Chapter Text
Open at 8 a.m.
Cook and serve until 12:30.
Take the mandated thirty-minute break.
Work until closing at 8 p.m.
That is Osamu Miya’s schedule every day. It has been for the past three years.
It’s reliable. Predictable. Built to survive on muscle memory alone. Osamu can run it half-asleep, can tell the time by the ache in his shoulders and the lull between lunch and dinner rush. He knows exactly when the fryer starts acting up, when the prep fridge hums too loud, when the regulars drift in without looking at the clock.
Routine keeps things clean. Routine keeps things quiet.
And usually, it works.
Today, however–
“‘Tsumu. Get up.”
“Mmph– leave me the hell alone, ya’ scru–”
THWACK!
“If yer’ gonna sulk, sulk in the damn kitchen. Let’s go.”
There is a change of plans.
Osamu stands in Atsumu Miya’s beige doorway, towel on his Onigiri Miya black tee hung over his shoulder like it’s a rag. He flicks his phone on-and-off to check the time before scowling.
Fuckin’ seven-thirty. I’m six minutes off-schedule.
Atsumu is face-down on the bed, hair a disaster, one arm flung over his head like he lost a fight in his sleep and never got back up. He’s still in yesterday’s hoodie. The room smells faintly of cold coffee and detergent—clean, but neglected in that specific way Osamu recognizes immediately.
Not sick. Not hungover.
Just wrecked.
And who wouldn’t be when the love of your life just outright walked out on you?
Osamu curls his fist at just the thought of it. He clears his throat.
“Get. Up.” Osamu says again, flatter this time.
Atsumu groans into the pillow. “I’m dead.”
“Yeah, well. Dead people don’t snore like that.” Osamu reaches out and nudges Atsumu’s foot with his toe. It doesn’t move. “C’mon. Shoes. Pants. Exist. Thrive.”
“Don’t got practice today,” Atsumu mutters. “Day off.”
“Not anymore.”
That gets him a reaction. Barely—but Atsumu’s head turns just enough for one bleary eye to crack open.
“…What.”
Osamu doesn’t elaborate. He steps further into the room instead, taking stock the way he always does—automatically, efficiently. No bottles. No trash. Phone face-down on the table like it offended him personally. A pair of gloves sits by the door, half-crumpled, forgotten.
Osamu clocks that. Files it away. Doesn’t comment.
“You’re comin’ in with me,” he says. “Kitchen needs hands.”
This was the best way Osamu knew how to help. It’s all he’s ever known since he and Atsumu were children. Whenever the other was in a slump, their Ma forced them to do something– anything that would get their minds off whatever was bothering them at the moment. For Atsumu, it had been volleyball, and for Osamu, it had been cooking. Osamu figured that volleyball was the last thing Atsumu wanted to do considering, well, everything, so cooking was the second best option.
Atsumu lets out a weak, humorless laugh. “That’s funny. I don’t cook.”
This fuckin’ jerk.
“Ya’ peel onions.” Osamu curls his lip, putting his hands on his hips matter-of-factly.
“I cry enough already.”
That lands heavier than Osamu knows Atsumu means it to. The joke comes out wrong—too thin, too tired—and Osamu feels it snag in his chest before he can stop it.
He doesn’t show it.
Instead, he crosses his arms and levels Atsumu with a look that’s been working since they were kids.
“I’m not askin’.”
“‘Samu–”
Osamu cuts him off before Atsumu can finish the word.
“Saeko!”
The room goes very still.
Atsumu freezes halfway through pushing himself upright, breath catching like the air’s been knocked out of him. His head snaps up fully this time, eyes wide and sharp despite the exhaustion clinging to him. For a second, he just stares—like he’s checking to see if he heard right.
“…Ya’ serious?” Atsumu asks, hoarse.
Osamu doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t explain himself.
“Saeko,” he repeats.
They hadn’t said it in years.
It was a stupid thing, originally—something they’d come up with in their second year of high school, when they were both painfully obvious and equally doomed. A shared crush on Saeko Tanaka, an unspoken truce, a whole lot of posturing layered over the fact that neither of them knew what to do with wanting someone that badly who was so far out of their leagues it wasn’t even funny.
“Saeko” had started as a joke.
Then it stopped being one.
It was the word you used when the other was spiraling. When logic wasn’t going to cut it. When you needed to pull someone back by the collar and remind them that whatever they were doing—self-sabotaging, shutting down, pretending they were fine—wasn’t working. One word, agreed upon in a moment of dramatic seriousness, that meant: I can’t explain this, but I need you to trust me. No arguments. No bargaining. No questions asked.
Seven uses. For their entire lives.
They’d treated it like a joke as they got older. Kept count out of habit, more than belief. Swore they’d save it for something that actually mattered.
Atsumu swallows. Hard.
“…That’s not fair,” he mutters, rubbing at his face. “You can’t just—”
“Four left,” Osamu says quietly.
That does it.
