Archive of Our Own

Atsumu Miya had only truly, violently fallen in love three times in his life.

The first was with volleyball, a perfect, blinding passion that was both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.

The second was in high school. His name is Shinsuke Kita. It wasn’t a relationship, not really. Just a feeling that grew steady and sure, much like Shinsuke himself: precise, grounded, and quietly dependable. They were never a thing. It was just a crush, but to Atsumu, what he felt was painfully real. He never found the courage to confess, afraid that labeling it “love” might disturb the calm rhythm of Kita’s perfectly ordered world, or worse, shatter the unspoken comfort they already had. When they finally went their separate ways, Atsumu carried a silent and lingering heartbreak. Grieving something that had never truly happened.

Then he met Kiyoomi Sakusa in university. Kiyoomi felt like the one — his endgame, despite it being his first real relationship. He was filled with so much dopamine and excitement that everything just felt so perfect. But maybe it was because he was stuck during the times when they were still happy and in love.

Now, well, he can’t say that it’s the same anymore. There was less patience and kindness. No more warm nights. Kiyoomi still held his hand, but not as tight, only enough to keep him close. He kept silent and held secrets. He looked into his tired eyes and told him “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal to you”. It was like he stopped trying.

So here they were sitting inside of Kiyoomi’s car in the rain. The exhaustion was a heavy weight on Atsumu’s chest. For nearly a year, he had fought against the mounting evidence that he was the only one fully present in this relationship. He had spent months convincing himself that Kiyoomi's guarded silence meant depth, but now he only saw it for what it was: emotional distance.

When he asked what was wrong, what was truly bothering him, Kiyoomi would always say, “It’s nothing, I’m fine.” As if vulnerability was a weakness, and Atsumu was simply the wrong audience. He remembered the silent tears on the train ride home. The exhaustion of pretending he wasn't falling apart. He was crying alone while Kiyoomi was choosing to sleep through his pain, treating Atsumu like a heavy conversation he could just set aside. Atsumu knew he couldn't afford this relationship anymore. The price was his chronic, terrifying pain and self-betrayal.

"Kiyoomi," Atsumu started, his voice level. "You feel it too don’t you? Things just aren’t the same anymore.” Kiyoomi, quietly nodded, seemingly afraid to agree because he knew that if he did, it was a signal of the end. “I'm tired. I can’t keep being the only person holding on. You know that right? You can’t keep pushing me away and expect me to keep running back to you."

Kiyoomi paused, his eyes flat and focused on the steering wheel. "I told you, Atsumu. I’m just under a lot of stress right now. I need space to breathe. You know I have a lot going on in my mind. I’m healing from things."

"You weren't healing with me, Kiyoomi. You were healing away from me," Atsumu countered, the truth ringing in the sudden silence. "And what? Did you think that you having issues meant it was an excuse to look for other people? To go to clubs without me knowing so you can scout your next victim? You think that was an excuse?”

Atsumu took a breath. 

"Do you want this to work?" 

Kiyoomi’s eyes finally flicked to Atsumu’s, and in them he saw the panic of having to make a choice. He looked back down at his lap. "I don't know."

“Do you see a future with me?”

“I don’t know”

“Do you still love me?

The silence was the loudest sound Atsumu had ever heard.

“I don’t know”

He just let the clarity settle.

"So that’s a no."

Atsumu watched Kiyoomi flinch, his hand gripping the edge of the steering wheel.

"I'm sorry," Kiyoomi murmured.

He was sorry for the consequence, not the actions. And in that moment, Atsumu realized he loved his peace more than Kiyoomi’s indecision.

He remembered all the times he was never considered. All the times he initiated the plans and conversations. He remembered the days when he was having a hard time. When he shares his fears, his pain, his exhaustions but he is only met with a nod, an “I’m sorry”, or a message 3 hours later saying he was busy. Atsumu was brought back to the times Kiyoomi told him “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” or the time that he would rather spend his time with his friends than with him. He was reminded of all the times he wanted to work things out and fix the problem when there was a fight but Kiyoomi would rather go to sleep, leaving Atsumu to go to bed with a heavy heart. Now here he was, telling Atsumu that he wasn’t sure anymore. Like that was the hardest question in the world to answer.

No. Atsumu Miya did not deserve the uncertainty and inconsistency. He knew he deserved more than that.

Atsumu stumbled out of the car and into the rain, leaving the the passenger seat. He didn't look back, and the fact that Kiyoomi didn’t chase him or fought back told him everything he needed to know.

He returned home to his apartment but he was met with dead silence, and the absence of Kiyoomi wasn't a relief; it was an echoing, painful void.

The first three days were a blur of cheap whiskey and cheap takeout, the bracelet with their initials on it (The one he bought for the both of them yet his ex-partner would never wear), the photobooth photo strip they took, and his used toothbrush were the only proof that he had ever existed there. 

In the quietness, he finally reeled it all in. The year he had spent sacrificing his own well-being for a connection his ex was too hesitant to maintain. The tears he finally allowed himself to shed weren't angry; they were slow, exhausting drops of self-pity for being the only fool holding on to a ship that had already sunk. He let his phone die, skipped practices, and ignored the buzzing on the emergency landline, allowing the misery to settle in like a heavy, suffocating blanket. He looked truly awful and haggard, running in spite and the remnants of caffeine, resentment his only fuel.

After days of moping around, Osamu and Suna knew they had to step up more. They found him on the couch, surrounded by empty instant ramen containers and the pathetic mess of his self-pity.

Osamu, never one for drama, took one disgusted look, opened the windows and muttered, "You alive?”

Atsumu didn’t move. He sat there, lying down on the couch, eyes half-open but unfocused, like he was staring through his own life. The light from the half-open window made the room look worse.

“You’ve single-handedly revived the plague Tsumu,” His twin brother added, spraying air freshener like it could fix emotional decay. “When was the last time you showered? Or cleaned the place? It reeks of garbage in here. And self-pity”

Atsumu groaned and buried his face into a pillow. “Dunno. Tuesday?”

“It’s Friday,” Suna deadpanned.

“Ah.” Atsumu’s voice was muffled.

Suna’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. He walked over, nudged one of the ramen cups with his foot, and raised an eyebrow. “You planning on living like this forever? Because if you are, at least start charging rent for the flies.”

When the blonde twin didn’t respond he continued speaking. "We’ve been told that you just skipped two team meetings" The fox-eyed brunette said, his tone flat and unimpressed. "Seventy-two hours. Kiyoomi didn’t die; you broke up. Now get up and stop acting like this dedicated self-destruction is a tribute to his memory. He wasn't that good."

