Chapter Text
Atsumu’s hand hurts.
It blooms red like the petals of a lily, pink-purple pinpricks of colour arching across the outside edge of his palm.
He had been so consumed by trying to perfect his annoyingly, frustratingly not accurate-enough hybrid serve that he knows can be better, that he hadn’t noticed the sun rising through the high-set windows or his teammates trickling in. Hadn’t thought to check the time, or pace himself or whatever else Meian tells him to do when he zones out.
The only reason he had even crawled out of the tunnel vision he was stuck in (or more like been yanked out by the scruff of his neck) is because of Bokuto and his tendency for intensely cheery ‘good mornings’.
Like a stage curtain thrust open in the middle of a scene change, Atsumu feels everything rush haphazardly back into his body. The sweat running in rivers across his skin, dripping onto the court. The hunger making a home low in his stomach. The exhaustion pulling heavy at his head, begging him to rest his eyes for just a moment. The persistent stinging pain in his hand. Maybe he should get points for that last one, seeing as he had been faintly aware of it before Bokuto smacked his senses back into his brain through his shoulder blades.
He really should be more aware of everything, considering overworking the delicate muscles in his hands and wrists before the second away-game of the season is generally not viewed as a solidly genius plan.
There’s a concerningly vein-shaped bruise already throbbing on the joint of his thumb. He should probably go find some tape.
His eyes trail over to where he’s pretty sure his phone is, tucked away in the mess of an MSBY jacket on the sideline. He had shrugged it off and chucked it in his phone’s general direction when the chill of twilight crept into the heat of day; his only acknowledgment of time passing.
It’s not like he hasn't considered setting alarms for situations just like this, where it's probably a good idea not to collapse into tunnel vision, but that's just it. He’s considered it — quite a lot, actually, but nothing more. When his phone isn’t on his person or plugged into the wall, it may as well not even exist for how impossible it is to find, and creating alarms and caring about when they go off are two very different things. (Not to mention he tries not to make it a habit to frequent the gym at the wee hours of three in the morning.)
Bokuto’s looking at him with an attempt at a raised brow that would probably get even Ushijima to crack a smile and Atsumu realises he’s probably just full-on ignored all of whatever the hulking mass of muscle said. He didn’t mean to.
He tucks the ball he was about to serve into his side and turns around to face him, smiling sheepishly. Bokuto’s eyebrows go from dancing in his miraculously not-dyed hairline to pulled together in an endearing scrunch as he struggles to put the pieces together for why Atsumu looks like he’s just been training nonstop for the better part of three hours. His piercing gaze shifts to the frankly stupid number of volleyballs watching the interaction, a crowd of unwilling spectators, and he looks like he might have it.
“Did you, like, knock over a ball bin or something?”
Atsumu barks out a laugh, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “Yeah, Bokkun,” he says with a grin. When that seems to satisfy Bokuto all too easily, Atsumu huffs a little sigh. They really need to talk to this man about his observation skills outside of volleyball and interpersonal relationships that he is not a part of (cough cough— that JVA guy and Kodzuken). How can he look at three empty ball bins and a practically melting setter and come to that conclusion?
“Nah, I just got here a little early and lost track a’ time. Ya know how it is.” It’s not a lie, it's just not the full detailed truth. Most people don't enjoy hearing the details of whatever he says anyway. Osamu tells him it's because he takes a sentence and turns it into a ten page essay. Whatever, he doesn't listen to pricks who almost flunked out of literature.
He starts to clean up his totally avoidable, stupidly unavoided mess for what feels like the millionth time this morning, resolutely ignoring the exhaustion in his muscles that spell out doom for today’s practice. Bokuto whistles and hums as he helps him, jogging from one side of the court to the other and balancing the balls on his vast mass of arms and chest like sculpted manservant is in his job description. The valiant display is almost enough to distract Atsumu from the promise of a lecture that he can feel radiating off Meian like an ancient curse. ‘It’s all in the eyes,’ he thinks as his captain stalks his every move from the other side of the gym. ‘The freaky, persistent eyes.’
Atsumu likes lectures as much as the next guy, but he really hates being lectured by Meian.
Maybe it's the way he plays disappointed dad so well (not that Atsumu would know about that), or the fact that Atsumu doesn't like letting down the people he looks up to, or that he can’t remember a time where he wasn’t being lectured about something or other, but it’s probably just that Meian is so, so overly repetitive in his points of argument. Sometimes it feels like listening to the shitty pop radio station everyday for a week (“Your body needs to rest, Miya.” “You’re going to overwork yourself, Miya.” “Even Hinata takes breaks, Miya.”).