Atsumu exhales, long and shaky, shoulders sagging as whatever fight he had left drains out of him. He looks smaller like this—stripped of his usual spark, his constant motion. Like a kid who’s finally realized he’s cornered, and not in a bad way. Osamu recognizes him; he’s the same kid he was years ago when Osamu was first picked to be setter in their recreational league when Atsumu had spent the past week practicing from dusk till dawn.
“…Yer’ an asshole,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. Just resignation.
“Get dressed,” Osamu replies, clicking his tongue. “Ten minutes.”
“‘Ian brush my teeth yet.”
“Kitchen don’t care about breath.”
Atsumu drags himself upright with a groan, feet hitting the floor like they weigh a hundred pounds each. He doesn’t look at Osamu as he shuffles toward the dresser, rifling through it without care. His movements are sloppy, unfocused—like he’s moving through water.
Osamu watches him for a moment longer than necessary.
This isn’t about work. He knows that. This is about keeping Atsumu from collapsing inward, from spiraling in that quiet, dangerous way he’s always been prone to when things hit too close to the bone. Osamu can’t fix whatever happened—doesn’t even know the full shape of it yet—but he can keep Atsumu moving. Keep his hands busy. Keep his thoughts from turning on him.
It’s crude. Inelegant.
It’s all Osamu’s ever had.
Atsumu pulls on a shirt, then pauses, hands curling into the fabric like he’s bracing himself. His voice comes softer when he speaks again.
“…You’re not gonna ask?”
Osamu shakes his head. “Not right now.”
Atsumu nods once, jerky. Accepts it.
“Kitchen, then,” he murmurs.
“Kitchen,” Osamu agrees.
He turns toward the door, already mentally recalculating his prep timeline, already shaving minutes off his schedule to make room for this detour. Behind him, he hears Atsumu grab his shoes, and hears the faint scuff as he slips them on.
Good.
At least he’s moving.
He presses his lips into a thin line as he remembers how helpless his brother had looked last night, compacted into a ball of emotional nothingness, swaying back in forth as he sobbed, clutching the gift he’d spent all day shopping for for Sakusa against his chest like his heart had been ripped out.
Osamu looks at his brother now, who’s wiped his face so the tears are no longer stained and his eyes are no longer puffy. He lets out a small sigh.
And for now, that’s enough.
The restaurant smells like grease and rice, faint smoke curling from the woks. The early morning sunlight slices through the blinds, hitting the stainless steel counters in sharp lines.
Atsumu stands behind Osamu, apron on as he rapidly slices the onions to bits. He’s still dragging a blanket of exhaustion and depression on his shoulders, but at least he looks more focused on something other than Sakusa Kiyoomi than he would be crying into his sheets at home.
On the other hand, Osamu is doing what he does best. He’s running the kitchen like a clockwork machine. Every movement is precise: the flick of a spatula, the timing of the burner, the way he balances speed with care. He doesn’t need to look at the order tickets; he knows what’s coming before it hits the counter. And now, with Atsumu at his side, he can almost feel the weight lifting—sharing the load, even if the other doesn’t realize it yet.
“You’re slow,” Osamu mutters over the sizzle of onions. His tone is sharp, but there’s no bite behind it—more like a reminder drilled into years of working together. “Chop faster. Uniform slices, not… whatever that was.”
Atsumu winces, lifting the knife higher. “I’m try—”
“Don’t try. Do. Slice. Breathe. Repeat.” Osamu’s voice is steady, calm, like the kitchen itself. “Eyes on the board. Don’t think about him.”
Atsumu swallows. He wants to argue, to snap back that it’s impossible not to think about Sakusa, but the way Osamu’s presence anchors him—quiet, patient, commanding—he can’t. Not yet.
The chopping continues in near silence, broken only by the hiss of the woks, the clang of pans, and the occasional grunt as onions hit the cutting board.
Osamu grabs a couple of finished plates and runs them out. He emerges from the bamboo beaded curtain with two plates on each hand as he strides through the busy tables like it’s a maze he’s gone through a million times. He goes to the first table of two old women, who are more than tickled that Osamu’s the one to serve them.
“Oh, Osamu, you’re up early today! The sun barely kissed the sky, and here you are, already running circles around the rest of us,” one of the women teases, her eyes crinkling.
Osamu gives a faint nod and a smile, setting the plates down with practiced precision. “Mornin’. Breakfast specials.” He slides the plates in front of them, each movement careful, fluid, almost ceremonial.
“Ooh, is it true your brother’s in today?” The other hums, a sincere smile playing on her face as he pushes her glasses up on her nose.
Atsumu watches him from behind the counter, still gripping his knife. He can’t help but notice the way Osamu moves—effortless, commanding, somehow comforting all at once. It’s the kind of presence that keeps the restaurant humming even when the early morning sun is barely awake.
Osamu looks up, locking eyes with him as he gives him a nasty face before turning back to the ladies with another charming grin.
“‘Tsumu’s in today, but between you and me–” He whispers, leaning toward the ladies. “ – He’s not as good lookin’ as I am, so we hide him in the back.”
