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In a completely unforeseen turn of events, Atsumu doesn’t know what to do with himself in the wake of Sakusa’s confession. For one, he is incapable (i.e. wholly unwilling) of dealing with genuine emotions. Accepting anything deeper than praise for a good set makes hives break out on his skin and sends his heart into a stuttering rhythm. (Definitely because he hates it, not because he craves validation and wants to be loved.) For another, the mere thought of someone – Sakusa Kiyoomi of all people – liking him in that way is completely ridiculous to him. He’s well aware that he’s nothing short of a human disaster. Why would anyone want to deal with that? Also, he’s not totally convinced it was a confession. (He doesn’t replay the words in his head. He hated every single one of them, so much so that it makes his skin flush and his stomach turn.) It sounded more like a petition for a divorce. Maybe Sakusa got his wires crossed. In his mind, I can’t stand you doesn’t really scream romance. (It felt like that to him, though.)
Not that he wants romance from Sakusa. He thinks he’d melt into a puddle of mortification right then and there if he ever heard the words I like you come from his lips. Or if he showed up one day with flowers and poetry. He doesn’t want his – ugh – feelings reciprocated. Because if Sakusa likes him, that means he has to take responsibility. And Atsumu knows he isn’t the type of person to be trusted with anything except a volleyball.
He’s not going to play a game he doesn’t see himself have a chance of winning. (Nevermind that a relationship is not a game.) And sure, in volleyball, there are six people on the court and a set lost can’t be attributed to one single player, but if he fucks up with Sakusa, it’s going to be his fault and no one else’s. And there’s not going to be a second set that might turn things around. There aren’t five other people who stand behind him, ready to correct his mistakes or keep the ball in the air. It would just be Sakusa and him. And once he drops the ball, it’s game over. The whistle blows and he’s off the court. No rematch, no second chances.
Atsumu has been content to spend his life playing volleyball. He’s never wanted anything more out of it. But then Sakusa strolled in, with his steely glares and his unapproachable aura and his superior attitude and fucked everything up. By common logic, he shouldn’t feel drawn to the bastard. He shouldn’t want to hold his hand – especially because Sakusa would definitely cut it off if he tried. It makes absolutely no sense that he wants him. They are complete and polar opposites. Sakusa is proud and thinks things through to an extent that Atsumu would never even consider. Atsumu puts his foot in his mouth on a regular basis, so much so that he should probably be concerned about getting athlete’s foot on his tongue.
If Sakusa thinks he likes him, that’s his own problem. Atsumu doesn’t have anything to do with it. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with it. He’s certainly never done a single thing to make Sakusa even tolerate him as a person. If anything, he’s acted in a way that would ensure the complete opposite.
He doesn’t think he did it on purpose, either. It’s just the way he is. He never sets out to make anyone one hate him, it’s just what happens as a direct result of his actions. He still maintains that hatred is better than apathy. As long as people think about him, he’s good. Of course it’d be nice if people liked him. He’s just not under the impression that he is someone to be liked. He’s someone to be tolerated, at best.
He’s also never been someone people wanted to make friends with. He is convinced that his friendships exist purely because of happenstance. They wanted to spend time with Samu and he was there, too. At some point, they just accepted the fact that they were a package deal, like a buy-one-get-one-free sale.
He’s just going to quietly exist in his presence, like a satellite orbiting earth. And isn’t that a perfect metaphor for the situation he finds himself in? The earth doesn’t need him, but he needs its gravitational pull to keep on course. When Sakusa decides that he doesn’t serve enough of a purpose to keep around, or finally realises he’s nothing more than trash in shiny packaging, he’ll let him burn up in his atmosphere. That is, if Sakusa doesn’t deem that too much of a hassle. He’ll just watch him use the last of his reserves to blast himself off into space, as far away from him as possible.
For Sakusa, he’s probably just a means to an end. An instrument to explore uncharted territory. And once he’s gathered all the information he needs, he’ll dispose of him.
Atsumu isn’t a pessimist, he really isn’t. He’s also not lying to himself.
He doesn’t want to want him. But he does.
Wanting Sakusa terrifies him, rightfully so. Wanting anything that he can’t control is his worst nightmare. Volleyball, he can train for. He can improve his sets, his serves, his technique. Volleyball isn’t going to get bored of him or wake up one day and decide that it doesn’t want him anymore.
(This fear of abandonment definitely doesn’t have anything to do with his brother deciding to quit volleyball. No, that would be ridiculous.)
One thing that’s important to know is that Atsumu isn’t scared of commitment. He wants to commit. He does. He just doesn’t trust that anyone wants to commit to him. He’s only ever been left.
So after high school, after that dreadful fight with the one person he thought would always be at his side, he’s never let anyone else past his walls. He’s never let anyone get close enough to try.