Well, considering the hair-tearing repetition has yet to work on Atsumu, slipping off his smooth brain like it’s a backyard slide, he might change it up this time. That has Atsumu curious, but not nearly curious enough to brave the walk over to the beast’s waiting jaws.
Whatever Meian’s got planned still probably wouldn’t work, considering he doesn’t see the issue with improving himself.
Actually, that’s not quite true. He does see the issue — he’s not as idiotic as his brother would suggest, but he’s choosing to ignore the issue on account of the fact that the issue is not that big of a deal when compared to his serves not being up to the ever-increasing Miya Atsumu Standard. To put it simply, he has bigger fish to fry.
Bokuto jogs past for what might be the fourth time, and Atsumu is once again shoved out of his reverie as he realises that the guy is basically done with his self-imposed clean-up duty and Atsumu has just been ambling around with his pathetic two volleyballs, staring at the congregation of stretching athletes.
He bullies Bokuto into letting him push the bins over to where Coach Foster is standing, nose pressed to his clipboard. Dredging up the reserves of his energy to power his usual devious grin, he presents his offering to his coach like a Michelin star meal on a silver platter.
He thinks, with the generous pep he forces into his step, that he has the room fooled. He might even have himself fooled, unless the ebbing exhaustion is due to his forgetfulness. This, sadly, is wishful thinking, Atsumu finds out when he dares a glance at his captain and can barely muster up the energy to blanch at what he sees.
Meian’s eyes bounce from bin to bin to the strain in Atsumu’s right shoulder to the overexerted flush in his cheeks and finally to his eyes. Hollow, probably. Bruised. Tired.
He prepares himself for the impending doom that usually begins with a stern ‘Miya…’ reverberating through the vast expanse of the gym, but to his confusion bordering on mortification, Meian shakes his head, ever the jaded father, and turns to Sakusa.
Sakusa, who has been deemed Atsumu’s keeper by the rest of the team. Sakusa who takes shitty excuses and diversions about as well as he takes licking a door handle. Sakusa who Atsumu has been sleeping with for the better part of 6 months, in a relationship with for half that time, and hiding his full self from for as long as they have known each other.
Shit! For multiple reasons, but mostly because Sakusa is smart. If he pays Atsumu too close attention he will surely see the fraying of the thread that weaves his life’s shitty tapestry.
Atsumu can’t hear what they say to each other, but the curious, maybe even worried glance Sakusa sends him every few seconds tells him everything he needs to know. Meian is telling on him to his boyfriend. He would much rather be chastised for the millionth time by Repitition-san, than be on the business end of one of Sakusa’s ‘I didn’t want to do this but they asked me to and I’m coming around to the idea’ brand of disapproving lectures. It would be hard to even call them lectures, since they mostly consist of flat glares and put-upon sighs.
Flames of embarrassment start to lick up his calves.
He doesn't even notice when Sakusa starts walking towards him, but when Atsumu’s nose fills with the scent of lavender fabric softener and his own (stolen) deodorant, he feels his brain go to war with itself over whether he should bow his head into the dip of Sakusa’s collarbones, or run for the hills.
His fingers move from where they’ve been digging into his thumb cuticle to pull at the loose thread on the hem of his shorts. He’s going to fiddle no matter what, but he can at least ensure the remaining health of his hands while he does.
“Yes?” he says, with the energy of someone whose body isn’t currently fighting off a coma.
“Miya.” ‘Give it up,’ he means. ‘I can see right through you.’
Yeah, whatever. He might’ve seen that coming if his head was screwed on tighter. His smile deflates as his muscles relax, puppet strings falling to a sad heap on the sneaker-scuffed floor. A groan forces itself from between his lips. He’s so tired he can practically feel his hair deflating.
“I hate that ya know me so well. It’s ruinin’ all my plans.”
Sakusa holds out a palm for Atsumu’s sore hand. Nothing gets by him, apparently. Atsumu feels the back of his neck start to burn.
“I’m terribly sorry. Would you like me to ask Coach Foster to run suicides so that you can keep up your painfully see-through act?” he says, without a hint of inflection. His gaze pins Atsumu to the spot with as much intensity as usual, but this time tinged with a sliver of something else. Morbid curiosity, probably.
Sakusa begins taping up his hand, fingers flitting over the white strips gently, yet tightly somehow, as if trying to convey his stern disapproval at Atsumu’s mistreatment of one of their team’s greatest assets.
