Chapter Text
Atsumu never knocks.
Not really.
There’s always a sound—knuckles against wood, the rattle of the handle—but it comes at the same time the door is already opening, like the idea of waiting doesn’t quite register as something real.
“Omi, yer door’s unlocked again—”
“It’s not.”
Sakusa doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting at his desk, back straight, shoulders squared in that way that makes everything about him look intentional. Controlled. The room around him reflects it—clean lines, neutral tones, everything in its place like it belongs there.
Atsumu stands in the doorway anyway, grinning like he’s been invited.
“Well, it opened, didn’t it?”
“You opened it.”
“Details.”
The door clicks shut behind him with his foot. Too loud. Sakusa’s pen pauses for half a second before continuing.
Atsumu notices things like that. He just… doesn’t always listen to them.
He drops his bag near the bed—too close to the edge, it brushes the fabric—and then he’s moving, already halfway across the room like he owns it. Like he belongs here.
Like he belongs to him.
“Yer doin’ homework already? Thought ya said ya finished that yesterday.”
“I finished the assignment due yesterday.”
“God, yer so annoying.”
Sakusa hums, noncommittal.
Atsumu leans over him, bracing one hand on the desk—wrong spot, Sakusa notes distantly—and peers down at the paper like he’s actually interested.
He isn’t.
He never is.
“Looks boring,” Atsumu decides.
“It is.”
“Then why’re ya doin’ it?”
“Because it needs to be done.”
Atsumu makes a face, like that’s the worst possible answer.
“Y’know,” he starts, voice lighter now, edged with something playful, “if ya didn’t spend so much time on stuff like this, maybe ya wouldn’t be so… tense all the time.”
Sakusa’s pen stills again.
Just for a second.
“I’m not tense.”
“Yeah, ya are.”
Atsumu taps his shoulder.
It’s quick. Barely anything. Most people wouldn’t even register it.
Sakusa does.
Every time.
“I’m not,” he repeats, quieter now.
Atsumu doesn’t pull his hand away right away. Lets it linger, thumb brushing once, absentminded.
“You are,” he says, softer, like he’s letting Sakusa in on something. “But it’s fine. I’ll fix it.”
There’s no malice in it.
That’s the worst part.
Sakusa exhales slowly through his nose, sets his pen down with deliberate care, and finally turns in his chair.
“You don’t need to fix me.”
Atsumu just smiles.
“Everyone needs a little help, Omi.”
Before Sakusa can respond, Atsumu’s already moving again—picking up something off the desk, spinning Sakusa’s chair slightly with his hip, shifting things just enough that nothing is wrong but nothing is exactly right anymore either.
It’s small.
It’s always small.
Atsumu thrives in the small things—tiny disruptions that feel harmless, playful, easy to brush off.
Sakusa lets him.
He always does.
Because stopping him would mean—
“Hey,” Atsumu says suddenly, snapping him out of it. “C’mere.”
Sakusa doesn’t move.
Atsumu tilts his head.
“Don’t make me come get ya.”
“You’re already here.”
“Yeah, but I can be closer.”
There’s a challenge in it now. Light. Teasing. Familiar.
Sakusa knows how this goes.
If he resists, Atsumu pushes harder. Laughs it off. Calls him dramatic. Sensitive.
If he gives in, it ends faster.
So he stands.
Steps forward.
Lets Atsumu grab his wrist—firm, warm, grounding in a way that feels good for exactly half a second before something tight coils low in his chest.
Atsumu doesn’t notice.
He never notices in the moment.
“See?” Atsumu says, tugging him closer like it’s proof of something. “Was that so hard?”
Sakusa doesn’t answer.
Because no answer would be honest without ruining something.
And he’s not ready to ruin it.
Not yet.
—
Atsumu leaves an hour later.
He always does.
With a grin, a careless wave, and something loud shouted over his shoulder as the door swings shut behind him.
The room is quiet again.
Still.
Perfect.
Sakusa stands in the center of it, unmoving.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then everything does.
It creeps in slow—tightness in his chest, breath that doesn’t quite fill his lungs, the lingering awareness of where Atsumu touched, what he moved, what he changed.
Sakusa closes his eyes.
Counts.
One.
Two.
Three.
It doesn’t help.
His hands move before he can stop them—straightening the edge of his desk, adjusting the angle of his chair, wiping at a spot that isn’t visibly there but feels wrong anyway.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His breathing gets sharper.
Quicker.
He stops.
Forces himself to stop.
Stands there with his hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing.
It passes.
Eventually.
It always does.
Sakusa inhales slowly, deeply this time, and exhales just as carefully.
The room is quiet.
Clean.
Controlled.
Exactly the way it should be.
He opens his eyes.
And for a brief, fleeting moment—
he misses the mess.
—
He doesn’t tell Atsumu.
He won’t.
Because loving him is easy.
It’s everything else that isn’t.