Enter Sakusa, stage right, armed with a sledgehammer. Or maybe it was a chisel. That might explain why he didn’t realise it soon enough. He was too focused on keeping four walls standing, he didn’t pay attention to one brick getting thinner and thinner. And then, there was a small hole, compromising the integrity of the entire structure. All it needed was one well-aimed strike for Sakusa to create an opening big enough to worm his way through. What he didn’t consider is that it was one way. That it started closing up again after he went inside. And now, if and when he decides to leave, he’s going to make the walls collapse and bury Atsumu underneath.
So no, Atsumu doesn’t want anything from him. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up and fall deeper into a hole that he already knows he’s never getting out of.
He won’t let himself think about a future that’s only going to end in pain.
Because Sakusa… he can’t like him, okay? It just doesn’t make sense. Sakusa thinks everything through. He analyses every single toss he gets. And for him to reach the conclusion that Atsumu is the kind of person he wants to be with? There has to be something else going on.
Atsumu considers all of this, which is why he waits until he’s certain that Sakusa is asleep to sneak out of their room. Is he being a coward? Yes. Is he being an asshole? Definitely. But that doesn’t stop him from banging on the room Bokuto and Hinata are sharing, his bags in tow.
After five minutes of constant knocking and having two people yell at him about the time, Bokuto finally pulls the door open. His hair is completely flat on one side and there’s drool on his chin, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Atsumu is completely aware of how pathetic he looks, carrying two bags and wearing completely rumpled pyjamas. “I need ya to switch rooms with me.”
“Huh?” Bokuto yawns, his mouth stretching comically. He rubs at the corner of his eye. “What’s going on?”
Now, obviously, Atsumu isn’t going to recount the tale of the accidental confession, but he needs to tell Bokuto something. “Uh, Sakusa an’ I had a… sorta, uh, disagreement,” he mutters, not meeting his eyes.
Disagreement is about the furthest from the truth that he can get. Them agreeing on something for the first time in the history of ever is why he’s outside in a hotel hallway in the middle of the night, making sure that every single guest hates him and bothering one of his teammates before an important game.
Bokuto’s eyes widen and he actually stands up straight. “Must’ve been bad… Sure, you can crash here for the night. Hinata won’t mind switching rooms with you,” he says and opens the door wide enough for him to step into the room.
There’s a Hinata-shaped lump on one of the beds, and the sheets are glowing softly from what Atsumu assumes must be a phone-screen.
“Hey, Shouyou, would you mind switching rooms with me?”
The lump moves and then the sheets are pulled back, revealing a wild nest of orange hair. “Why?”
“Sakusa and I–”
Hinata jumps out of bed before he can even finish the sentence. He puts on the hotel slippers and grabs a bag before heading to the door.
“You– you didn’t even let me finish!” he protests, even though he doesn’t know why. By all means, he should be glad that Hinata would comply with this frankly ridiculous request.
“It’s gotta be really bad if you’re calling him Sakusa instead of Omi-Omi,” he explains sagely.
Atsumu thanks him instead of further questioning it and gives Hinata the key-card for the hotel room. He also reminds him not to lose it, which prompts Hinata to stick his tongue out at him before he leaves.
He’s just settled down on his new bed when Bokuto decides to interrogate him.
“Wanna talk about what happened?”
That’s the last thing he wants to do. He still maintains that telling anyone about his feelings is the worst idea ever. And he definitely doesn’t want to admit to Bokuto that he just ran away from a confession because he’s scared.
“Nah.”
“I think you guys’re gonna be fine. Things always sort themselves out.”
Atsumu just controls his urge to scoff. Instead, he chuckles, “Probably, man. Thanks for lettin’ me crash here.”
Bokuto’s snore speaks volumes in the quiet hotel room. Atsumu doesn’t fall asleep till it’s three am, and it’s definitely because of his roommate sawing logs, not because he feels guilty about running away.
—
Atsumu doesn’t try to avoid Sakusa the next day.
He just happens to get up at 6 am because Bokuto doesn’t know how to sleep in and decides that now might be as good a time as any to go down and have breakfast. He stuffs some fruit into his bag while he’s filling a cup with rice, just in the event that he gets hungry later.
When they sit down at a table, he ignores the fatigue in his bones and the lights that are burning his eyes. It’s early enough in the morning for the restaurant to be mostly empty, safe for a family with three kids that haven’t yet learned not to scream when their parents are trying to get them to eat their vegetables.
He doesn’t really listen as Bokuto rambles on and on about Keiji this, Keiji that, only nods at the right moments, gives the occasional hum. Bokuto’s excitement is usually enough to rally a whole stadium, but today, it bounces off Atsumu like he’s made of rubber.
He refills his coffee three times and eats as much rice as he can, but there’s this emptiness in his stomach he can’t seem to satiate. He tries not to think about it too much, but there’s this nagging feeling, almost like an itch, that tells him it’s not his stomach that’s empty but his chest. He can feel the beat of his heart against his ribs, hears it echoing in his ears.
