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When Sakusa first joined the team, Atsumu was furious. Walking into practice on a seemingly normal day only to be met face to face by the embodiment of all his high school failures did not bode well for his otherwise agreeable temperament. He remembers an outburst, his own voice, asking, "What the hell is this guy doin' here?"
Sakusa wasn't very impressed to see him either, turning to Meian with a scoff. He barely spared Atsumu a glance. Surely he hadn't forgotten about their school days, all the times they met on the court, the piercing glares through the net, the rivalry that isn't just in Atsumu's head. But those infuriating dark eyes regard him only with indifference, lacking any spark of resentment, only annoyance.
The start of their careers as teammates was tense to say the least. They exchanged very few words, maneuvering around each other in the locker room, a barked comment about a toss here, snarky retorts from Atsumu there. The rest of the team were obviously concerned about how the animosity would affect team dynamic.
Several times Bokuto pulled him aside, asking him what the hell is going on with him and Sakusa, you two have been at each other's throats ever since he joined. Atsumu just shrugged him off, mumbling some variation of "It's nothing," before nudging past him.
For months, he and Sakusa dance along the line of hatred. Atsumu finds great satisfaction in taunting the other, watching his mouth turn down, down, down with every comment. Every time Sakusa's cool demeanor snaps and he whips around and yells at Atsumu the blonde’s disgusting fox grin grows. It’s payback, he thinks, for all those years ya crushed my dreams, over an’ over. Bendy germ freak.
(‘Samu and Suna are right, you know. You’re a jerk, and you deserve this.)
It’s with bitter resentment that he starts to think of Sakusa as a valuable asset to the team. The wicked spin that used to mock Atsumu as it ricocheted off his arms into the bleachers now trips up players on the other side of the net. Sakusa’s well-rounded skillset makes him useful in the back row as well, grossly beautiful receives arcing nicely for Atsumu to set. As much as he hates to admit it, Sakusa is a player that racks up point after point for their team. Their team. It makes him want to gag.
(Does it though? His passes really are amazing. Don’t lie and say you haven’t felt the tiniest bit of pride watching your opponents’ hopes crash and burn when they realize what he can do.)
Things start to settle in. Atsumu’s teasing is more lighthearted and less insulting, and Sakusa’s retaliations have less of the icy bite they used to. They find a rhythm, the nickname Omi-kun begins to have a different connotation. Atsumu still holds onto his teen rivalry, but the animalistic sneers of back then are replaced by smug grins and underhanded compliments. Seeing the unnatural bend of wrists, the brush of black curls against the gym floor during warmups, doesn’t set him on fire anymore.
They’re not friends. Don’t get ahead of yourself. They still barely talk about anything that isn’t volleyball, if at all. Sakusa doesn’t come out drinking with him and Bokuto, doesn’t hang around long enough in the locker room to be caught up in plan-making. Atsumu doesn’t know a thing about Sakusa that doesn’t exist within the space of the gym, in the safety of the game. He can tell you what set Sakusa likes best but has no idea whether the spiker even has a driver’s license or not.
Nevertheless, Atsumu can feel the past slipping through his fingers, the anger over losing to Sakusa as an opponent slowly being replaced by the knowledge that they are both better as teammates.
(Admit it, Atsumu. You don’t hate him anymore. Not when that happens.)
Atsumu begins to notice another change in the way he thinks about Sakusa. There’s the tug of a smile on his face when he sees the breathtaking receive, the pride that fills his chest when a spike lands all too perfectly, the curiosity of whether or not Sakusa does have a driver’s license. Sakusa’s regular drink invitation decline should not leave him with a bitter taste in his mouth. There’s times when Sakusa is around long enough for Atsumu to catch a glimpse of the moles dusting his shoulders and lower back in the locker room. He forces himself to look away.
He finds himself captivated by the way Sakusa moves, every step easy and graceful. Every touch absolutely necessary, and never coming into contact with Atsumu. Bending legs to dig the ball, abdomen stretching out for a spike, arms reaching toward the ceiling, eyes wide and glued to the set Atsumu gives him. Atsumu watches him play with hopeless adoration. Once in a blue moon, the ripple of muscles as Sakusa carefully peels his shirt off, folding it neatly and placing it into a separate bag to be washed later.
Atsumu curses the mysophobia. The mysophobia that won’t let him close. The mysophobia that creates distance where he desperately wishes there was none. The mysophobia that he’s learned is not a negative trait, nor is it a hindrance to Sakusa’s daily life. The general standoffishness that isn’t really a bad personality but a coping mechanism for the horror of physical touch.
The discovery is suffocating. Figuring out that the guy he used to hate most in the world has suddenly become the object of all his deepest desires does not go over well with the part of his brain that processes emotion. Fundamentally, he shouldn’t even find Sakusa attractive. He’s closed off, obsessively particular about everything, and just flat out rude to Atsumu. And yet, the attraction persists.
