Chapter Text
Atsumu forgets sometimes, how lonely he used to be. Before he joined the MSBY Black Jackals, when he was just Miya Atsumu, Inarizaki High School heart-throb and half of The Miya Twins, adored by everyone yet not friends with many. All he really had for such a long time was Osamu and Aran, then slowly, Suna and Kita too. It was fine for a while, but eventually, especially after his failed attempt at a relationship in his third year, the dislike that radiated from everyone else started to affect him too much to be ignored, and the loneliness began to creep in.
He managed to escape school soon enough though and joining the MSBY team was quite possibly the best thing to happen to him, even if he was alone and had to adjust to life without his brother. He remembered, at least partially, how to block out the hatred from people that he didn’t know or care about, people that just didn’t matter. Then he met Meian, Inunaki, Tomas, and Barnes, and he re-met Bokuto, Shoyo, and Sakusa. Plus, he still had Osamu and Aran and Suna and Kita, even if they weren’t physically at his side anymore. It was nice. It was refreshing. The loneliness that he had grown so accustomed to had started to finally fade.
So, sometimes on occasion, Atsumu forgets how lonely he was. Though, it makes sense that it would come back into his life. And this time, it doesn’t creep in, no; it hits him like a train, so fast that he barely sees it coming, doesn’t have enough time to jump out of the way before it takes him with it.
He and the other three youngest members of the Jackals are in an interview with an evening talk show host, discussing their love lives and other dumb, typical stuff, for a charity hosting the event; it is white day tomorrow, after all, a day which will most definitely be spent by Atsumu locking himself away in his apartment before he goes to the shop the next day and buys all of the discounted chocolate.
The interviewer, Saito, who Atsumu honestly thinks is far nosier than she needs to be, has already asked Bokuto, Shoyo and Sakusa about their respective love lives, each of them responding with ease. Bokuto talks about the one he’s loved for years, Shoyo talks about his secret love from high school that he still hasn’t confessed to, and Sakusa recites the same phrase as always, saying that volleyball preoccupies his time and that he’s not bothered about dating right now, which is too bad, seeing as he’s that attractive. Atsumu’s ready to respond with the usual joke or pick-up line, but Saito catches him by surprise with her words.
“Miya-san, as we all know, you’re quite well known as the team’s ladies’ man; everyone’s obsessed with you!” she says it with a grin, then leans in. “However, as you must know, everyone’s dying to find out why those relationships never seem to stick, especially with white day coming up! Is there a reason why you’ve never, as far as we know, been in a long-term relationship?”
The question reminds him of nights after dates spent wondering why the other didn’t want another, like last week when he had taken a woman out for a meal, and then been told that maybe they wouldn’t work out. It reminds him of nights spent crying after being dumped or rejected by people he had started to really like, asking himself where he went wrong. Though, he usually tries to avoid thinking about any of that, if he can help it.
“Oh, y’know…” he waves a hand around as if it’s not a big deal, “I’ve had a couple more serious relationships or huge crushes, like most people do, but… it never really became love.” At least, not for them. “I mean, I may be incredibly funny and good at volleyball, but I’m not very easy to love.” Just saying it makes his stomach tie itself in knots.
Saito nods, more than satisfied with him giving a serious answer, and taps a finger to her chin. “Ah, so, we’ve got Bokuto Koutarou, devoted to a life with an unnamed individual, Hinata Shoyo, who loves everyone but has his heart set on someone from his past, Sakusa Kiyoomi, who currently cares only for volleyball, and Miya Atsumu, adored by all but loved by none. How interesting! You definitely are a wild bunch of very different people when it comes to love!”
Atsumu’s breath hitches in his throat, and her comment kind of pisses him off, but he tries his best to smile and laugh it off. She says that like he’s unlovable, and ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi, who currently cares only for volleyball’? That seems pretty rude too, he thinks. It’s not like Sakusa’s heartless, even if he is all reserved and stuff.
He doesn’t really listen to much else of what she has to say after that, deciding that he doesn’t really like her that much, and balls his hands into fists in his pockets.
‘Miya Atsumu, adored by all but loved by none.’
Oh, the memories that brings back. Atsumu can already hear the self-deprecating whispers inching up on him, but also the force with which anger tries so hard to push to the surface. He manages to hold it down until they get out of the interview, though, and meet back up with the rest of the team, who had been on the talk-show the previous night.
“That sure was something,” Meian grins when they walk over to their table in the bar.
“Yeah, something is a word for it,” Atsumu mutters, slumping down at the end of the table, next to Inunaki.
“Aw, are you sulking ‘cuz you couldn’t come up with a cool response to the interviewer in time?” he teases, nudging him in the side.
“She was just fuckin’ rude, that’s all,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Who the fuck presses someone about why they’re not in a long-term relationship?”
Tomas shrugs. “Maybe she was interested.”
Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Or she was trynna make me look like an idiot.”
Bokuto sits down at the end of the table, having pulled over a spare chair from somewhere else, and smiles sympathetically. “I don’t think she was doing that.”
Meian claps him on the back. “Come on, Atsumu; it was all for a good cause anyway. No need to be upset when you’re helping out a charity.”
Atsumu sits up a bit straighter, stiff and uncomfortable in his seat at their words which are just starting to piss him off further. “She said that no one loves me.”