He keeps a close watch on the clock that’s hung on the wall above the buffet, bouncing his foot in rhythm with the ticking of the clock-hand. He could probably blame his jitters on the caffeine and lack of sleep, but he only makes a habit of lying to himself about the things that actually matter.
It’s pure coincidence that he leaves the hotel restaurant when he sees Sakusa walk in, even though there’s still more than half of his food left on the plate.
On the way out, he runs into Shion, who he then in a definitely-not-pitiful manner begs to sit next to on the bus. This is in no way, shape or form a strategy to steer clear of Sakusa. He just wants to spend some time with their libero. They need to be on the same wavelength. After all, it’s him that sends the ball to Atsumu and it’s him that keeps the ball alive. (Yeah, he’s not even fooling himself with that one.)
Atsumu spends the time he has until the team leaves for the tournament in his new room. He absolutely needs to shower for twenty minutes and spend fifteen on his hair. Despite the fact that his facial hair is lacklustre at best, he decides he is in dire need of a shave. He goes all out on the complementary aftershave and immediately regrets it because it smells more like a toilet cleaner than misty mountain air. He barely has time to wash it off as best as he can before Bokuto comes bounding into the room, reminding him that they have to leave in five minutes. (The fact that chronically-late-to-everything-Bokuto has to get him doesn’t register in his brain as a warning sign.)
Shion thankfully saved him a seat and Atsumu wants to kiss him for it. He plops down and racks his brain for a conversation topic. When he doesn’t come up with anything, he pulls out the worn-out book he keeps in his bag. He has never opened it before in his life, mostly because it was a gift from Osamu and is very fittingly titled how not to be a dick. He chooses not to see the irony of the situation.
By some miracle, he doesn’t have to interact with Sakusa at all until it’s time for warm-ups. Obviously, it’s going to be a lot more difficult to ignore him on the court, considering that he’s the team’s setter and Sakusa kind of also has an important role. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to try his absolute best.
Technically, he doesn’t need to make eye-contact when setting to his spikers. He’s just good like that. He also doesn’t need to talk to them because they use hand signs. Is he going to exploit that? One hundred per-cent yes.
Warm-up goes about as well as expected. Atsumu pretends he doesn’t notice the glances that Bokuto and Hinata keep sending him. He can taste the venom of the glare that Sakusa is levelling the back of his head with on his tongue, so he pops in a mint and moves on.
Even though he doesn’t so much as tell him nice serve, they win the game and are allowed to move on to the next stage of the tournament.
He thinks he’s made it home safe after they shake hands with the losing team, but Meian puts a hand on his shoulder before he can even wiggle his toe in the direction of the locker room.
He puts a smile on his face before turning around and facing the captain. “Somethin’ I can do for ya?”
“Look, I’m not exactly clear on the details, but Hinata mentioned something about you switching rooms with him last night? And you’ve been a little off today, as you must have noticed during the game,” he says.
“Just didn’t sleep well, is all,” he tells him, which isn’t too far off from the truth.
Meian raises both eyebrows. “And does that have something to do with Sakusa?”
He didn’t think he was being that obvious, but then again, not a lot of thinking was actually involved in his actions.
Atsumu, master of the art of deception, chuckles. He doesn’t meet his eyes when he lies through his grin, “Nah, we’re good.”
He receives a look that tells him Meian’s not buying any of his bullshit. “Sort it out,” he orders him and tightens his grip on his shoulder before letting him go.
Atsumu doesn’t spend the next ten minutes hiding in the bathroom, scrolling down twitter. He absolutely has to reply to people congratulating him (and the team) on the win right this instant, otherwise, he’ll die. This is not to ensure that Sakusa won’t be in the locker room when he gets there. He just really needs to interact with the fans. He’s a people person, after all.
When he does finally get to the locker room, it is with great surprise that he finds it devoid of one Sakusa Kiyoomi. Stricken, he saunters to the showers to wash off the sweat of the game and shame of his stunt. Soap can really only cleanse so much.
—
Atsumu sticks with Bokuto and Shouyou for the rest of the day. The two of them are just the right kind of attention-grabbing. He all but blends into the background when he’s surrounded by their exuberance and general happy-go-lucky attitude.
He’s glad they don’t try to get answers from him about his behaviour yesterday. Sure, there are some glances here and there when he’s just a second too late in reacting to a joke and they never so much as mention Sakusa, but it’s fine. It’s good. Really.
If they’re going to pretend that he’s acting totally normal, then so is he. He’s had a lot of practice acting like he’s not screaming inside, so this should be a piece of cake. All he has to do is be his usual self (i.e. obnoxious, like Sakusa’s horrible jacket).
So he tells bad jokes that no one would ever laugh at. Shouyou and Bokuto still do, but definitely not out of pity. No, he must have gotten funnier.