The women chuckle, the sound bright and warm, and Osamu lets out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head.
“Enjoy.” He nods before swinging by the table beside them and dropping off their orders.
Osamu strides back to the counter, eyes flicking over Atsumu like a hawk. “Chop steady. Don’t let the onions see yer’ tired.”
“…I’m fine,” Atsumu mutters, but the words are weak. “Onions don’t have fuckin’ eyes. What the hell can they fuckin’ see anyways.”
The chopping continues, onions falling in neat crescents under Atsumu’s knife. Osamu stands beside him, wiping the counter with deliberate, precise motions. He watches Atsumu’s hands move, notices how they tremble slightly with fatigue, how his shoulders slump just enough to betray the weight he’s carrying.
He’s too stubborn to ask for help. Typical ‘Tsumu. Acting fine when he’s drowning.
“Yer’ slicing too shallow, idiot.” Osamu says finally, voice low and sharp, just enough to get Atsumu’s attention without attracting the customers. He takes the knife from Atsumu’s hand with one fluid motion, demonstrates the angle and pressure with his usual mechanical precision.
“See? Angle your wrist here. Push. Don’t just stab. You’ll cry less.”
Atsumu glares at him, but there’s no heat in it—just the fog of exhaustion. “Cry less? That’s the solution?”
“Better than lying in bed like a corpse all day,” Osamu retorts, handing the knife back. He sees Atsumu stiffen, then relax slightly, and allows himself a fraction of a smile.
Got him to keep chopping. One small victory at a time.
They fall back into rhythm, the kitchen noise filling the gaps in conversation: the hiss of the wok, the clatter of pans, the sizzle of oil. Osamu moves through the space like a shadow of habit—checking prep, flipping food, running orders—while keeping one eye on Atsumu, who seems to shrink into himself a little more with each passing hour.
I need to make him talk. Not just pour his heart out like some soap opera; just… get it out. Stop carrying that weight around like it’s his job.
Osamu hands Atsumu a tray with prepped vegetables and sauces. “Wipe down that station. Wash. Chop. Repeat. Keep moving. Your head won’t wander if your hands are busy.”
Atsumu grumbles, but he moves. He wipes the counter, sets up bowls, and begins chopping again. Each motion is automatic, but Osamu notices the faint hesitation at first—the way Atsumu’s knife wavers, the way his eyes flick toward the door as if he might run.
Not today, Osamu thinks. Not while I’m here.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, pretending to inspect the kitchen equipment while he watches Atsumu. He doesn’t need someone to save him. He just needs… a reminder that he can still move. That he can still do things without being paralyzed by… He doesn’t finish the thought, lets it sit.
The lunch crowd arrives earlier than usual, and Osamu hustles, grabbing plates, sliding dishes to tables, calling orders in clipped tones. Atsumu follows, moving food, wiping counters, carrying trays under Osamu’s watchful eye.
“Keep yer’ head up when you talk to customers,” Osamu mutters as they pass each other. “No mopin’, no muttering. Smile. Or at least look like ya’ care. They’ll notice.”
Atsumu snorts, a humorless sound. “Sure. Because that’s natural for me.”
Osamu doesn’t respond. He just watches him—studying the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the tension in his shoulders.
He’s fragile right now. Strong people are fragile sometimes, too. Especially when they don’t admit it.
By mid-afternoon, the restaurant has settled into its relentless rhythm. Steam curls from woks, rice sizzles in oil, orders pile in, and Osamu moves through it all with the smooth precision of someone who’s done this thousands of times. Atsumu drags slightly behind, wiping down counters, sliding trays, chopping vegetables, but the exhaustion in his movements is unmistakable.
“‘Samu?” Atsumu asks suddenly, voice low as he leans against the counter for a fraction of a second. His hands are wet, gloved, his eyes tired but curious.
Osamu doesn’t even look up from his station as he lets out a half-hearted. “What?”
“… how do ya’ do this every day?” Atsumu groans. He finally puts the trays down for the first time that hour. “It’s… it’s insane. Everything’s happening at once. Orders, customers, cooks, the prep. It’s like… chaos.”
Osamu doesn’t answer immediately. He watches Atsumu’s expression, notices the slight slump of his shoulders, the way he grips the knife for just a heartbeat too long. He tilts his head as he looks at the state of his brother. The same man who used to confidently call himself the best setter in the nation. The same man who had stayed up late every night watching game footage of him and his brother to perfect their quick attack for the next time they played Karasuno in high school. The same man who’d pretended he wasn’t crying at graduation when he realized he would be the only one in his family to continue playing.
Osamu draws in a breath.
“I survived volleyball,” he says finally, almost a murmur. He’s slicing vegetables as he talks, motion fluid, automatic, precise.
Atsumu frowns. “Yer’ actin’ like it was horrible playin’ with me. Dick.”