Atsumu glared weakly from under the pillow. “You two ever consider being supportive? Being comforting? I don’t know. Maybe be decent human beings and let me grieve?”

Osamu crossed his arms. “We are being supportive. We’re supporting your survival instincts before they pack up and leave too.”

That earned the faintest laugh from Atsumu. Short and seemingly quiet, but real.

For a moment, none of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside, the clinking of empty cans as Suna began stacking them into neat rows out of sheer boredom. Then, softer, Osamu asked, “Is it really over this time?” Atsumu looked up, eyes red and heavy. “Yeah,” he said. “I think it was over long before we said it out loud.”

There was no dramatic pause, no grand breakdown. Just quiet truth, the kind that hurt because it was finally honest. Suna leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. “Good. He treated you like shit anyway,” he said simply. “Now take a damn shower and get dressed. We’re going out”

Atsumu didn’t resist. He dragged himself into the shower, the cold water snapping him awake just enough to remember he was still here. He dressed lazily, ruffling his damp hair and tugging on a clean shirt. Osamu gave him a look, unimpressed but satisfied that he was willing enough to start fresh. “Better,” his twin said. “Not great, but better.”

Suna smirked. “We’ll take ‘not decomposing’ as progress.”

Atsumu shot him a glare but followed anyway. He didn’t know where they were going, didn’t really care either. But the city lights outside the car window were loud enough to drown the noise in his head. When Suna parked the car and all of them stepped outside, they already heard the bass thumping from inside. 

“A club? Really?” Atsumu raised an eyebrow. Osamu shrugged. “You needed a distraction. So here it is.”

“You’re welcome,” Suna added, already walking toward the entrance with his hands reaching out for Osamu as the latter grasped it tightly. 

Inside, the air was thick with perfume, sweat, and the faint sweetness of spilled cocktails. The lights flickered in neon green and yellow, ironically the same shades Atsumu once associated with Kiyoomi. Funny how even the smallest things could turn into reminders.

They found a booth near the bar. “I’m gonna go grab us some drinks, I’ll be back” Osamu disappeared immediately after giving Suna a quick kiss on the cheek. Suna nodded then leaned back, eyes scanning the crowd with detached amusement. “Ya gonna sit there looking like your dog died or actually try having fun?”

The blonde scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Maybe later”

Osamu returned, rum and coke in his hands, which he handed out to his partner and brother. They clinked their glasses. “To Atsumu’s independence,” Suna declared, smirking.

Atsumu forced a grin, tossing the drink back faster than he should’ve. The burn was sharp, almost punishing. “Independence,” he echoed, though it sounded more like a question than a toast. A few more shots and with the blasting music, the alcohol hit fast, spreading warmth through his chest. 

As soon as he was starting to relax he caught sight of someone across the room. A familiar stillness amidst the chaos of flashing lights and moving bodies. 

Shinsuke Kita.

He was older now. Looked a lot more mature, sharper around the edges but still unmistakably him. He’d almost forgotten the sight of that silver and black. He still got the same sharp features. The pointed chin and high cheekbones, though his face is leaner now. 

Time hadn’t changed him much, at least not in the ways Atsumu secretly hoped it had. He was talking to someone near the bar, the soft curl of his smile just as steady as Atsumu remembered.

Atsumu’s stomach twisted. His heart was doing something stupid. Jumping, clenching, burning all at once.

“Shit,” he muttered, tearing his eyes away.

Suna noticed immediately. “What?”

“Nothing.” He reached for another glass, ignoring how quickly his hand found it.

“Yeah, that’s what someone says before doing something dumb,” Suna muttered, but he didn’t stop him.

One drink turned into two. Two became three. The bass blurred into a heavy pulse in his skull, and the air began to feel too thick. Osamu and Suna eventually wandered off, and by the time Atsumu looked up from his fourth glass, they were gone.

He spotted them a few minutes later. Half-hidden in the dim light near the restroom hallway, pressed too close to each other to be discreet. Suna’s hand was tangled in Osamu’s shirt, both of them caught in between sloppy kisses.

Atsumu groaned. “Unbelievable”

He reached for his glass again, but it was empty. Figures. He waved vaguely at the bartender for another, his voice slurred just enough to betray how long he’d been sitting there. The new drink arrived. (Tequila sunrise, he thinks. Not like that matters at the moment.) He downed it in one go, grimacing at the taste.

The alcohol hit harder this time. The edges of the neon lights started to smear like wet paint. The chatter dissolved into background static. Somewhere, a DJ shouted something into a microphone, and the crowd roared, but all Atsumu heard was the pounding in his ears. He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his forehead on his hand. The weight in his chest hadn’t lifted; if anything, it had settled deeper. The music, the people, the laughter, it all just made him feel lonelier.

He barely registered the shadow that fell over him until a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Didn’t think I’d see ya here, Atsumu.”

Atsumu blinked, slowly lifting his head. For a second, his brain refused to connect the voice with the face in front of him. But then, through the shifting lights and the haze of alcohol, there he was.

Shinsuke Kita.

Atsumu flinched, snapping his eyes open. The sudden confrontation of Shinsuke’s calm presence was like being drenched in cold water. Of course he found me. He had always possessed a terrifying clarity, a knack for cutting through Atsumu’s most chaotic moments with simple and undeniable reality.

Even in a place like this, Kita somehow looked composed. Completely out of place, and looked completely grounded.

Atsumu’s throat went dry. “Kita-san—” His voice cracked embarrassingly, and he cleared it, trying again. “Wow. Uh. Hey. What are you doing here?”

Shinsuke gave a small nod, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Just out to get some drinks with a few classmates after finals. How are you? It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu breathed out, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like… what, four years? five? I haven’t seen you since you graduated high school”

Kita smiled faintly, eyes scanning him. Not in a judgmental way, just observant. The way he always used to look at people, like he was trying to understand, not criticize. “You look…well, not okay” he said finally.

"Eh, I'm fine," Atsumu lied, trying to sound breezy. "Just enjoying the... independence." He gestured vaguely at the empty glasses. Shinsuke tilted his head in confusion. 

“Uhm, just a break up. Samu and Suna dragged me out. Said I needed a distraction.”

“Did it work?”

Atsumu paused. Then, with a weak grin, “No… not really.” That earned a quiet chuckle from Shinsuke. The sound was low and warm, and Atsumu hated how much comfort it brought him.

Kita’s quiet laugh faded into the hum of the club, a sound barely audible over the pulsing bass. Somehow, it grounded Atsumu, like a familiar melody cutting through noise. He grabbed a seat beside the blonde and asked the waiter for a light drink.

“Ya still play?” Kita asked after a moment, voice calm but curious.