Unfortunately, Shouyou won’t let him sleep in their room again this night. He says something about Sakusa being very scary in the morning. Then, he has the gall to say that it’ll be fine if he goes back to the room. Sakusa won’t be mad anymore. They’ll sort it out.
Atsumu hopes that Sakusa will at least let him live until the end of the tournament.
—
Atsumu takes a deep breath to steel himself before he opens the hotel room door. He can do this. Sakusa won’t be mad. He only ignored him and avoided any and all contact between them, even going so far out of his way to involve other people in his cowardly scheme. No, Sakusa will definitely be his biggest fan after what he did. Especially because he ran away after his quote confession unquote. Without even responding to it. Or acknowledging that it happened.
Yeah, Sakusa is going to strangle him. What a nice way to go.
He’s met with Sakusa furiously rummaging through one of his bags. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him that out of sorts. His hair is all messed up, curls frizzy instead of smooth. Atsumu has never seen him like that since he’s known him. He kind of wants to run his hand through it, tug on it a little. Maybe Sakusa would like that. Maybe he’d even make some noises. Before he shoves Atsumu away, of course.
He takes a step into the room and receives a look so full of contempt, it makes his blood freeze in his veins. Even his eyebrows look angry. Then again, Sakusa has been known to express his emotions solely through them.
“Hey,” he says, like that’s going to make everything better. Maybe he shouldn’t have done the finger guns.
A bag of kit-kats hits him square in the face. (He doesn’t pay any attention to the fact that they’re green tea flavoured and smell vaguely of disinfectant.)
“I guess I deserved that, huh?”
Sakusa clicks his tongue. “You’re insufferable.”
Atsumu’s mouth morphs into a cocksure grin as he leers at Sakusa. “That says more ‘bout you than me, considerin’ you wanna date m’stupid ass.”
“I’ve been told I have questionable tastes,” he says, with the air of someone who’s accepted their fate a long time ago.
The distinct lack of denial in that statement can only mean that Sakusa actually does want to date him. And he seems surprisingly okay with the prospect.
Isn’t that just a kick in the gut. What’s he supposed to do now? Act like a mature adult and have a conversation with him? Tell him he wants to date him, too? Not that he does. No, no way. Atsumu does not want to date Sakusa. That would be his worst nightmare.
Instead, he chuckles and picks up the bag of kit-kats. “So, do I get to keep those?”
“I don’t care.”
That’s as much of a ‘yes’ in Sakusa’s language as he’s ever going to get.
—
It’s an unspoken yet mutual agreement to not talk about it until after the tournament is over. Sakusa doesn’t push. He doesn’t actually say anything regarding the matter, which should probably concern him a little.
Atsumu thinks that maybe if Sakusa has a little more time to think about it, he’ll come to the conclusion that communication is overrated and that they can just ignore it and move on with their lives. Hopefully, he’ll also realise that he doesn’t actually want to date Atsumu and they can just pretend nothing has ever happened in the first place, but he knows that’s just a pipe dream. If Sakusa didn’t want to date him, he would have never said anything in the first place. Or at the very least, he would have very clearly told him that despite his feelings, he doesn’t see any chance of them ever working out.
God, that means Sakusa has actually thought about this. To an extent that made him realise that they might work. And Atsumu knows he must have considered all the possibilities. Sakusa assesses and analyses everything, over and over again. And if he found a flaw, he’d scrap the whole idea.
And that means Sakusa has expectations. Expectations that he won’t be able to meet. Sakusa probably didn’t account for that.
Atsumu doesn’t want anything interfering with the matches they still have to win. Nevermind the fact that he couldn’t even make eye-contact with Sakusa during the first one. And ignored him the whole day.
If they talked, that’s all he’d be able to focus on. Because if they talk, he has to take responsibility. And he can’t handle more than doing his best and winning those games right now. So he shoves the late-night confession to the back of his mind and plays. He’s determined to enjoy the three days of blissful ignorance to their full extent.
He knows he can’t avoid the talk forever. He lives in the same building as Sakusa, so it’s not like he can hole himself up in his room and hope that he forgets about it. He'd only let him get away with his disappearance act once.
He’s just going to have to bite the bullet. Sakusa certainly won’t have any qualms about sticking the gun in his mouth.
—
Unfortunately for Atsumu, Sakusa doesn’t seem to share his opinion on avoiding his emotions. In fact, it appears he wants to actually confront them head-on. Like some sort of mature adult, he thinks they should talk about it.
According to the media, healthy communication is paramount for a successful relationship. In order to achieve that, honesty is essential. Atsumu has absolutely no problem telling people the truth. And telling people what they don’t want to hear is like second nature to him. However, actually talking about himself and laying bare what he wants? How in hell is he going to do that when he has no idea what it is? If by some miracle he had even an inkling, he’s definitely not articulate enough to put that into words. Suppose he did tell Sakusa what he imagines their relationship could be like. What then? It’s not like Sakusa is going to want the same things. Or even want them at all. So, in Atsumu’s opinion, the media can go suck a dick. (At least one of them will be getting some.)