“I survived scrimmages, long days, tournaments on top of tournaments. Hell, even in high school, I’d walk out of the gym and my body would ache like I’d been hit by a truck. I’d always get so hungry that sometimes my stomach turned inside out whenever I jumped to hit. But…” He pauses, letting the steam from the woks fill the space between them.
“…here, in the kitchen, I thrive. This is my domain. My thing. Everything has to be exact. Everything has to move together. If I slow down, the whole rhythm dies. But if I do my part—every plate, every chop, every move—I can make it work. Every day.” He sends his brother a grin over the shoulder. “And I can’t say I don’t love it.”
Atsumu blinks, the faintest trace of awe in his expression.
“So… this is… your thing, huh? Not volleyball anymore?”
Osamu shrugs, just slightly. “Volleyball was never my thing. Here, I can actually be the best version of myself without… collapsing under it. People notice, I guess. But I don’t care about that part. I just… keep it moving. That’s all.”
There’s a pause. The rhythm of the kitchen continues around them—pans clang, orders are called, steam hisses—but for a moment, it’s just Osamu and Atsumu.
“Must be exhausting,” Atsumu mutters, voice softer now. “Doing all that… every day.”
Osamu glances at him, sees the weariness in his eyes, and for the first time allows himself a little exhale, a small, unspoken acknowledgment.
Yeah, it’s exhausting.
But it’s nothing compared to watching you crumble and doing nothing.
“You get used to it,” Osamu says finally. “And… you survive. One day, one plate, one chop at a time.” He tilts his head. “Same as you.”
Atsumu doesn’t reply. He just picks up his knife again, chops a little faster, a little sharper, letting the rhythm of the kitchen pull him forward. Osamu watches, satisfied, letting the silence speak for itself.
“I did what you told me to do last night.” Atsumu finally says. He’s chopping faster than he’d been all day. Osamu only watches quietly.
Atsumu goes from onion to onion, chopping, chopping, chopping.
“And then Om— Sakusa. He kissed me.” Atsumu almost-whispers, breath escaping him. “He kissed me and then we started kissing and shit was awesome, and then I left to get my gift for him, and then when I came back, he just– ‘Samu, he flipped–”
Atsumu’s hands falter on the knife again, but it’s not hesitation—it’s shock. His chest feels hollow, like someone carved out the part of him that had been holding onto hope. “And then…” His voice cracks, almost lost under the sizzle of the woks. “He… he—he said I—he said I—” He swallows hard, eyes darting anywhere but Osamu.
Osamu doesn’t interrupt. He can feel it before Atsumu says it—the weight, the way the air around him seems heavier, denser.
Not just heartbreak. Rage. Disgust. He’s been slammed by it.
I know the feeling all too well.
“He… he said I disgusted him. That I was pathetic. That the kiss was a mistake. That I—he said I manipulated him.” Atsumu’s voice trembles, each word like a hammer on the counter. “Then he… he just left. Just… walked out. Like I didn’t exist anymore.”
Osamu’s hands hover over the knife for a beat. Fucking hell. The kitchen noises—the hissing, the clanging—blur. He doesn’t have time to get emotional, but the surge of protective instinct is immediate, fierce. He’s not going to let Atsumu crumble in silence. Not like this.
Atsumu sets the knife down, letting his hands rest on the counter. Shoulders slumping, head down. “I… I don’t even know why he—what I did wrong… why he hates me.” His voice is barely a whisper.
Osamu keeps chopping, slower now, letting the knife find its rhythm without rushing. He doesn’t answer immediately. He watches Atsumu, sees the slump in his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw, the way his hands shake just enough to cut uneven slices. He leans against the counter beside him, arms crossed. He’s seen this before—years ago, in different forms. The confusion, the self-blame, the endless spiral of trying to figure out what went wrong.He remembers that look—it’s the same one Atsumu had when they were kids and some dumb thing had gone sideways at school.
“Do ya’ remember…” Osamu starts, voice low. “Remember how ya’ were in middle school? Loud, arrogant, annoyin’. It was no wonder why the other kids hated ya’. You were too loud for ‘em, so they just hated ya’. For no real reason.” He shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He raises his finger as if to make a distinction.
“Me? They liked me. I was easier to like, ‘cause I was quiet and smoother and easier to not… annoy.”
Atsumu scoffs, sharp but empty. It falls flat the second it leaves his mouth. “Okay?” he says. “Was that s’posed to make me hate myself more or what?”
Osamu stills.
Not dramatically. Just enough that the knife pauses mid-motion, blade hovering over the cutting board. The kitchen keeps moving around them—the hiss of oil, the clatter of plates—but Osamu’s focus narrows, zeroes in on his brother the way it always does when Atsumu starts talking like that.
He exhales through his nose.
“‘Tsumu,” he says, slower now. Not scolding. Not sharp. Just… deliberate. “That ain’t what I’m sayin’.”
Atsumu doesn’t look up. He drags the knife through another onion, the cut sloppy, uneven. His shoulders are hunched in on themselves like he’s bracing for another hit.
Osamu watches him for a second longer than necessary.
Then he speaks again.