Atsumu nodded, lazily spinning the straw in his half-empty glass. “Yeah. For the university team. Not as fun as high school, though.” He grinned crookedly. “Coach doesn’t like me very much.” 

Kita tilted his head slightly. “That’s because you probably taunt your teammates so much”

Atsumu barked a laugh. “Still remember that, huh? Thought ya’d be too busy with life or studying whatever.”

“Med School,” Kita corrected, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “But yes, I remember. Some things are hard to forget.” Atsumu’s grin softened. “Yeah. Some things are.”

“How’s med school treatin’ ya, anyway?”

Kita’s lips curved in a small smile. “Tiring. Rewarding. I sleep less, read more. It’s… a different kind of discipline.”

“Sounds miserable,” Atsumu muttered, earning another quiet laugh.

“It’s not so bad,” Kita said. “Tough. But good. It keeps me grounded.”

“Grounded? You always were. Some of us are still tryna catch up.” Atsumu shot back, grinning. 

The banter came easily, almost too easily. For a second, Atsumu forgot about the pit in his chest that had been sitting there since the breakup. Kita listened. Always had, always would. The way he watched Atsumu talk made the blonde feel seen. Not judged, not pitied, just understood.

Kita tilted his head, studying him. “You know, you haven’t changed much at all.” Atsumu scoffed. “Thanks?”

“I mean that as a compliment,” Kita replied calmly. “You still fill the room. Still talk too loud. Still make people look at you.”

“Ya sayin’ I’m annoyin’?” Shinsuke’s lips twitched, a subtle hint of amusement. “I’m saying you’re the same Atsumu I remember.”

Atsumu looked down, suddenly fixated on the condensation sliding down his glass. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess I am.”

They talked for a long while. About old teammates, about how Osamu was trying to turn his food stall into a full business, about Aran dropping out of the first semester of med school to focus on playing pro, about how Inarizaki’s gym smelled like floor polish and dried sweat. Atsumu laughed until his voice turned hoarse, until the alcohol made everything hazy and warm.

Shinsuke didn’t drink much. He just sat there, quietly listening, occasionally interjecting with small smiles or soft reminders for Atsumu to slow down. “Atsumu,” he said at one point, when the blonde nearly spilled his drink, “you’ve had too much. That's enough”

“Ya always say that,” Atsumu said, words slurred but teasing. “You’ve always been like that. 'That's enough, Atsumu' ‘Don’t be late, Atsumu.’ ‘Focus, Atsumu.’ ‘Drink water, Atsumu. ‘Get some rest, Atsumu’”

Shinsuke’s expression softened. “Someone has to look out for you.”

Atsumu froze for a heartbeat. The words shouldn’t have hit so deep, but they did. He looked down, eyes glassy. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “people get tired of that too.”

Shinsuke didn’t respond. He looked around to see if Osamu or Suna were around, but failed to do so with the crowded room and dim lights. He just placed a soft but firm hand on Atsumu’s forearm. “You should get some air.” Atsumu tried to protest, but his head spun when he stood. “Whoa.”

“Exactly,” The silver-haired said, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “Come on.”

Outside, the night was cool and quiet, rain misting against the pavement. The once loud and thumping bass faded and the neon lights were replaced with the moonlight and street lamps. The sudden calm felt surreal after the chaos inside.

Shinsuke led Atsumu toward his car parked a few parking slots away. “Where do you live?”

“’M not lettin’ ya drive me home, Kita-san,” Atsumu said, though he stumbled with every step.

“It's not like ya don't much of a choice,” Shinsuke replied evenly, unlocking the door and guiding him in. “Seatbelt.” Atsumu fumbled with it, laughing when he couldn’t get it to click. Kita leaned over, wordlessly helping him. For a second, they were close enough that Atsumu caught the faint scent of soap and musky perfume.

The drive was quiet except for the soft music playing from the stereo. Atsumu’s eyelids grew heavier with every turn of the wipers. He mumbled something halfway home, voice small.

“You ever think it’s weird? That we somehow found each other again? In the most unexpected place?”

Shinsuke glanced at him, then back at the road. “Not weird,” he said softly. “Just timing.”

When they got to his apartment, Atsumu fumbled with the keys, missing the lock twice before Shinsuke gently took them from his hand. He didn’t comment on the mess inside of empty bottles on the counter, crumpled shirts on the chair, and the faint smell of alcohol still clinging to the air. He just guided Atsumu toward the couch.

“Sit,” Kita said quietly, and Atsumu obeyed, dropping onto the cushions with a tired sigh.

Shinsuke rolled up his sleeves and started moving steadily, methodically, and familiarly. He found a glass, filled it with water, and searched the cabinets until he found instant food and hangover pills. Atsumu watched, half-dazed, as the older man worked with the same quiet efficiency he always had back in high school, like nothing had changed.

Shinsuke didn’t ask if Atsumu was fine; he simply acted.

While Atsumu was curled up on the couch, shivering off the last of the cheap beer, Kita moved with quiet efficiency in the tiny kitchen. He didn’t hesitate. He laid out foil packets of microwavable curry, a sealed bottle of water, and the small blister packs of hangover medicine and painkillers.

“This is the routine,” Shinsuke said quietly, voice measured and low, more like a doctor explaining a prescription than a friend giving advice. “Water now. The pills when you wake up. Wait thirty minutes before eating the curry. No coffee until noon.”

Atsumu watched him. The calm precision of each movement. Pouring, sorting, and checking contrasted sharply with the warmth creeping into his chest. For a moment, he just stared. His ex, despite a year together, had always left when Atsumu was messy. Kita, on the other hand, stayed. Not out of obligation, but instinct.

He didn’t fill the silence with comfort or small talk. He didn’t scold or pry. He simply stayed until the worst of the trembling subsided.

He treats him like a complex problem to be solved, not a burden to be dropped. Like he’s worth the patience it takes to figure out. And God, Atsumu forgot how much he loved being Kita Shinsuke’s problem.

When Atsumu woke up, the first thing he noticed was the smell, something warm and faintly spiced lingering in the air. The second was a headache. His skull felt like it had been split in two.

For a long minute, he didn’t move. The curtains were half-drawn, the light weak and gray. The water bottle and pill pack still sat neatly on the coffee table, beside an unopened package of instant curry. He blinked. Everything was in order. The only evidence of the previous night was his wrinkled shirt and the faint imprint of someone having folded a blanket over him while he slept.

Kita.

The memory hit like a soft ache. He saw flashes of the calm voice, the methodical way Shinsuke had worked through the kitchen, the steady hand guiding him down to the couch. It wasn’t just care. It was precision. Concern disguised as routine.