Not willing to let the attempt at their usual banter fall and die, Atsumu manages to bat his eyelashes. “Wow, Omi-kun, yer so kind and generous, but unfortunately I’m gonna have ta decline.” He can think of many, many other things he would rather do than sprint up and down the court for the next hour. Saying kind things about Suna Rintarou on live TV even makes the list. It’s almost chill-inducing.
Sakusa hums his monotone displeasure with a little crease between his brows. It’s painfully, awfully endearing even if it does spell out more poking and prodding at Atsumu’s already limping plan. And his hand, he finds out with a wince.
“What is it? Spit it out so I can go sit down and fake stretchin’.”
“Are you okay?” Sakusa’s tone is a little strained, pulled straight from the depths of his despair at having to ask after someone’s wellbeing (even if it is his own damn boyfriend). Still, it’s weird to hear concern coated in the smoke-stained honey of Sakusa’s voice. The conversation he saved from falling might now be hurtling, wax-winged, straight for the sun. A thumb brushes over the dip in his palm.
Atsumu’s mouth forms the words before he can even take stock of the feelings buzzing around his head.
“Don’t worry about it, I’m fine.” He would very much rather sit down right now, or like, go to sleep for approximately a week. Though, it probably wouldn’t help. (He just can’t ever seem to fall asleep in under an hour, and when he does it’s an uphill battle to stay that way. ‘Too many thoughts,’ his Ma says. It doesn’t feel like it. Most of the time it feels like he’s not even thinking at all. It just feels like he’s stuck, maybe. Though it’s not like it matters.)
And he almost lets it go. Almost lets his precious, jilted conversation soar into the burning heavens where it will turn to dust and he will never have to think about it again, but something about the way Meian looked so— so resigned when he turned to Sakusa has his lips pursing thinner than what their back and forth usually allows. He’s just tired, there’s nothing to be mad or even embarrassed about. Meian is just trying to help. Sakusa is just following orders. Still.
Still…
Cold air floods the space between them as he pulls his hand away. “What, did Meian tell ya ta ask me?” He spits the words like lukewarm acid, too tired to be properly mad, tired enough to feel his emotions getting away from him.
He’s not just some task to be pawned off onto the unlucky guy who happens to be the object of his affections. He’s not some annoying, burdensome void of energy. At least, he tries not to be.
“No,” Sakusa says, taken aback like it's true. Like he didn’t expect the defensiveness. “Let me rephrase my sentence: you’re not okay. Why?”
Atsumu’s face scrunches. How is he not okay? Yeah, maybe he’s snappy and spacey and tired, but when isn’t he any of those things. If he can still smile, and he can still play volleyball, the issue is basically microscopic. There might not even be an issue at all, but people seem to not favour that theory. Yeah, his serving arm might be a little sore and his palm a little tender, but that’s not— it doesn’t—
“You left without waking me up, which means you’ve been gone for longer than the ‘while’ you like to say, you’ve been staring into space a lot more than usual, and it looks like you have been trying to punish your fingernails for some unknown slight that they undoubtedly are not the perpetrators of. Tell me what’s going on.”
There’s nothing quite like being scalped in front of your entire team, skin opened up and pulled back like Pandora’s box, letting every insecurity spill out over the bloody sides for the world to see.
He’s not trying to hide, he’s not lying, he’s just protecting Sakusa from the mess of a person he didn’t sign up for. It’s not like either of them planned to get attached when they started waking up smelling like each other’s bedsheets.
It doesn’t matter. Though, when Sakusa puts it like that, it makes Atsumu sound a bit like the crazy old man who lived on the other side of his primary school’s back fence. Still, he waves away Sakusa’s concern.
“I’m serious, Atsumu.” He has to hand it to Sakusa, he’s a lot more observant than Bokuto.
“I’m serious, too. There's nothin’ goin’ on, I just couldn’t sleep so I came here instead. Ya know I have trouble with that. I just got locked in or whatever, I’ll pay more attention next time. Promise.” He waves his pinky finger around, knowing damn well Sakusa wouldn’t touch it again.
Lying through his teeth doesn’t feel as bad when he is aware the person he’s lying to knows it’s a lie as well. Is it even lying if they both know it’s not true? They pretend it’s true anyway for the sake of shutting up and stretching already lest Foster’s occasional brow-furrowed glance becomes any more pointed. It might not be good for the poor man’s health.
Sakusa is not satisfied with that conversation, that promise. That lie. His stare pelts Atsumu like a naughty kid with a bag of rocks, but that’s not any of Atsumu’s business, so he keeps his gaze firmly on his promotional Nikes as they line up for drills. The laces are already a little frayed.