He thinks that Sakusa let him get away with a lot of bullshit over the past three days, but his luck has run out now. He can’t pretend he’s listening to music or feign sleep anymore. He briefly considers running away, but even he’s not that immature. He already did that once. Doing it again would just be lacking creativity.
When they return, Sakusa orders him to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes, which is probably not a bad idea, considering he’s been wearing this tracksuit over his sweaty jerseys three days straight. He even goes as far as picking him up from his room, which, fair enough. Atsumu would like to pretend he’d have shown up even without an escort, but he’s not quite sure about that himself.
Before they enter, he asks him to put on a mask and then all but sequesters them in his room.
Atsumu takes a quick glance around his room, and he can’t say he’s surprised about what he sees. Obviously, it’s immaculate. The bed is made, sheets tucked in tightly. There is not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. Even the curtains look like they were straightened with a ruler. The only indication that anyone actually lives here is the stack of books on the nightstand and the one gigantic fern in the corner of the room. Instead of the smell of disinfectant, the room smells like a virgin mojito.
Sakusa sits down on his bed, hands folded in his lap. He’s not meeting Atsumu’s eyes; instead, he seems very invested in his own knees.
Atsumu, in an effort to appear casual, leans back against the door, runs a hand through his still wet hair and instantly regrets it because his fingers get tangled. Trying to free his hand without Sakusa noticing goes about as well he’d expect.
Well, at least he’s looking at him now.
Sakusa clears his throat. His eyebrows are doing something very complicated, which means he’s not as confident about this as he’d like Atsumu to think. “Obviously, we need to talk about it.”
“We really don’t,” he protests. He’s fully aware he’s being difficult, but he just doesn’t see the point. This is not going to end well, so why not spare himself the pain?
Or rather, being left again. He knows he can handle the pain. It won’t be fun, but it’ll be manageable. What won’t be is being abandoned again.
He’s just trying to give Sakusa an easy out. Why the hell is the guy so stubborn and won’t just take it?
He wrings his hands and his eyebrows somehow furrow tighter. “Look, if you don’t want this, that’s fine. But–”
Him wanting this is the problem. He wants it so much it makes him feel sick. Who knew love was an awful lot like food poisoning?
“–You’re honestly gonna tell me you wanna date me.”
He already knows the answer to that. While Sakusa hasn’t explicitly said so, he all but admitted it back at the hotel room.
Between tugging at his hair and shooting Atsumu a glare that might actually turn him to stone, he growls, “One of us has to be honest, and we know it’s not going to be you.”
Atsumu glares at him because he knows he’s right. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to just roll over and accept it. Acting mature? Not if he has anything to say about it.
“You couldn’t handle my honesty,” he hisses.
He springs up from the bed and walks over to Atsumu, who’s still standing in front of the door. “I would love to fucking get a chance to see for myself.”
Atsumu tilts his head up and sneers at him, “You wanna know? Fine. I don’t think this is ever gonna work. So why don't we both spare ourselves the pain and just let it go, huh?”
He grits his teeth. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” he says, because he only ever lies about the things that actually matter. Expertly, he ignores the rancid taste the lie leaves in his mouth. He pulls the door open and escapes through the small gap.
Yeah, this is definitely better. He can’t be left if he leaves first.
—
A fatal flaw about Atsumu is his belief that he is never in the wrong. Countless people have tried and failed to tell him otherwise, but he isn’t the kind of person to listen to reason or logical arguments. So once he’s convinced himself of something, not even god themself could make him change his mind.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is not a god, but he is twice as stubborn and completely immune to any and all of Atsumu’s bullshit antics. He also has the unfortunate luck of having known Atsumu for a long time, which is how he knows that in order to get through to him, he’ll have to get him to drop his façade. The only way to do this is by giving him the upper hand, and while Sakusa despises the idea of feeding his ego, he’s also aware that it’s the only option he has to get what he wants. And due to several unfortunate events, what he wants is Atsumu.
So he shoves his pride into a box and drops it to the bottom of the ocean.
—
Unbeknownst to Atsumu, Sakusa Kiyoomi is currently standing in front of his door, one hand raised to knock. He has just gotten back from his evening run and all he wants is a shower and then go to bed, because he doesn’t want to think about the fact that he hasn’t really talked to Sakusa in a week. Not about anything important anyways.
The door opens, revealing Atsumu in his red shorts, running tights and a t-shirt. The front of the shirt is all but soaked in sweat, clinging to his chest tightly. Atsumu ignores the way Sakusa’s eyes rake over his body. He ignores the fact that they linger on his thighs for just a second too long and seem to stop at his chest before they’re suddenly staring somewhere left of his eye. He wipes the drop of sweat running down his temple.