Atsumu rubbed his eyes, groaning quietly. “Shit.”

Next to the carefully laid out morning routine set was a simple note that was neatly folded, the handwriting clean and exact.

Drink the rest of the water. Eat something light.

Call me if it gets worse.

— Shinsuke

Written below was his phone number.

Atsumu stared at it for a long time. The neatness of the letters was so perfectly Kita that it almost hurt. He could imagine him sitting there before leaving. Calm, collected, making sure everything was in order before slipping out quietly. No dramatics and no fuss.

For the rest of the day, the apartment felt a little less heavy. Unlike the past few days, the silence wasn’t cruel.

____

The impulse came from nowhere. Maybe guilt. Maybe boredom. Maybe that quiet part of him that wanted to prove to himself, to anyone, that he was doing okay. So he decided to clean.

Not just tidy. Deep-clean.

He stripped the couch, scrubbed the counters, and dumped every load of laundry he could find into the washer. He barely noticed what was in the pile until it was too late. The limited-edition volleyball jersey. The first one he’d ever bought with his own money, before he even made the university team.

He’d worn it to practices, to matches, to every reminder that volleyball was the one thing that made sense in his life.

There was a faint stain near the hem so without thinking, Atsumu tossed the jersey into the wash with the rest of his clothes, dark shirts, a pair of jeans, and a stray hoodie. He didn’t think twice. The machine hummed to life, and he let himself believe, for once, that things could come out clean if he just gave them enough time.

When the cycle ended, he opened the lid and froze.

The crisp white jersey wasn’t white anymore. Light blue streaks ran across the fabric like veins, uneven and ghostly, pooling near the seams.

“Fuck,” he whispered. Then louder, “Fuck, fuck, fuck”

He tried to tug at the hem, stretch it, smooth it out, but it held its new, stubborn shape. It wasn’t destroyed, just changed, uncomfortably so. It felt like something that had outgrown him.

In a moment of desperation (or maybe just exhaustion) he reached for his phone.

His thumb hovered over the contact list longer than it should have. Then he found the one name he didn’t think he’d ever use again. The number he saved a few weeks ago after a reckless night of drinking.

[Atsumu]: hey u busy? This is Atsumu btw

[Atsumu]: i kinda messed somethin up

[Atsumu]: with laundry

He almost deleted the messages right after sending them. But a reply came faster than he expected.

[Kita]: How bad is it?

[Atsumu]: real bad

[Kita]: Send a picture.

Atsumu snapped one, sent it, and slumped back against the counter. A few minutes later, the phone buzzed again.

[Kita]: It’s dye transfer. Looks like a colored shirt bled into it. Fill a basin with cold water and add a bit of vinegar. Don’t rub it. I’ll come by.

[Atsumu]: u dont have to drive all the way here

[Kita]: I’m already on my way. Don’t touch it.

And twenty minutes later, there was a knock. Shinsuke stood at the door in a black sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp as if he’d just come from a shower. The sight made Atsumu’s heart stutter in his chest.

“I told you not to come,” Atsumu muttered, stepping aside.

“I told you not to touch it,” Kita replied evenly. “Can I come inside?” he asked politely. Atsumu nodded and Shinsuke walked past him to the kitchen.

He took one look at the sink and sighed. “You really did a number on it.”

“Guess I’m hopeless,” Atsumu said, forcing a laugh.

Shinsuke didn’t smile. “You’re careless,” he corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”

He rolled up his sleeves, running cold water over the fabric, testing the fibers with steady fingers. His movements were efficient but delicate. Atsumu stood beside him, watching the curve of Kita’s wrist, the slight furrow in his brow, the quiet care that hadn’t changed at all.

Finally, Shinsuke spoke, voice low. “It’s not ruined. Just damaged. If we dry it properly and treat the edges, it’ll hold together.” Atsumu huffed, half in disbelief. “Ya talk about it like it’s a person.”

Shinsuke glanced at him. “Well you reacted enough for it to be. Must’ve meant a lot to ya” Atsumu’s throat tightened. He tried to laugh, but it came out cracked. “I just… didn’t wanna lose more than I already have, I guess.”

Kita didn’t respond right away. He turned off the tap, squeezing the excess water out. “You just have to handle it differently now. Things change after a bit of damage.”

Atsumu had a feeling that Shinsuke wasn’t talking about the shirt.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward. Instead it was heavy, intimate, like something old stirring back to life. When he finished, Shinsuke laid the damp jersey flat on a towel, smoothing out the wrinkles with care. “Leave it here to dry. Don’t move it for a few hours.”

“Need any more help?” Shinsuke asked gently.

Atsumu shook his head, his voice soft. “I can take it from here. Thanks… for comin’, I mean.”

Kita looked at him, really looked at him, and said, “You called, so I came.” Then he picked up his wallet and phone off the counter top, opened the door and waved goodbye.

Hours later, as Atsumu was finishing up, his phone buzzed.

[Kita]: Maybe try separatin’ your whites next time, Atsumu. Saves you a lot of panic,

Atsumu huffed a laugh, typing back a simple thanks, but before he could hit send, another message came through.

[Kita]: And Atsumu

[Kita]: Don’t stay up too late again.

He didn’t reply. He just stared at the message a moment longer than he should have, a small smile tugging at his lips.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

A week later, Atsumu sent a photo of the jersey, clean, dry, and almost back to normal except for the faint ghost of the stain mark near the hem.

[Atsumu]: it survived. barely.

[Kita]: I told you it would. You just had to handle it differently.

[Atsumu]: yeah, yeah. don’t rub it in.

[Kita]: I wouldn’t. Rubbing makes it worse.

Atsumu snorted at his phone. He didn’t mean to keep the conversation going, but somehow they never stopped.

At first, it was harmless.

Photos of half-burnt dinners, late-night rants about thesis deadlines, dry commentary from Kita about med school lectures (“Two classmates fainted during dissection today. I’m reconsidering my life choices.”).

Then it became a routine.

Morning check-ins. Nighttime messages. Unsent drafts that turned into calls. Shinsuke’s calm voice would fill the quiet when Atsumu couldn’t sleep, grounding him the way no one had in months. A how have you been here, a shared joke there, reminders to eat, to sleep, to take care. It wasn’t romantic. Not exactly. But it was something steady to hold onto when everything else still felt like it was falling apart.

And maybe that was the problem. Kita Shinsuke made peace feel so easy that Atsumu forgot it was supposed to be earned.

_____

Two months have passed since then. Softly, almost unnoticed. Atsumu didn’t even realize how easily Shinsuke had settled into his life again. 