He tries extra hard to pay attention for practice, which was already made extra hard thanks to the constant dips in his consciousness, but no one says anything about the absence of weird, Kansai slang and tomfoolery on the court.
It’s a little bit disheartening, the lack of odd looks or confused smiles that are aimed at him, but he reminds himself that being tired is just a fact of human life, and that he isn’t letting the team down by not being at his best. He doesn’t want people to come pester him about his low energy, but he also doesn’t want the team to just accept this kind of behaviour from him. If he’s going to continue as their starting setter, he needs to be held to that standard.
Though, that’s a conversation to be had with adequate rest.
By the time the final whistle blows, Atsumu’s brain has long since turned to mush. In fact, it’s so liquified he thinks he might have sweated it out and is now lounging around with a head full of nothing. That would be nice, though. The idea of a vacant skull is quite a step up from a head full of everything that still refuses to function.
His stomach growls from where it is pressed against the biting metal of a locker room bench, and nausea growls with it.
Ugh, right; he left before breakfast and didn’t bring any snacks with him to his impromptu nighttime training session (which didn’t even end up helping the accuracy of his serves. Figures.) How he forgot his hunger with the acidic bubbling in his gut is beyond him.
Sakusa left a while ago to get him something from the vending machine in the lobby, and Atsumu is starting to wonder if eating his own arm is worth the trouble of lifting it from its perch atop his dangling hand. The effort it takes to twitch his fingers points to a resounding no.
The minutes probably tick by, not that he’s managed to keep track of a single one, and he becomes one with the bench. Shoes walk past his unblinking line of sight. Voices waft in and out of his ears. Someone pats him on the shoulder at one point, but a hum that probably sounds more like a petulant grunt chases them away.
He managed to strip out of his training jersey for the kit-man, but that’s about as far as he got.
Blood continues to pool in his fingers, bringing with it the static that comes just before all feeling shuts down, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the lattice of blood vessels blooming under his skin. They arch and curve around folds of skin and muscle, disappearing beneath a blotchy bruise that had begun to form on the meat of his thumb towards the end of training, blurring with the one beneath the tape on the first knuckle joint.
At least like this he can avoid talking to Sakusa about whatever it was he wanted to talk about before official training started. Sakusa might have already re-attempted, but Atsumu wouldn’t know. He might know if he tried, but trying takes effort, and effort and he had a rather messy divorce a long, long time ago.
Something mildly cold glides through his hair, catching on the damaged strands and bleeding pinpricks of not-quite-pain across the surface of his scalp. He groans in annoyance but the unidentifiable hair intruder refuses to stop its gentle, stinging exploration. He tries to move his eyes, he really does, but he thinks his ocular muscles might have calcified some point between staring in the general direction of his reddening hand and his vision completely blurring over. It’s not the worst last thing he’ll ever see in his life; he could’ve been stuck looking at his brother’s awful mullet.
Osamu says he thinks it's cool, but Atsumu knows it's another attempt to put distance between them as twins. No one would do that to themselves without a desperate reason.
His eyes are beginning to dry out. It’s not like if he shifts his gaze the world will end, like Aran’s told him Kita thinks like sometimes, it’s simply that he can’t move his eyes in the first place. He can think the thought of ‘I’m gonna move my eyes’ all day if he wants to, but that thought will only stay a thought unless his body has the drive to prove otherwise.
He has been lacking in any sort of drive for about an hour now. It might’ve been longer but his empty head will never let him know.
With one last stinging slide through his hair, the unidentified thing moves its way down to trail gently along his cheek.
Ah, the lovely, Pavlovian smell of latex.
His eyes almost twitch in their sockets, lids almost snapping shut in a well-deserved blink.
Usually, Sakusa’s presence, or even just the thought of him, is enough to shake Atsumu out of his paralysis, begging him to drink in the beautiful sight while he can.
This time it’s almost the same, but not quite. He hums acknowledgement of Sakusa’s arrival, and his stomach makes itself and its dissatisfaction known to the world.
Sakusa might be saying something, or he might not, Atsumu can’t really decipher much at this point. He’s so lost in his own head that he may as well just be staring at a painting of one of Japan’s favourite, mole-dotted hands in an art gallery in France and he wouldn’t know the difference. It’s like he’s a creature clawing at the bars of its enclosure, or maybe an old man living alone on a deserted island, the only thing keeping him sane the heartbeat that reverberates through his body into the bench.
Said bench chirps quietly and Atsumu’s current, blurry view of his knuckle caressing the grey tiles phases out of existence. Curly hair comes into view before dark eyes grab a hold of his consciousness and give it a gentle shake.
