice, buck-a-roo.”

Atsumu lets out a lighthearted chuckle, and he knows he’s going to get a good night’s sleep tonight.

He forgoes practice in the morning, mooching off of Rin’s leftovers as he scrolls haphazardly through his phone. The change of scenery seemed to help a little, but he’s only doom-scrolling to avoid the inevitable fact that he has to text his coach sooner or later. He can’t just go AWOL and expect everyone to let him. 

He fights it for now, though. Well, at least until his phone is ringing in his hand, and he’s met with the unfortunate contact image of black curls and a face mask. Is Sakusa seriously going to chide him for being absent when he’s the one who told him not to come back? They hardly even call, so why is he ringing now?

Atsumu groans. He’s home alone, as Rin is out at work, so if he answers and decides to kill himself, there’s no one to stop him. What can he say? Sakusa just does that to him. He hesitantly presses the little green answer button and holds back his exasperated sigh. “Whadd’ya need?” he asks, trying to keep his tone flat and not annoyed.

There’s a bit of shuffling in the background—Atsumu remembers they’re at practice again—and then Sakusa speaks in his stupidly clear tone, unphased by anything and everything. “How are you feeling?”

Atsumu stares at his (Rin’s) noodles. The question is unexpected, but most importantly, it lacks the sarcastic, cruel tone he’s used to. It’s genuine . Sakusa is genuinely checking up on him. 

This has to be another sick joke, but for some strange, unnamable reason, Atsumu feels a little relief in having someone ask. He pokes his chopsticks at a piece of chicken and thinks over what he should say. “Dunno,” he responds eloquently. “Coach say somethin’?”

He hopes the question will deter him from having to come up with some verbal admission that he needs to see someone. Which, he still doesn’t need, but. Well. He’ll try, anyway.

“No.” Another bout of silence. “Shoyo-san sends his regards.”

“Ah. Tell him thanks, I guess.”

It’s awkward for a minute until Sakusa clears his throat. “If you don’t return soon, you’re just as bad as me.” 

Atsumu realizes he’s referring to the period of time Sakusa was gone because of his wrist. Atsumu scowls and chews on his chicken before responding. “Yer the one who doesn’t want me back.”

“I’m not—” Sakusa cuts himself off, just then. “ Nobody wants you back if you’re feeling unwell or struggling. But you’re the only one who can change that, so make your decision and just... hurry back.”

The tail end of the sentence is whispered, almost like Sakusa is admitting something or cursing or—Atsumu really doesn’t know and can’t for the life of him figure out why it’s Sakusa that’s treating him this way. As long as he’s known, the man has been a fucking prick with a stick up his ass.

Maybe he yanked the stick out for a moment. Atsumu chuckles at the thought.

“What’s so funny? You really just plan to abandon the team like that, after complaining about it while I was gone?”

“Nah. I’m just a little surprised yer the only one who’s given me a ring.”

“I told people to leave you alone for a bit. Out of everyone, I know how overwhelming people can be. I’ll see you at practice next week, Miya. Bye.”

Before Atsumu can say bye, Sakusa hangs up, leaving him to stare at his phone. How fucking odd has this been? He feels weird as he looks at his screen, a little hot on the back of his neck, like he’s uncomfortable. But Sakusa’s phone call was... surprisingly nice. Nice enough to convince him to return to the sharehouse, at least. Especially because Rin should be returning from practice soon, and it’s a bit ways back home. 

As he closes his eyes and places his head against the counter, he thinks about the paper sitting in his hamper. Fuck it.

It’s going to be a long week.