And Atsumu was doing better. Or at least, he thought he was.

He filled his schedule. Classes, volleyball practice, spending time with friends and family, errands. Anything to keep his mind busy enough to ignore the echo that used to sound like Kiyoomi.

That Saturday afternoon, he was at the mall to buy new shoes. Something frivolous. Something to remind himself that he could still want things. He walked through the rows of displays, testing the weight of a pair of sneakers in his hand, when a sound broke through the low hum of music and chatter.

A laugh. Familiar. But wrong.

His head turned before he could stop himself.

Outside the shoe shop, near a coffee kiosk, stood Kiyoomi. Even from a distance, Atsumu could tell. He looked different. Softer. Lighter. His posture wasn’t stiff or guarded like before. 

He was leaning slightly toward someone, his lips curved into an unrestrained grin. It wasn’t his usual restrained, polite chuckle, the one Atsumu had worked so hard to earn. 

This one was warm. Effortless. Real.

The man beside him was tall, broad-shouldered, with quiet composure that radiated calm. Ushijima Wakatoshi. Atsumu knew the name, the reputation. The way Kiyoomi once spoke about him made him seem like a god. And maybe that’s what he actually was to him

Their hands were linked. Not tight, not hidden. Just comfortably there, fingers brushing as they waited for their order.

It wasn’t a bitter sight. No anger, no humiliation. Just a strange, hollow kind of clarity.

Atsumu realized, in a single unsteady breath, that Kiyoomi hadn’t pulled away because something was wrong. He pulled away because something else was right. Kiyoomi hadn't fallen out of love; he had stepped into love.

Atsumu stood frozen. He could’ve walked away. He should’ve. But his feet stayed rooted, his eyes tracing the small details. The soft crease near Kiyoomi’s eyes when he laughed, the gentle brush of Ushijima’s hand on his back.

The warmth that used to be his now lived somewhere else.

He finally turned away, clutching the shoebox too tightly, walking fast without looking back. He didn’t even care if they saw him. He just needed to get out of there.

By the time he reached the parking lot, his chest hurt from holding his breath too long.

The shoes didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.

When he got home, he dropped the bag by the door and sat on the floor, trying to breathe past the ache in his throat. His phone buzzed from his pocket, but he didn’t move.

He told himself he wouldn’t break again. That he’d cried enough. But heartbreak doesn’t care about your pride.

Atsumu finally reached into his pocket. He opened the text notification from a familiar name.

[Kita]: Look. This fox reminded me of you haha

His hand moved before his mind caught up.

[Atsumu]: are ya busy

[Atsumu]: can you come over

[Atsumu]: or not. It’s okay if you’re busy

[Atsumu]: i’m sorry

He didn’t explain. He didn’t have to actually.

[Kita]: On my way. Don’t open the door for anyone else.

Atsumu set the phone down and pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. Comfort, distraction, someone to see him? Maybe all of it.

He only knew one thing: When Kita Shinsuke said he was coming, he always did.

The knock came twenty minutes later. Atsumu opened the door and there he was.

Kita Shinsuke, hair still damp from a rushed shower, hoodie thrown over plain jeans, concern written quietly into his face. He didn’t ask what happened. He just stepped forward, his presence soft but grounding, like the world was allowed to slow down around him.

“Where is it?” he asked, scanning the apartment like he expected a physical mess.

Atsumu’s throat tightened. “Not somethin’ you can fix with vinegar this time,” he said, half-laughing, half-choking on it.

Shinsuke just nodded, slipping his shoes off neatly by the door. “Then let’s start with water,” he said, walking toward the kitchen like he’d been there a hundred times before. He poured a glass, handed it over without looking, and when Atsumu didn’t take it, he simply set it down and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sit down.”

“Tell me when you’re ready”

For a while, Atsumu didn’t speak. He stared at his hands, words dissolving before they could form. When he finally did, it was a whisper.

“I saw him.” Kita didn’t need a name but Atsumu said it anyway. “Kiyoomi”

Atsumu nodded. His fingers tightened around the hem of his shirt. “He was with someone. Ushijima. They… looked happy.”

He waited for pity, or worse, for logic. But Shinsuke just listened.

“It’s stupid, right?” Atsumu said, voice cracking on the edge of a laugh. “I should be glad. He looks good, like he finally found what he needed. But I—” He stopped, dragging in a shaky breath. “I just feel like I’m the only one who felt that everything was real. Like I’m the only one that needs to move on”

Shinsuke leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. His tone was calm but not detached. “It’s not stupid,” he said. “You gave something real. You loved him genuinely. The ache doesn’t vanish just because it’s over.”

Atsumu blinked hard, his eyes burning. “You always make it sound simple.”

“It’s not,” The ex-volleyball captain said. “But it’s easier when you let someone sit with you through it.”

That was all it took. The restraint broke. Atsumu covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking quietly. Shinsuke didn’t reach for him at first. He just stayed, solid and patient, the kind of silence that gave permission instead of pity. When Atsumu finally leaned sideways, Shinsuke shifted instinctively, an arm slipping around his shoulders, drawing him in.

Atsumu’s forehead pressed against Shinsuke’s chest, the fabric warm and faintly scented of detergent. His voice came out muffled. “Why’re ya always here when I fall apart?”

“Because you call,” Kita said simply.

That answer shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. Because the tears began falling uncontrollably. As if all the pent up frustration and sadness that built up over the past few months finally poured out.

They stayed like that for a while, the rain outside a soft hum against the window. Shinsuke’s hand rested at the back of Atsumu’s neck, slow and steady, grounding him in the present.

Eventually, Atsumu’s tears eased into exhaustion. He pulled back, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand, embarrassed. “Sorry. You probably had better things to do.”

Shinsuke shook his head. “This is better.”

“Watching me crash out is better?”

Shinsuke let out a small laugh then his gaze softened. “I mean being where I’m needed.”

The words landed somewhere deep. Gentle but sharp.

Something in Atsumu’s chest cracked open. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was dangerously close to it.

They didn’t talk much after that. Kita reheated leftovers from Atsumu’s fridge, coaxed him to eat half, then insisted he drink another glass of water. When Atsumu’s head started to drop against the armrest, Kita gathered the dishes quietly and set them in the sink.

“You can crash here,” Atsumu mumbled sleepily. “S’late.”

Shinsuke hesitated only for a second before nodding. “Alright.”

He turned off the lights, leaving only the soft glow of the lamp by the couch. As he sat down beside him, Atsumu shifted, head falling onto Kita’s shoulder without meaning to. Shinsuke didn’t move.

For the first time in months, Atsumu fell asleep without the weight of his own thoughts.