“Every time they pushed ya’ down,” Osamu continues, voice quieter, “called ya’ names, made ya’ feel like… like nothin’—you didn’t come cryin’ to me askin’ what you did wrong.”
Atsumu’s jaw tightens.
“You just dragged yerself back up,” Osamu says. “You pretended not to care. Told everyone—and yourself—that it didn’t matter.”
He swallows, eyes fixed stubbornly on the cutting board.
“It wasn’t fair,” Osamu adds, more firmly now. “Not then. Not now.”
Atsumu snorts under his breath. “Sure felt like it mattered.”
“I know it did,” Osamu says immediately.
That gets Atsumu’s attention. His knife slows, then stops entirely.
Osamu keeps his gaze on his own station, hands busy, voice steady in that way he’s learned to use when things are fragile. “I stood there while you cried,” he says. “While you yelled. While you got so mad you couldn’t sit still. And the whole damn world—or what felt like it—decided you were too loud, too much, too annoying to deal with.”
His grip tightens around the handle of the pan.
“And every time,” he continues, “you’d look at yourself and tell yourself you were fine. That you were enough. Even when you didn’t believe it yet.”
Atsumu’s throat works. He blinks hard, eyes fixed on the counter.
“I wanted to tell you that, but I didn’t,” Osamu says quietly. “I didn’t step in and fix it for you, even when I really wished I did. I stood back and let ya’ remind yerself.”
He finally looks over at Atsumu then.
“Because you always did.”
The kitchen noise swells around them again. Atsumu’s breathing is uneven now—controlled, but barely. He presses the flat of the knife against the cutting board, fingers white around the handle.
“Same as in the kitchen.” Osamu continues. “Chaos doesn’t break the cook. It makes ‘em better. And it doesn’t break ya’ either.”
He straightens, giving Atsumu a sidelong glance. “You think yer’ lost, or that you’re messed up, or that someone’s– that jackass Sakusa Kiyoomi’s words define you… nah. You survive. You adjust. You trust yourself. Do what ya’ did back then; pick yer’ fatass up.”
Osamu lets out a slow, measured breath, running a hand over his face before returning to the counter. He watches Atsumu out of the corner of his eye, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches. For a moment, he just stands there, letting the words hang in the air, listening to the soft sizzle and pop of the woks around them. His hands move automatically, arranging ingredients, cleaning a spill, all while keeping his gaze fixed just enough on Atsumu to make sure he’s still present, still fighting his way back from the edge.
Atsumu finally exhales, long and shaky, but there’s a slight lift in his shoulders, a loosening. The knife moves again, slower, more deliberate, more certain. The rhythm returns, not just in the onions but in him. They stand in silence for a minute, with the blonde almost ignoring Osmau’s presence as he continues with his kitchen duties. Osamu’s expression immediately morphs into something of disgust.
He slams a fist into the counter. The hell… I give him a long, inspirational speech and the scrub just ignores me?
Osamu scowls, wiping his hands on his apron angrily before picking up a wooden spoon and whacking his brother on the backside of his head with it. Atsumu flinches in pain before whipping around, rubbing the spot he’d just injured and matching his twin’s frown.
“What the hell is yer’ problem?” Atsumu hisses, sending Osamu a fake attack with the knife in his hand. Not murderous at all.
Osamu crosses his arms. “Who do ya’ think ya’ are, ignoring the big, heartfelt speech I just gave like I’m not standin’ here pourin’ my soul out?”
Atsumu leans slightly over the cutting board, one brow raised, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He taps the knife against the counter in time with the sizzling from the wok.
“Mm… workin’,” he says, voice playful but steady. “Survivin’. Adjustin’. Trustin’ myself… just like you said.”
Osamu blinks, caught off-guard, then scowls. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Atsumu shrugs, whistling softly, casual as ever. “Means I’m doin’ it, ‘Samu. I’m just gonna keep workin’ and whatever happens just… happens. Talk all the inspirational talk ya’ want—I’m livin’ it. So it makes me better than you.”
Osamu’s arms drop to his sides, a reluctant shake of the head betraying the small grin that fights to form.
Smartass. Still alive, though… that’s what matters.
Atsumu hums lightly, the rhythm of his chopping firm and purposeful now, as if each slice is a small affirmation of Osamu’s words.
“Yeah… survivin’, adjustin’, thrivin’… got it, ‘Samu.”
‘Samu’s got me workin’ like a damn dog.
Atsumu glares angrily at his now apparently philosophical twin brother with as much contempt as his pretty face can hold.
Was his little monologue helpful? Yeah, but it wasn’t worth doin’ all this work for.
Atsumu is a storm contained in a body too long in the wrong weather. He moves to the counter, fingers tight around the edge, knuckles pale, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying more than just the weight of his own exhaustion. He’s chopping onions still, but slower now, deliberately, each slice measured like he’s trying to remind himself that the world hasn’t ended.
The shout from the front of the restaurant slices through the hum of the kitchen.
“Who made this?!”