“Omi-Omi,” he says with his trademark smile. It stretches his face unnaturally. “Whaddya need?”
Atsumu can hear the way Sakusa grits his teeth behind his mask. “I want to talk to you.”
This again. Well, all he can do is deflect, right? “Finally came to yer senses, huh? I’m glad you’re askin’ for fashion advice.”
He rolls his eyes. “I can’t stand you.”
Atsumu crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans against the door frame. “So you’ve said. Anythin’ else?”
“It’s not a bad thing,” he continues.
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Like anything he has ever said or done has made any sense. Like what he’s doing right now is logical. Like he doesn’t want to punch himself in the face for telling Sakusa the biggest lie on the planet.
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Nothing about this– about you– about us makes sense!”
“There is no us, Sakusa,” he bites. And he feels the teeth sinking into him, tearing, ripping, shredding at him.
Oh. Oh.
He doesn’t like the tightness in his chest that follows the sound of Sakusa’s last name rolling so effortlessly off his own lips. He doesn’t like the fact that he can feel the wall between them. He built it himself, brick by brick, word by word.
Sakusa recoils as if Atsumu just slapped him. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “There could be.”
He wants it to be. He needs it to be. He can’t let it be.
Atsumu glares and takes a step back into his room, one hand on the door handle. “I don’t fuckin’ care about could be.”
“Then what do you care about?”
He slams the door in his face.
—
When had their lives become so intertwined that Atsumu notices Sakusa’s absence like he’s missing a limb? He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to miss them like this when there’s never even been a them. He’s not going to dwell on the fact that he’d like there to be a them, because he already knows how that story ends.
He has no right to miss a thing that never was and never will be. And he’s the one who swung the knife in the first place, who cut through the bone, who severed the nerves. He’s the one who amputated a perfectly healthy arm or leg or whatever.
And now he can’t reach out or take a step in the right direction to make himself whole again. Because he knows he’ll fall and fail. Who knew that a missing appendage would unbalance him so much?
Maybe he’s being a little melodramatic. It has been known to happen.
If he lets himself close the distance, he knows he’ll reattach himself. And he won’t be able to let go again. He’s not sure he even wants to. He’s not sure he ever wanted to in the first place.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t sew up the wound. He didn’t think it’d fester, grow malignant, burrow deep. Now it’s in his bloodstream and he has no idea how to get rid of it.
It does explain his urge to throw up when he sees him. Why he feels like the air got sucked out of the room when he hears him grumble about something inane, like the sky being cloudy or clear. Why he feels both like he’s standing in the middle of the desert and has just been dropped into arctic water when he thinks about him.
But the worst thing is that he sees Sakusa looking at him, too. Not glaring, not scowling, not glowering. Looking. Like he wants him. Like he’s missing a limb, too.
He doesn’t know what he wants anymore. Does he want to keep Sakusa at an arm’s length, a safe distance? Or does he want to keep him close to his chest where his heart is beating out of rhythm? It’s heart to keep a beat with only one arm. Maybe Sakusa can be his metronome, a steady pulse for him to follow.
There’s one thing he’s certain of. He’s scared of the day when he’ll stop looking.
—
He finds himself wandering the hallway one night. He’d like to pretend it’s not in hopes of running into Sakusa, but he’s saving his lies for more important things.
He doesn’t go down to the kitchen. He heard the kettle whistling about five minutes ago. If he just keeps walking up and down, past Sakusa’s empty room, maybe he’ll see him come back. Not that he wants to talk to him. Or see him. If he does, it’ll be a happy accident.
It’s not like he has a plan. He just doesn’t want to keep staring at the ceiling in his own room. Counting the water stains gets old fast. The change of scenery might make him tired enough to finally fall asleep.
Two minutes and thirty-five seconds later, he hears footsteps coming up the stairs.
Very casually, he leans against the wall like this is a prime spot for hanging out in the middle of the night.
“What are you doing,” comes the familiar drawl.
“Sleepwalkin’,” he says.
Sakusa stops two steps in front of him, looking bored as ever. “You don’t look like you’ve gotten any sleep in a week.”
It’s true, but he shouldn’t say it. Sakusa doesn’t look much better. He can hide behind his mask all he wants. The dark circles and droopy eyes speak volumes.
“Hey, Sakusa,” he starts. Apparently that’s a thing he does now. Calling him by his last name. “Ya ever tried walking on only one leg?”
“Can’t say I have.”
Atsumu runs a hand through his hair. “D’ya think I could?”
With detached interest and the air of someone who’s utterly done with Atsumu’s antics, he says, “Your legs both look perfectly healthy to me.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is, Miya? You’re making this harder than it has to be. Just use both legs.”
How can he when he cut one off without a second thought? It’s not like he likes the phantom pain that comes with trying to put pressure on a spot that’s no longer there.
“Ain’t that easy.”