And when morning came, there was another note on the counter, written in Kita’s clean, careful handwriting:

Ate your leftovers. Cooked some eggs and bacon for you. 

I’ll check in later after class.

— Shinsuke

Atsumu smiled when he saw it. The ache in his chest was still there. But it was quieter now. Manageable.

After that night, Shinsuke didn’t stop showing up. Not in the dramatic, to-the-rescue kind of way, but in the quiet, domestic one.

Atsumu would wake to a text:

“Eat something before noon.”

“Don’t forget the whites go first.”

“Practice at seven, right? Want me to drop by after?”

And somehow, he always did.

They never called it anything. Shinsuke wasn’t overly present, just constant. The kind of presence that slipped into the rhythm of Atsumu’s days until he couldn’t quite remember when it stopped being strange to have him around.

Sometimes, Atsumu would cook (terribly by the way) and Kita would fix it without a word, sprinkling salt like he’d been there all along. Other nights, Kita would bring takeout and they’d eat in silence, the kind that said everything was okay without needing to explain why.

It wasn’t romantic, not officially. But it also wasn’t not.

And of course, like some twin telepathy, Osamu noticed.

“Ya’ve been weird lately,” his twin said one afternoon at the restaurant, wiping his hands on a towel. “All smiley for no reason. You’re either in love or hidin’ somethin’ incredibly stupid.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes, grabbing a rice ball off the counter. “I ain’t hidin’ nothin’. Just been sleepin’ better, is all.”

Suna, lounging near the register, didn’t even look up from his phone. “You mean since Kita-san showed up in your life again?” Atsumu nearly choked. “Who told ya that?”

Suna finally looked up, unimpressed. “You did. Indirectly. You’ve been posting breakfast pictures with two mugs, genius.” Osamu smirked. “So he’s stayin’ the night, then?”

“It ain’t like that,” Atsumu snapped, though the tips of his ears turned pink. “We’re just hangin’ out.”

“Yeah sure and you expect us to believe that” Suna said dryly. Osamu leaned his elbow on the counter, watching his brother carefully. “Does he know you’re still tryin’ not to feel anything? Cause it sounds like you already lost that battle.”

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. He shoved the empty wrapper in the trash, mumbling, “He knows what this is. Whatever it is.”

Neither of them said anything after that. Suna just hummed, Osamu went back to plating food, and Atsumu told himself that meant the conversation was over.

But that night, when Kita texted that he’s coming over again,  Atsumu caught himself smiling at the screen longer than he should’ve.

It wouldn’t be the first time Shinsuke stayed over. But he started staying longer. Sometimes until the last train. Sometimes for the whole weekend.

They fell into something unspoken, almost domestic. Kita would drop by with groceries, Atsumu would throw his jacket over the couch, and they’d move around each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Once, after practice, Atsumu collapsed onto his couch and mumbled, “You know, you’re kinda acting like my boyfriend. Samu and Suna are starting to ask questions” He said in a joking manner. 

But Shinsuke probably interpreted that a little differently. He sat cross-legged on the floor sorting laundry, and didn't even look up. “You’re say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Atsumu laughed, though it came out quieter than he intended. “Just saying. We ain’t, though. Right?”

Shinsuke paused. Not knowing how to respond honestly. Finally after glancing up, he answered in the only way he knew how to. By agreeing.

“Right. We aren’t”

No labels. No promises. Just this. Whatever this was.

They weren’t together, but Atsumu started keeping an extra toothbrush in the bathroom. Shinsuke began leaving a hoodie on the back of the chair. They stopped saying thank you for small things, like it was already implied. Remembering each other’s coffee order. Sleeping next to each other when it’s cold. They’d call each other every night, watching a movie together when neither of them had practice or a test the next morning. 

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it did.

Because sometimes, pretending not to be in love was the only way to stay close.

_______

Atsumu got a text. Not dramatic one, just a text.

[Kita]: I’m sorry. I need to lock in for the night. Something came up with my clinical rotation prep.

[Atsumu]: oh. okay.

[Kita]: I’ll make it up to you. Get some rest, okay?

[Atsumu]: don’t worry about it. career first, right?

He didn’t think much of it. Or maybe he pretended not to. He stared at the message a little too long. Then he turned his phone face-down on the table and muttered to no one, “It’s fine.”

Because it wasn’t new. People got busy. Schedules shifted. Commitments changed. Atsumu had spent most of his adult life hearing those same excuses from people who had once meant the world to him.

Now the only sound was the low hum of the fridge.

But that night, when he caught himself scrolling through old chats, from Kiyoomi’s neat, clipped messages that eventually faded into silence, he realized the ache in his chest wasn’t nostalgia. It was déjà vu.

He knows Shinsuke wasn’t like that. Shinsuke was honest, kind, and gentle. He knew that Shinsuke didn’t flinch when things got messy, didn’t play games, didn’t pretend not to care. Shinsuke said what he meant and meant what he said. He wouldn’t lie. He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t push Atsumu away. And yet, something deep inside Atsumu kept whispering otherwise; that good things always slipped away. That even someone as dependable as Shinsuke would eventually grow tired of being the one who stayed.

The next weekend, Atsumu’s university hosted an invitational. The gym was louder this time  with banners, reporters, and a crowd.

And across the court, in the opposing lineup, stood Sakusa Kiyoomi.

It had been months, almost a year, since the breakup. Atsumu had rehearsed what it might feel like to see him again. Rage, jealousy, sadness, or maybe smug indifference? But when it actually happened, when Kiyoomi turned and their eyes met across the net, Atsumu felt none of that. No heat. No bitterness. Just a quiet recognition.

Kiyoomi looked different. Softer, maybe. Still neat, still meticulous, but with an ease Atsumu didn’t remember ever seeing. Then he saw him. Ushijima Wakatoshi, tall, grounded, radiating calm. He stood near the benches, talking quietly with Kiyoomi, who listened with that faint crease of focus he always had. Ushijima handed Kiyoomi a water bottle, their fingers brushing briefly. Kiyoomi smiled — a small, real smile. The kind that reached his eyes.

Atsumu froze mid-step. That smile. He’d chased that once. Worked for it, begged for it.

And now, it came so easily for someone else. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even sad.

Just… still.

When the match ended the crowd began to thin. It didn’t even matter at the moment who won or lost, Atsumu just found himself wandering down the back corridor near the locker rooms. He didn’t know what he was looking for until he saw Kiyoomi standing near the vending machines, towel around his neck, scrolling absently on his phone.