Atsumu freezes. Knife paused mid-chop. His head tilts slightly, frowning, brows drawing together. For a moment, he doesn’t recognize the voice. The tone is sharp, theatrical, someone clearly trying to make themselves heard over the morning bustle.
“Ugh… not another complainer,” he hears Osamu mutter under his breath, rolling his eyes. Atsumu glances at him, one brow raised, and shrugs slightly, obviously thinking the same thing.
The shouting continues, accompanied by a high-pitched giggle.
“Seriously, whoever made this needs to come out. Immediately.”
Atsumu blinks, heart rate quickening. That laugh—light, impossible to ignore—it slices through the clamor of the restaurant like a bell. Something about it pulls at the edges of his memory, a familiar rhythm buried under months of exhaustion and frustration.
“Ugh,” he mutters, pressing the flat of the knife against the cutting board as if grounding himself would make sense of it. “Not… this.”
The voice rises again, cheerful and insistent. “C’mon, I know you’re in there! Don’t hide!”
Atsumu freezes completely this time. He lowers the knife a fraction, but doesn’t put it down. He can feel his shoulders tightening, small muscles bunching in anticipation. The energy in the voice is familiar. Infuriatingly familiar.
“Is… is that…?” His brow furrows, lips parting slightly. He looks to Osamu, who is pretending not to notice, but whose smirk betrays that he recognizes it instantly.
The figure emerges through the bamboo beads—short, bright, almost vibrating with energy—and Atsumu’s chest tightens in irritation, relief, and incredulity all at once. Hinata Shoyo, standing there with that ridiculous grin, eyes sparkling, hands cupped around his mouth like he’s about to announce a carnival ride.
Behind him, quieter but no less infuriating, is the other one. Kageyama Tobio. Arms crossed, eyes sharp, posture straight. The presence alone makes Atsumu’s stomach twist. His jaw tightens.
“Sho-kun… what are you—” Atsumu begins, voice low and clipped, but Hinata cuts in before he can finish.
“I paid him to do it!” Hinata giggles, pointing at Kageyama. “Pretend to be some over-the-top complainer. Thought it’d be funny.”
Atsumu’s eyes wander to Tobio before his expression immediately deteriorates into hatred. He curls his lip and crosses his arms like it’s a defense mechanism against the boring and ugly.
“Tobio.”
“Hi, Atsumu-san.”
“Why is yer’ scrubby ass here?”
Kageyama blinks. “To eat.”
Atsumu presses his fingers into the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening. His chest rises and falls sharply, like he’s trying to shove all of his irritation down at once, and failing spectacularly. His eyes flick to Hinata, whose grin is infuriatingly bright, and then back to Kageyama, whose calm composure is rubbing him the wrong way in every possible dimension.
Atsumu snorts, the sound sharp, venomous. “…Figures. Typical Adlers behavior. Showin' up, all polite and efficient, just… cold. Like a damn robot programmed to piss me off.
Hinata giggles, stepping slightly forward as he scratches the back of his head. “It’s all good, Atsumu-san. He’s not here to start anything. We just wanted some really good food… and to play a little prank.”
Atsumu whirls, glare cutting toward Hinata. “Not funny. Ya’ know I can’t stand that robot face of his!” His jaw ticks, eyes narrowing on Kageyama again. “…Seriously, Tobio. Do all you Adlers brood this much, or is it just for me?”
Kageyama raises a brow, tilting his head slightly. “…Just you, apparently.” His tone is calm, unbothered—but that makes Atsumu grind his teeth even more.
Atsumu lets out a long, slow exhale, leaning slightly against the counter. His shoulders slump fractionally, but his eyes remain locked on Kageyama, burning with unspoken frustration. “…I swear… you and your damn team, thinking you can waltz in here like you own the world.”
And yet, it’s the same team Sakusa’s leaving us to run away to.
Hinata nudges him lightly, giggling. “Someone’s a grumpy pants this morning.”
The twins watch as Kageyama whispers something in Hinata’s ear. Except his whispering isn’t actually whispering– it’s quite loud, actually.
“Maybe he didn’t get much sleep last night, so he’s all pissed.”
Atsumu swears smoke might just start coming out from his ears.
Just as things couldn’t get any worse, they watch as Hinata goes to whisper back to him.
“That can’t be true, ‘cause he didn’t respond to our top secret groupchat, so he must’ve been asleep.”
Atsumu freezes mid-gesture, the knife hovering a hair above the cutting board. His brow furrows, nostrils flaring slightly, and for a moment it feels like the kitchen air itself has thickened around him. He blinks rapidly, trying to force his brain to catch up with Hinata’s words, but it refuses to obey. Top secret groupchat… coordinate the surprise… he hadn’t replied…
What the hell did he just fucking say?