The tile floor reflecting into Sakusa’s eyes makes them look like space. He could reach out and touch them, if only to feel the stars zipping and burning between his fingertips, but that would surely be a lost cause with the numbness settling into his tendons. He would gladly be in his stuck state forever if he was allowed to stay swimming in that endless galaxy.
Instead of rewriting the laws of physics to dive into the divine darkness that pools around Sakusa’s pupils, Atsumu’s gaze traces each feature of Sakusa’s face, devouring without a thought spared for restraint. It doesn’t even take drive and effort to do it. Looking at Sakusa must come automatically.
Once he’s had his fill, his eyes slip shut, bringing them long-awaited mercy.
“Mmmm,” he says, tiredness, frustration and relief all balled into one pitiful mumble as he heaves his numb arms up underneath his chest.
“Mmmm,” Sakusa says back because he’s a bitch like that and he thinks Atsumu’s periodic inability to form coherent words is amusing.
Atsumu takes a breath and shoves with all of his might to force his body into a terribly-postured sit. Condensation drips onto his needle-ridden skin as Sakusa pushes a plastic bottle into his hand.
“It’s open.”
Atsumu hums again and leans back into his designated locker nook as he brings the bottle to his lips. It’s some sort of thick, chocolatey drink that kind of tastes like if clay was something people enjoyed eating. In other words, it’s heaven.
Atsumu guzzles it down without a thought spared for the state he is letting Sakusa see him in. He doesn't care that he looks like some sort of beast, his stomach’s about to rebel right out of his mouth.
When the bottle is half-empty, he doesn't bother to catch his breath. “What took ya so long? I was primed and ready to die of old age.” He’s not sure his locker nook is fit for a coffin, but he had already made his peace with it. There’s enough room for Sakusa by his side if he curls up tight enough.
His eyes flutter open to gauge Sakusa’s reaction. The magnificent eye roll does not disappoint.
“You’re so dramatic sometimes. I was only gone for a minute and a half. The vending machine is directly across the hall.”
Sakusa points a careful thumb in the direction of the door he just came through, but Atsumu doesn’t bother to look. It’s not like Sakusa is going to be wrong, and he would rather take his word for it than bother craning his neck two centimetres to the left to watch a thumb carve an invisible path towards the hall.
Quiet blankets them as Atsumu gulps down the rest of his drink.
“So, do you want to stop lying to me and tell me what’s actually going on?”
The bottle clicks softly as it meets the bench. Being branded a liar isn’t something Atsumu is particularly fond of. It’s not like it even counts when the person you’re lying to knows the truth, and yet here they are, glaring at each other like the lie was even important.
When Atsumu doesn't answer, Sakusa’s voice shifts to follow his hands in their incredulous gesturing. “I’m flying blind here, Atsumu!”
“Omi,” Atsumu huffs, the constant pestering starting to weigh heavily on his frayed nerves, “I already told ya nothin’s wrong, so there’s nothin’ wrong.”
Sakusa takes a breath, though his dark eyes look anything but calm. “People sleep for a reason, Atsumu. You need to take care of yourself.”
Atsumu really hates it when people don't listen to him. Out of love or malice, the reason doesn't matter. All that matters is that what he is saying about his own not-problems and his own sleep schedule and his own feelings is being ignored.
“Funny, I don't remember you caring this much before,” he spits, anger curling hot around the words. They haven’t been dating long enough for him to have cared before, but the thought crumbles in place.
“You’ve done this before?”
Fuck.
“No,” he says, but the damage is already done.
“How often?”
“It’s not like I’m always sneaking out of your apartment! That would only give me, like, two months.”
“How often?”
His shoulder blades dig into the wall, body shying away from the interrogation even as his mind boils over. His limit comes hard and fast on good days, making him physically incapable of kindness and patience in the face of constant needling. On days like this, when his brain and body are practically at war, it’s anyone’s guess when his mind’s decided it’s had enough.
“I said it’s fine, Kiyoomi! It doesn’t matter, and I really don’t wanna talk about it, so just— shut up.” He brings a weak hand to his forehead, hiding his eyes from Sakusa. “I’ll talk ta Samu about it.” He won’t, but whenever he brings up his brother people usually assume all will be well in time. Jeez, maybe he is a dirty, massive liar after all.
When he finds the courage to slip his fingers from his eyes, Sakusa doesn’t look quite as placated as he would prefer, but the conversation lies face down in the water between them so he counts it as a win anyway.