For a moment, Atsumu thought about walking away. He really did. But his feet didn’t listen. Kiyoomi looked up before Atsumu could speak. “You played well,” Atsumu said evenly.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi said, forcing a small smile. “You too”

There was a pause. The kind that stretched too long, filled with all the unsaid things neither of them had the courage to name. Atsumu shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “You look good. Happier, I mean.”

Kiyoomi blinked, hesitating. Then nodded. “I am.” It wasn’t boastful. It was just true.

Atsumu looked down, biting the inside of his cheek. “Good. I’m glad, really.” His voice cracked at the end, just slightly. Kiyoomi exhaled. “Atsumu—”

But the blonde cut him off. “Nah, it’s fine. I get it now.” He laughed, hollow but not cruel. “You didn’t stop loving me ‘cause you wanted to hurt me. You just—” He searched for the word. “—you just stopped fitting into what I needed you to be. And maybe I stopped fitting into yours.”

Silence again. The vending machine hummed softly in the corner. Kiyoomi’s expression shifted, something between regret and peace. “You were never wrong for me. I really did love you at some point.” he said quietly. “You just wanted a version of love I couldn’t give back then.”

“Then?” Atsumu echoed, looking up. “You mean you could now?”

Kiyoomi’s eyes softened as he looked down. “Maybe.” 

“Just not with me?” Atsumu bravely asked. 

Kiyoomi nodded. “Not with you”

That one landed. Atsumu nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “Guess not.”

Kiyoomi stepped forward, close enough that Atsumu could smell the faint trace of his cologne. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice gentler now, “you taught me how to show up. I just learned too late.”

Atsumu smiled, small and tired. “And you taught me that sometimes just love ain’t enough.” 

They stood there for a few seconds longer. Two people who had once been everything to each other, now just echoes of that.

When Ushijima appeared at the end of the hall, waiting patiently, Kiyoomi glanced over and gave a quiet nod. Atsumu followed his gaze and felt the smallest, strangest warmth instead of bitterness. As Kiyoomi walked past him, he stopped just long enough to murmur, “Take care of yourself, Atsumu.”

Atsumu didn’t turn around. He just said, almost to himself, “Yeah… I will.”

And for the first time, he almost meant it.

__________

The sun was low, casting streaks of orange through the windshield as Shinsuke’s car rolled down the quiet stretch of road leading out of campus. The hum of the engine filled the spaces between them. Atsumu had his elbow propped against the window, hair still damp from practice, while Kita drove with one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loosely by the gearshift. He just picked up the blonde from training.

Neither of them said much at first. It wasn’t awkward, just comfortable silence, the kind they’d grown used to.

Then, casually, Shinsuke said, “I’ve been thinking about applying for an intensive clinical fellowship. Like a training camp.” Atsumu glanced at him, one brow raised. “Yeah? When’s that?”

“This summer,” Kita replied. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “It’s a good opportunity. Would help with residency placements.”

Atsumu smiled, or tried to. “That’s great, Shin. Real big deal, huh?”

“It is.” Shinsuke’s gaze stayed on the road ahead. “But it would mean less time for—”

“For this?” Atsumu cut in, his tone light, almost joking, but not quite. “Don’t worry about that. It’s not like we got a thing anyway.” Shinsuke’s knuckles flexed against the steering wheel. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure.” Atsumu looked away, out at the skyline. “You should focus on what matters. You’re good at that.”

The rest of the drive was quiet, filled only by the low hum of traffic and the occasional click of the turn signal. Kita didn’t push. Atsumu didn’t take it back.

When they reached his apartment, the car slowed to a stop by the curb. Atsumu unbuckled his seatbelt, fingers fumbling more than usual. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite fit. Usually he would invite the ex-captain inside. But something shifted. Not tonight. Atsumu doesn’t think he has the bravery for any confrontation right now.

Shinsuke turned to him, his voice soft. “Anytime.”

Atsumu nodded, stepped out, and watched the taillights disappear down the street. The fading sound of the engine left a strange emptiness behind, the kind that lingered too long.

The apartment felt colder than usual. He tossed his bag aside, sank onto the couch, and opened his phone. There were unread messages from Kita. Reminders, small jokes, photos of coffee cups, a link to an article about sports injuries. All simple, all him. Atsumu scrolled through them, thumb hovering, and began deleting a few. 

Not all. Just one or two to make it easier, if things ever ended.

He told himself it was to clear storage. But it wasn’t.

The slow withdrawal didn’t happen overnight. It started small like missed calls, delayed replies, excuses wrapped in polite laughter.

[Atsumu]: sry practice ran late again

[Atsumu]: got called in for video review

[Atsumu]: another time, yeah? Promise

He didn’t mean for it to sound cold. It just became easier to hit send before he could think too hard about what he was avoiding. Shinsuke never called him out for it. He simply adjusted. Responding when Atsumu did, waiting when Atsumu didn’t. That quiet patience, once comforting, now made Atsumu restless.

One evening Shinsuke texted.

[Kita]: Coffee after your game tomorrow?

Atsumu stared at the screen too long before typing back.

[Atsumu]: got a team dinner. maybe next week?

He didn’t have one.

The guilt sat heavy, but not enough to stop him. He told himself he was just giving them space. Helping both of them prepare for the inevitable end. Because it was easier if he was the one to walk away first this time.

By the third canceled plan, even Osamu noticed. 

“You’re dodging him,” his twin said one afternoon, voice flat as he leaned against the bedroom door. Atsumu looked up from tying his shoes. “What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” Osamu shot back. “You’ve been making excuses for weeks. Kita asks you out, you say you’re busy. He texts, you take hours to reply even if you have your phone glued to ya 24/7. Does that not sound familiar to you?”

Atsumu scowled. “You know nothing. Drop it.”

Osamu folded his arms. “No, I won’t. Because I watched you fall apart when Sakusa did the same damn thing. You remember that? At first he started saying he was busy, then he started choosing everything but you. Then you kept on and on saying ‘if someone was sure of me, they wouldn’t be confused. They wouldn’t push me away’ So what’s this, huh? You turnin’ into him now?”

The words hit harder than Atsumu expected. His throat tightened, but he hid it behind a scoff. “I’m just… prioritizing. We both got our own stuff.”

“Bullshit,” Osamu said simply. “Absolutely bullshit. Even for you.”

“You’re scared.” Atsumu froze.

“You’re scared he’s gonna leave, just like your ex. You’re scared he’s gonna push you away again. You’re scared that when he’s busy, he’d stop choosing you. So you're tryin’ to beat him to it.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The silence between them stretched, heavy with all the things Atsumu refused to admit.

Osamu’s tone softened. “You’re scared he’ll wake up one day and realize you’re not worth stayin’ for. So you’re doing it first. Saving him the trouble. That’s not protecting yourself, Tsumu. That’s not saving him. That’s givin’ up before anyone even fights for you.” He paused then continued.