“…Wait,” he whispers, the word barely audible even to himself, yet somehow it carries through the hum of the kitchen. He blinks again, slower this time, and his chest tightens. The pulse in his temple throbs like a small drumbeat, each beat marking a new spike of panic and disbelief. His shoulders tighten, fingers clenching instinctively around the knife as if it could anchor him to something real. Osamu turns to him in confusion, followed by Kageyama and Hinata, who have finally stopped their whispering session to pay attention to Atsumu’s nonsensical conversation to himself.
“What’s up?” Hinata frowns, hands on his hips in confusion.
“…I didn’t reply? To what?” His voice rises slightly, tight, incredulous, almost like he’s accusing the universe. His eyes dart toward Osamu, then to the counter, scanning for any sign that maybe he had—somehow—responded and just didn’t remember. But no, there’s nothing. Just the hum of the kitchen, the hiss of the woks, and the faint scent of onions.
Hinata bounces on the balls of his feet, eyes sparkling. “Yeah! The Adler Intervention Plan! You didn’t reply last night after you cancelled our surprise party for Sakusa-san.” He waves a hand vaguely, like it’s no big deal, but Atsumu can feel his stomach twist. “You were all like ‘Ooh, let’s cancel it pretty please’ and we were all like ‘Why?’ but you never–” He sees the man’s expression begin to falter, “Responded… Atsumu-san, what’s wrong?”
He exhales, shakily, tilting his head back slightly as if stretching to see the truth more clearly. His mind races. How could I not have seen the messages? I was supposed to coordinate… I— The thought dissolves into a pit of dread in his stomach. It isn’t just confusion anymore. It’s creeping, gnawing certainty.
I didn’t respond? What was I supposed to respond to? I didn’t see anything.
Atsumu’s fingers shake slightly as he grabs his phone from the counter, thumb hovering over the lock screen. He hesitates for a moment—part of him knows what he’ll see, part of him dreads confirming it. With a sharp inhale, he swipes, and the screen lights up, harsh against his face. Shadows catch on his jawline, the edges of his hair, his narrowed eyes. He squints at the messages, which, as Hinata confirmed, were sent last night.
MSBY ( - omi )
Yesterday 9:42 PM
sho-kun
Wait what? We’re not surprising Sakusa-kun anymore?
Barnes
He’s not Omi-crazy anymore. It’s a Christmas miracle!!
Joffe
Operation Adler Intervention is a bust
😂😂😂😂😂
Inu-sucky
Maybe he realized being a liar and a total cornball won’t actually convince the dude to stay
Bo-kkun
Orrrrr maybe he realized the power of love triumphs all
Meian
Maybe Sakusa found out?
Joffe
…or maybe Tsumu just took matters into his own hands 😳
Barnes
chugga chugga choo choo i mean he is the conductor of manipulation station
Atsumu’s shoulders slump slightly, and he presses the phone against his forehead, closing his eyes. A laugh escapes him, hollow and bitter.
“Shoyo.”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t see this last night.”
“Because… you were asleep?”
“No.” Atsumu sucks in a breath as he turns the phone off and slams it onto the counter. “Because I didn’t get the notifications.”
Osamu, who’s now looming behind Atsumu and who’d been breathing down Atsumu’s neck as he’d read the texts as well, clears his throat. “Were ya’ on ‘Do Not Disturb’? I always tell ya’, that shit’s dangerous, ‘Tsumu. You could miss really important shit if–”
“No, I wasn’t on DND, ‘Samu.” Atsumu snaps. He runs a hand through his sweaty and disheveled blonde hair. “How could I have not seen all of these last night if I wasn’t?”
Hinata is now stretching his legs against the doorframe like he’s going to start jumping laps around the twins.
“Maybe a ghost took your phone and read them!”
Kageyama snorts.
“Yeah Shoyo. That’s exactly what happened. A ghost took Atsumu-san’s phone and read his texts.”
Atsumu spins on his heel, glare locked on Kageyama. His chest heaves, each breath sharp and uneven, muscles tight with adrenaline and anger. He can feel every pulse in his temples, every taut tendon in his neck, and it all screams the same thing: something’s off. His fists clench at his sides, nails biting into palms as if gripping himself might keep the storm from spilling out.
“…Ya’ think this is funny?” His tone is low, dangerous. Every muscle in his body is taut, the tremor in his fingers no longer subtle.
“No.” Kageyama’s reply is measured, almost eerily so, but it only fuels Atsumu’s rising frustration. “…But clearly someone did– if not a dumbass ghost like dumbass Shoyo said, then someone.”
Atsumu freezes mid-gesture, fingers hovering over the edge of the counter as if letting go might shatter something fragile. The words echo in his head, sharp and intrusive: “then someone.” His mind scrambles, each thought ricocheting off the last, a rapid-fire carousel of possibilities. Someone… someone had seen the chat? Someone that wasn’t him. Someone that–
A slow, creeping heat rises from his chest, spreading up into his jaw and neck. His eyes dart to the phone sitting innocently on the counter, the black screen suddenly ominous. He hesitates, then snatches it up with shaking fingers, heart hammering in his ears. Swiping it awake, he sees the group chat open, and sees the time frame.
9:42 pm.
9:42 at night.