(You did this to yourself, Atsumu. You should have cut it off while you had the chance. We warned you. But you never listen to us anyway.)
Fleeting glances, the electricity that sparks when their eyes meet. Can he feel it too? (Certainly not, you fool.) Insults that don’t carry enough weight to hurt, that sometimes carry enough inflection to sound like jokes. The bus rides home when Atsumu sits across the aisle from Sakusa—never in the seat right next to him—to annoy him for the entirety of the trip.
The rare exasperated, tired, “Miya,” feels like honey trickling down his spine.
(It’s too easy to picture that in a different setting, isn’t it? You have gotten so good at conjuring scenes that will never be real. You’re pathetic.)
Atsumu thinks that maybe he's doing this to himself, that he actually likes reveling in his own destruction. First it was Kita Shinsuke, so perfect and so utterly unattainable, who he spent two years falling head over heels for. He never stood a chance. And now it’s Sakusa Kiyoomi, who won't let him closer than a foot's radius and who looks at him like he's dirt under his shoe. Is there something wrong with Atsumu? He hopes there’s not, and that making it so he can only fall in love with people he'll never have is the universe's way of punishing him for being so happy otherwise.
Is he so unloveable that even Venus will turn her back on him, abandoning him with his heart spilling out of his chest and his hands raised to empty air, begging for relief?
(You deserve this.)
Shut up, he wants to tell them, I already know. I know.
(He won’t ever touch you. You won’t get to experience holding his hand, kissing him, loving him.)
I know. I know, so leave me alone already.
(He hates you, Atsumu.)
Go away!
He curls around himself, blocking out the voices. The silence of the night rushes in to fill their space, drowning him in darkness and the sound of his own ragged breathing. Light filters in through his windows, but it is a lie, too, navy blue disguised as faint yellow, only appearing to illuminate his bedroom because the darkness within is blacker than the darkness without.
He tries not to think about the emptiness in his chest, in his room, in his bed. Emptiness that is so easy to fill with pale skin, black curls, and moles. His skin itches for the touch he knows will never come, for the warmth he knows it must hold. His heart drips onto the sheets with his tears, tearing him in half and leaving the mess to splatter against the walls. The ghost of lips dances across his mouth, and he has to clamp his hand over it to quiet a choked sob.
He knows that Sakusa will never love him. He knows this and yet he can’t escape from images of waking up to him, seeing his eyes first thing in the morning and burning up in their charcoal. He is haunted by the thought of what it might be like to kiss Sakusa in the rain, his hands buried in soaked hair, wet lips sliding against his. He longs to hear Sakusa laugh, to experience more than just the slightest grin stretch his beautiful face, to feel him smile into his mouth.
His hands are itching, fingertips buzzing, spreading to his arms, his chest, his legs. Itching and prickling and oh, there goes my skin. He is bones now. A skeleton of who he used to be, the man who lost in a war of attrition against the goddess of love. Sakusa would be disgusted at the sight of him. He would never gather the pieces of Atsumu’s flesh to put him back together even if Atsumu asked.
(Look at you. You’re crying so hard your skin fell off.)
I told you to leave me alone.
(You’re always alone, Atsumu. You’ve always been alone. But we’re here.)
Shut up. You’re wrong, I know you are.
(We’re right. You know we’re right. Why would you still talk to us if we weren’t?)
…
(See?)
I don’t trust you.
(Of course not. We’re you, after all.)
He wipes his face on the bedsheets, shakily lifting himself off the mattress. He wobbles past the fake light, to the bathroom. Stumbling against the sink, he washes the remnants of the tears away. In the mirror, he is relieved to see all of his skin in place, though there’s an angry red around his eyes and nose, and his hands are shaking. If he stares hard enough at his reflection, he’s sure he’ll be able to see them. They’ll pop up from behind him, settle their heads on his shoulders, whisper in his ear how unworthy he is. What are you looking for, Atsumu? All the ugliness lies in you.
He gets a glass of water from the kitchen. Leaning against the counter a moment, he takes a deep breath. Pushes away more tears that threaten to spill over the dam of his eyelids. The cold liquid that slides down his throat is grounding, reminding him to exist. His world isn’t Sakusa Kiyoomi. It isn’t volleyball. It isn’t voices that keep him awake into the early hours of the morning. This is his world, right here. This cold glass of water as he tries to grasp multiple realities at once.
Dragging himself back into bed is a struggle. But he is not bombarded with a second wave of shattering loneliness. He drifts off relatively quickly, his eyelids heavy from crying.
(Sleep well, Atsumu. We’ll see you in your dreams.)
He dreams of warm hands, of a surgical mask pulled down around a chin, lips pressed against his. He dreams of green tea and coffee, of a driver’s license with a questionable existence. Curly black hair falling into his face in the morning as he wakes in a tangle of limbs, arms pulling him closer. He dreams of kissing the moles on shoulders and a forehead and watching pale skin bruise pink. A wide smile answering his own. He dreams he is happy.
He wakes up cold.