“You know he isn’t like that. You know him better than any of us. Try not to be so afraid of love just because it didn’t work out the last time, okay? You deserve someone that’s sure of you. And Kita is that person.”

Atsumu stared at his brother, the words sinking deeper than he wanted to admit. The ache in his chest wasn’t from anger, it was recognition. Because Osamu was right. He was becoming everything he once hated. He was being a coward.

Because it’s true, every time Kita reached out, every time he showed up, Atsumu met him halfway and then pulled back, afraid that being wanted meant eventually being left. He’d told himself it was self-preservation, but really, it was fear disguised as control. Shinsuke wasn’t Kiyoomi. He never lied, never made him guess, never left him wondering where he stood. He was honest. He was gentle. He made Atsumu feel safe and chosen. Kita Shinsuke was sure of him, even without the comittment. 

And yet Atsumu kept building walls against a war that wasn’t even being fought. For the first time, he realized he wasn’t protecting himself from heartbreak. He was protecting himself from the possibility that someone might actually stay.

That night, Atsumu couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, Osamu’s words echoing louder than the hum of the city outside. He thought about Shinsuke’s quiet patience, the way he listened, the way he never demanded anything more than what Atsumu could give. And still, Atsumu gave less. He thought of the texts he ignored, the calls he let ring out, the way he laughed too loud to hide that he was terrified. Shinsuke had been constant, but Atsumu had been the storm.

When morning came, the sky was a soft gray, the kind that looked like it was waiting for a decision. Atsumu sat on the edge of his bed, his phone in hand, thumb hovering over Shinsuke’s name. He didn’t know what he’d say. An apology? An explanation? Maybe both? But for once, he didn’t want to keep running. Maybe love wasn’t about avoiding the fall. Maybe it was about trusting someone enough to meet you at the bottom and help you climb back up.

He exhaled, slow and shaky, and pressed call.

The line rang once, twice. Atsumu almost hung up because of old habits and old fears that no one would pick up. But then came the familiar click of the receiver and Shinsuke’s steady voice.

“Atsumu?”

There was no edge, no disappointment. Just quiet concern wrapped in that calm tone Atsumu had missed more than he’d admit. For a second, words failed him. He stared at the sunlight filtering through the blinds, painting the room in soft stripes.

“Hey,” Atsumu finally said, voice rough with hesitation. “You busy?”

“Not at the moment,” Shinsuke replied, gentle as ever. “Are you all right?” Atsumu let out a small, shaky laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe not.” There was silence, but not the cold kind. The kind that invited him to keep going.

“I messed up,” Atsumu admitted. “I thought if I pulled away first, it wouldn’t hurt when you did. But it just… it still hurts anyway. Worse, actually.”

Shinsuke’s voice softened. “Atsumu—”

“Can we talk?” Atsumu cut in, hurried but hopeful. “In person, I mean. Not over the phone. I don’t wanna keep runnin’ from this.”

There was a pause, faint sounds of movement on the other end—maybe Kita reaching for his keys. Then, a quiet exhale.

“Where?” Shinsuke asked. Atsumu’s throat tightened. “Anywhere. Just… somewhere you’d go if you wanted to be honest.”

“Are ya at yer place?” Kita asked. Atsumu replied with a soft yes. “Give me twenty minutes.”

When the call ended, Atsumu sat for a long time, staring at the phone in his hand. His heart was still racing, but for once, it wasn’t from panic. It was from the fragile, unfamiliar hope that maybe this time, he wasn’t too late.

Kita arrived just as the city was sinking into the evening. The light outside the apartment was dim, a warm gold bleeding into blue. Atsumu had been pacing for nearly twenty minutes, pretending to be okay but really just trying not to panic.

When the knock came, his breath hitched. He opened the door before he could change his mind. Shinsuke stood there, hair slightly tousled, still in his light gray hoodie and jeans. He looked tired, but not annoyed but concerned. 

“You said you wanted to talk,” Shinsuke said softly. “Yeah,” Atsumu replied, stepping aside. “Come in.”

The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. Atsumu gestured toward the couch, but neither of them sat right away. 

Finally, Atsumu sank down first, elbows on his knees. “I dunno where to start,” he said, voice low. “I’ve been tryin’ to act like I don’t care as much. Like if I pull away first, it’ll hurt less. Because I just keep thinkin’ about how it was with Kiyoomi… how one day he just stopped lookin’ at me the same way.” He looked up, meeting Shinsuke’s eyes. “And I was scared you’d do that too.” He paused for a few seconds then continued.

“I don’t know what I’m even afraid of, we aren’t even together. But God, Shin. I’m so afraid to lose you.”

“I never stopped carin’, Atsumu.” he said quietly. “Not once.”

Atsumu swallowed hard. “Even when I was being a jerk?”

Shinsuke gave a small smile. “Especially then.”

That broke something in Atsumu. His voice wavered. “You’ve always been… safe. Real. I don’t even know when it started feelin’ like this, but it did. And I hate that I almost ruined it ‘cause I got scared.”

Shinsuke sat down closer to him, close enough that their knees brushed. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he said. “You just forgot that someone could stay.”

Atsumu blinked, his throat tight. “Why? Why would you stay after all that?” Shinsuke hesitated for a heartbeat, then spoke with quiet certainty. “Because I’ve liked you since high school.”

The words landed softly but shook Atsumu all the same. He stared at him, wide-eyed. “Since—what?”

The ex-captain’s lips curved, almost shy. “You were loud, dramatic, very impossible to ignore. But you were also kind and honest. You made everything feel better. I didn’t know how to say it back then. I thought it’d just mess things up between us. Maybe it still might.”

Atsumu’s chest ached in the best way possible. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. No words came out of his mouth after that confession. Instead, he leaned forward, slow enough to let Shinsuke pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t.

Their foreheads touched first, a soft press of warmth and shared breath. Then Atsumu tilted his head just slightly, and Kita met him halfway. The kiss was gentle and steady like everything Atsumu never thought he deserved but somehow found anyway.

Shinsuke’s hand found Atsumu’s jaw. “You don’t have to keep provin’ you’re okay anymore. You don’t have to keep provin’ you’re worth choosing” he said softly. “Not with me.”

Atsumu smiled into his shirt. “You always know the right things to say”

Shinsuke chuckled, low and warm. “That’s only ‘cause I mean every word.”

And for the first time in a long while, Atsumu believed it. That love wasn’t just a feeling. It was choosing the person. That someone could stay, not out of duty, but because they simply wanted to.