“I should… uh,” Atsumu murmurs, clearly stalling, eyes flicking toward the hallway before returning to Sakusa’s face. “I gotta grab somethin’. Real quick.”
He rounds the corner toward his room, steps quickening despite himself. His thoughts trip over one another, all loud and useless.
He fumbles with his fingers and accidentally spills a bit of tea on the floor.
“Jesus,” he mutters, laughing under his breath as he shakily shoves open the door. The door swings open, and he slips inside, shutting it behind him with his foot.
He places the mug, now dripping with tea, on his bedside table beside his alarm clock.
The alarm clock that reads 9:41 pm.
“Unbelievable,” he says to no one. He drags a hand down his face as he lets out another laugh.
The realization hits in layers, like someone slowly flipping the lights on in a dark room.
It all makes sense now.
Each message clicks into place in his mind like a series of dominoes, sharp and inevitable. The names, the jokes, the plan.
That’s why he stormed off. That’s why he called me pathetic, manipulative, disgusting…
Each word, each accusation from the night before, snaps into context, the missing pieces falling into place. The confusion, the anger, the hurt—they weren’t random. They were intentional, a reaction to protect him, to shield him from seeing what the team had planned.
“He read it,” Atsumu whispers, voice trembling, and his hand slams onto the counter with a force that echoes in the quiet kitchen. He can feel the pounding of his own heart, the rapid, ragged inhale and exhale, the tremor in his fingers as he reaches for his phone again.
The pieces connect with dizzying speed. Sakusa had opened the group chat—he had seen the messages he and the team had sent. The messages meant to convince Sakusa to stay on the Jackals– the plan meant to convince Sakusa to not go to the Adlers. Sakusa had read all of it. Every joke, every comment, every sly remark about manipulation and “conductor of manipulation station” had landed in his hands before Atsumu could even react.
“What? Atsumu-san, you’re not making any sense.”
Atsumu’s mind races as he pictures Sakusa’s reaction, and it all clicks into place.
Of course—of course he’d react the way he did.
Sakusa hated being managed, hated having his choices dictated or manipulated, even with the best intentions. The careful orchestration of the Adler Intervention, the group chat, the messages, even the gifts—they were all attempts to steer him, to guide him, and Sakusa would have seen it instantly. To him, it must have felt suffocating, patronizing, a violation of the autonomy he prized above all else. He wouldn’t lash out quietly; he would explode, speak sharp, walk away, put space between himself and anything that smacked of control. And now Atsumu understood.
And then it hits him—
“You—you’re saying this… this is all because I… like you?” His voice rises, disbelief turning to hurt. “I… I didn’t—how could I have—why would you—”
Sakusa interrupts sharply, taking another step back, voice razor-edged. “Pfft, like me. What a stupid thing to call it. You liking me? Yeah fucking right.”
Sakusa didn’t believe him when he had confessed– when he’d finally said it aloud. Every “I like you,”, every hesitant step toward admitting his feelings, Sakusa must have seen it as just another layer of manipulation, another attempt to influence him, just like the intervention.
Atsumu’s stomach twists at the thought: Sakusa hadn’t doubted him because he didn’t care, hadn’t doubted him because he was cruel–
Omi thought I was pretending.
Every harsh dismissal, every “pathetic” muttered in anger, every slammed door—they were shields, not rejections, and Atsumu’s chest tightens as the truth settles over him.
A slow, shivering laugh escapes him. Hollow, shaky, and yet tinged with relief.
“Ha!”
The storm that had been coiling tight in his chest begins to loosen. He doesn’t even notice the way Osamu shifts behind him, brow furrowed in suspicion at Atsumu’s sudden silence. Hinata and Kageyama hover nearby, exchanging glances, unsure what the twin is thinking.
Finally, Atsumu exhales, a long, trembling breath that seems to push air into every corner of his chest. He lowers his gaze from the phone, letting it fall to the counter. He looks at Osamu, voice quiet but bursting with the revelation he’s only just fully grasped.
“He doesn’t hate me, ‘Samu,” he says, voice raw, eyes wide, gripping the counter as if steadying himself.
“What the hell– what is wrong with ya’ –”
“He doesn’t hate me! Holy fuckin’ shit!” Atsumu practically screeches. His voice cracks, reverberating in the small space between kitchen and dining area. “I—I get it now! It’s all been a misunderstanding! Everythin’!”
Osamu opens his mouth, ready to shout after him, but Atsumu doesn’t wait for reassurance or further explanation. He’s already halfway out the door, the morning sun hitting his back as he bolts, heart pounding, adrenaline and relief coiling together in a perfect, chaotic storm.
Behind him, Osamu exhales slowly, leaning against the counter. His eyes track the door, a mix of bewilderment and quiet admiration in his expression.
“He just… ran out?” Hinata tilts his head in confusion. Kageyama only tsks from behind him, shaking his head slowly.
Osamu lets out a breath and a chuckle.
“Survivin’, adjustin’, thrivin’. That motherfucker.”