“Seems to me that it is. You’re the one trying to find a solution to a problem that doesn’t exist,” he says and goes to unlock his door. “Then again, you create a lot of problems where they don’t have to be.”
The door doesn’t slam shut, but it might as well have. It echoes in Atsumu’s head all the same.
—
Atsumu started noticing that the team was acting weird. Coincidentally, it was right after the day he placed the final brick in the wall. He’s sure that has nothing to do with it.
Meian observes him like an anthropologist would newly found remains, trying to unearth his secrets. He’s half-convinced he’s going to show up with callipers and a brush one day, hold him down and dust him for remaining particles and take measurements of his skull to figure out if he’s even a homo sapiens.
(Well, the sapiens part remains to be seen. There has not been enough evidence gathered to conclusively say that he is a creature of intellect. In fact, his actions indicate the exact opposite.)
Bokuto’s and Hinata’s presence around him has somehow increased. Not only during practice but also outside of it. He can’t go anywhere at the dorms without at least one of them appearing out of thin air, suggesting they hang out or go on a run.
For no particular reason, both of them insist on hogging all his attention during practice. It’s always something. Let’s practise the quick or Help me with my receiving. They take up all his time.
In no relation to this at all, he hasn’t had time to practise quicks with Sakusa. Not that it matters, anyway. Sakusa has kept himself busy and unavailable, practising serves and trying to sync up with their second-string setter. Atsumu does not feel any particular way about this. He’s certainly not jealous. No. It’s perfectly normal to fantasise about pushing their reserve setter off a cliff.
Unfortunately, one day, the other shoe drops.
They just got done with receiving drills, courtesy of Hinata pestering him until he gave in. It’s not like he had anything better to do. And if he’s honest, it’s fun to aim jump serves at the little guy.
Hinata is wiping sweat off his face with a towel, sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out in a V. “Are you and Sakusa okay?” he asks, head tilted to the side innocently.
Growing up with a brother has taught him one thing: trying to act innocent is a surefire way to tell the other party that you’re guilty as all hell. Which means that either Hinata has eaten Atsumu’s pudding from the fridge or he somehow knows about his big, fat crush on Sakusa.
Bokuto chuckles nervously. “Hinata,” he urges, swiping a hand across his neck like a knife. He turns to Atsumu with a too-wide smile on his face, “Did you guys figure things out after your fight?”
Hinata rubs the back of his neck and gives him a half-assed reassuring grin. “We decided not to say anything, but you’ve been acting weird.”
Atsumu? Acting weird? He’s been perfectly normal. He always goes to bed at eight pm. It’s not a strategy to avoid contact with a certain curly-haired germaphobe. And everyone who plays setter avoids eye-contact with their wing spikers. Right?
“Uh, yeah. All figured out,” he says, grimacing.
“Oh,” Bokuto says, drawing out the vowel, eyes widening almost as if he just realised something. His mouth turns into a frown and he pats him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry man.”
What does he have to be sorry about?
“It’s fine,” he says because it is. Perfectly fine. He spares a glance at Sakusa, who’s doing drills with their other setter. Yeah, he’s not jealous about that. “All fine.”
—
For some indeterminable reason, Atsumu starts receiving a lot of pitying looks from his teammates. Meian even goes as far as offering him to talk. He does the whole thing. The I know it’s none of my business, but and the forced smile and the consoling shoulder pat.
Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about. Certainly nothing his teammates should be privy to. And there’s no need for consolation. Or pity.
He also overhears some strange snippets of conversations, like It’s not a surprise, but still, the poor guy or It’s a miracle it even lasted this long.
He’s sure it’s nothing to worry about. It definitely doesn’t concern him.
—
Sakusa Kiyoomi is widely known for three things. His dislike for people, his aversion to germs, and his freaky wrists. The first thing makes sense, all things considered. People are loud and annoying and they take up a lot of space. They’re also inconsiderate and never do what’s expected. The germs, while Atsumu doesn’t feel the same way about them, are also logical. You never know where someone’s hands may have been. And you can’t trust people not to infect you with something. Atsumu knows this because he’s gotten a cold courtesy of his brother three times in his life. Now, the wrists don’t really have anything to do with Sakusa’s feelings, but they have a lot to do with Atsumu’s.
Not that there are feelings. They’re more like inklings, stray thoughts. Oh, who is he kidding? He’s head over heels stuck in a hole.
He thinks about his hands a lot. Not just the way they can bend and put a spin on a ball that makes it wickedly difficult to receive. He thinks about how it would feel to have those hands all over him. Maybe he could pick him up, push him against a wall or something, grab his ass a little. (God, he really wants Sakusa to grab his ass.) Rough him up, make him hot and bothered and desperate for more and then leave him there. He’d even thank him after. Ask for more. Beg for his hands on him–
But he’s also not delusional. He knows that’s not going to happen, ever. If Sakusa ever puts his hands on him, it’ll be because he’s finally had enough and he’s decided to strangle Atsumu. And even then, the bastard wouldn’t give him the satisfaction and probably wear gloves.
Atsumu is sure that Sakusa could get away with murder. If he keeps testing his luck, it’s probably going to be his. But at least it would put all the attention on him. And, as a bonus, he won’t have to deal with his least favourite f-word.
Other people dream about kissing their partner under the moonlight. Atsumu fantasises about being choked to death by his crush. Is that a little fucked up? Maybe. Does he have a healthy method of coping with his emotions? No. Is he broken up about it? Also no.
Is he sitting in the dark kitchen in the middle of the night, on the floor like a common cockroach, being pathetic? Maybe. Is he kind of hoping that Sakusa will turn up? Perhaps.
“What are you doing,” he hears. That really shouldn’t make his heart skip a beat. Sakusa always seems to find him in the dark. There is no deeper meaning behind this.
“Nunya,” he replies to the floor. He’s not going to look up, even though he wants to.
Sakusa heaves a long, put-upon sigh and turns on the kettle. “The floor is dirty.”
“I live here now.”
He can hear Sakusa’s eye-roll. “Are you done being dramatic?”
Because he is definitely not done with that, he asks, “Are ya done pretendin’ ya wanna date me?” Not because he wants to know. He’s just making idle conversation. He’s not curious if there’s still a chance to tear down the wall he’s built. If he can be whole again, find his balance, regain his rhythm.
“Are you done pretending you don’t?” he rebuts like he doesn’t even have to question it. Like he knows what Atsumu wants.
“I’m just bein’ realistic, ya jerk. You’re just gonna leave like everyone else.”
Sakusa hums, “So you’re a coward.”
He leans his head back against the dishwasher, keeps his eyes firmly on the floor. There’s a crack in one of the tiles. “I just don’t wanna get my hopes up. You’re gonna break up with me, and when that happens, I’m gonna hatecha for real.”
He doesn’t know what it is about a dark room and the late hour, but somehow, it always seems to bring out his honesty. Maybe it’s because he can hide his body, so he doesn’t have to hide what he wants, needs, hopes for. Maybe it’s because Sakusa can’t look at him with those calculating eyes.
The kettle whistles. The cupboard opens. Two cups are set down, filled with tea and water. Sakusa crouches down in front of him, one arm stretched out towards him, holding Atsumu’s favourite mug.
“If, not when,” he tells him and straightens back up. “You think you’re dealing with absolute certainties, but there’s never going to be anything certain about us. The only thing you should be certain of is that I want this, as much as it pains me to admit. And I know you want this, too. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be acting like a toddler, more so than usual.”
Atsumu takes the cup and finally lifts his head. “Promise it’s not poisoned?”
“Who knows?” he says, and it sounds like he’s smiling.
—
They find themselves on the lone couch in the common area. Their cups are long abandoned, the insides stained from the now-cold tea.
Atsumu is definitely going to throw up. His hands are shaking so badly, he has to grip his left with his right to force them to still. “Ya better not change yer mind,” he says. It’s meant to be a threat, but it sounds more like a plea.
“That hasn’t been an option for a while now,” he admits.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Atsumu doesn’t want to think about the implications. About Sakusa telling him he’s liked him for so long that he stopped trying to fight it. That he’s not going to change his mind about it. That opens the door to a dangerous little thing called hope.
“Ya sure?” he needles, but his voice sounds a little tight, his throat feels a little dry. He doesn’t want to know.
Sakusa puts a hand on his thigh, right above his knee, and stops his spiralling.
Sakusa is touching him. Over clothing, but still. He wants the hand to move further up his thigh just as much as he wants it off him. (Except he really doesn’t want him to move his hand.)
“Careful, Miya,” he says. “You’re going to make me think you actually like me.” He punctuates this by squeezing his thigh.
Atsumu can’t even look at him. He doesn’t want to be near him. He feels the pull, the phantom pain. “Ya fuckin’ wish.”
If he only liked him, he wouldn’t have fought this so much.
And his hand moves up his thigh by an inch. Heaven help him. He’s not going to make it. This is more than he ever dared dream of.
“Are ya tryin’ t’kill me?”
It’d be a nice way to go.
“Only,” he whispers and leans closer. (Atsumu wishes he wasn’t wearing his mask. He could feel his breath on his ear. Maybe it’s better that he can’t.) “If you ask nicely,” he says.
That tone of voice makes him want to sell his whole soul to him. Like he has any choice in the matter. Like he hasn’t handed over the deed and thrown in his heart for free.
“Ain’t gonna be nice ‘bout it, Omi-Omi. Ya better make it worth my time.”
“There could be worse things, I suppose,” he muses and leans back.
The hand is gone, but Atsumu can still feel the warmth where it had been. It’s the only indication it was ever really there in the first place. The ghost of a touch that he never thought possible.
It makes him think there are other things he needs to reconsider.