Sakusa, from across the table, quirks an eyebrow, pouring some hand sanitiser onto his hands; he’s not even looking at Atsumu when he speaks. “Well technically, you’re the one who said no one loves you, and she just repeated that, and now you’re, what, mad? Because she said it back?”
Atsumu grips at the fabric inside the pockets of his team jacket, feeling his face turn red from both embarrassment and anger. What the fuck is up with them all?
“I thought you didn’t even care if people liked you,” Barnes questions, lifting his bottle of beer and taking a small swig.
“Yeah, you’ve said something like that to me before,” Inunaki adds on. “Why’s it bothering you so much?”
Atsumu looks between them, feels the eyes of his teammates on him, feels the eyes of the world from that interview, all hearing Saito-san say that he’s—
“You don’t get it,” he huffs out, trying to explain himself without losing his temper completely. “It’s one thing to say that like, I don’t care if people like me or not, but it’s kind of a whole other thing to be told that you’re unlovable. ‘Course I’m pissed off.”
He doesn’t understand how they’re not taking this seriously. It makes him feel sick. It feels like just from that one conversation, that one fucking line, he’s been branded. For the rest of his career, of his life, people will probably think of him as he’s always been seen by those around him, attractive and intriguing, but nothing more, nothing worth loving.
Sakusa shrugs, still not looking at him properly, seemingly too focused on cleaning the section of table that’s in front of him to actually put much thought into this conversation. “Well, you’re neither likeable nor loveable, so I don’t see what the big deal is,” he says it like it’s a joke, like it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe in different circumstances, Atsumu wouldn’t care that much, would just respond with his own insult and sticking his tongue out, but right now, the statement has his heart dropping and his eyes stinging.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Bokuto kick the leg of Sakusa’s chair, shaking his head. “That was too far, Sakkun.”
As Atsumu stands up from his seat, gritting his teeth to stop himself from crying in front of them all, Sakusa finally looks up. He meets his eyes. “Right, well, good to know what ya think. Go fuck yourself.” He swivels around on the ball of his foot and storms out of the bar, ignoring the call of his name.
Instead of going right back to the hotel they’re staying at, Atsumu decides he would rather avoid seeing anyone for the rest of the night, especially Sakusa, who he’s got the misfortune of sharing a room with, which is normally not as bad in other circumstances. Preferably, he would be curled up beneath all of his blankets and watching movies, pretending that he doesn’t exist at all to the outside world, like that interview and argument didn’t happen, but he’s not lucky enough for that, so he ends up going for a walk to clear his mind. The Tokyo night air is surprisingly gentle on his lungs, despite the cold that bites at his nose and fingertips.
He walks aimlessly down the streets for a while, hands still in his pockets, until he eventually puts his earphones in to listen to music when the distant shouts of other people having drunken fun becomes too much. He finds his way to a small, secluded park away from the hustle and bustle of the main city. There’s no one around, and the silence accompanied by the gentle music in his ears and the late winter, early spring breeze passing through makes the place feel almost like if he goes in, he won’t exist anymore. Just as it would be if he were at home alone. So, he walks in and sits on one of the swings, looking around at the houses lit up by streetlights. Most of the lights inside are off by now.
He pulls out his earphones, taking away the wordless movie soundtrack he’d been listening to, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath in. It’s silent, other than the occasional creak of metal from the swing. This is good. It feels like time has stopped here. Like he doesn’t have to care about loneliness or happiness or anything. He feels like he can just simply be, without really… being.
Atsumu remembers what it was like at school, with the whispers from – mainly – girls that he was attractive, but too loud, and all he cared about was volleyball, so there’s no point after the first date. He remembers the whispers from the boys that he was just a dumb show off, that it was a mystery how his teammates managed to put up with someone like him; they couldn’t last more than a couple of hours. Atsumu didn’t really ever tell anyone, too busy trying to not let their words affect him, but sometimes it felt like the team did hate him. Because they were right, Atsumu is loud and obnoxious at times, and he cares about volleyball more than most things – the keyword here being most. Sakusa’s right, too. He’s probably always been unlikeable, just as he’s always thought of himself as unlovable ever since his third year. It’s not the first time that he’s thought, if it weren’t for Osamu, he might not have any of his closest friends.
He doesn’t know how long he sits on that swing, trying to calm down and thinking over what Sakusa said, what his teammates said, what Saito-san said, but by the time he sets off back to the hotel, the remaining lights in the houses have all been switched off, and he can barely feel his fingers.
It takes him longer than it probably should to walk back to the hotel, partly because he’s just so cold, partly because he doesn’t want to risk Sakusa being awake, and partly because he gets lost. Mainly because he gets lost. But really, that’s not his fault! It’s not like he knows Tokyo front-to-back like Sakusa or Bokuto somehow do – he’s only been here a handful of times in his life, mainly for events; he doesn’t ever have much time to go sight-seeing.
When he finally arrives back at the hotel room, he pulls out his phone to check the time and winces when he sees that it’s past midnight. He unlocks the door as quietly as he can manage; Sakusa’s always grumpy when he gets woken up.
The lights are off when he tiptoes in, trying his best not to make any noise. Though, just as he sits down on the end of his bed, he hears shuffling and then the room is lighting up, one of the bedside lamps being turned on. He sighs and turns around to see his temporary roommate sitting up and looking at him.
“Where were you?” he asks, looking from the door to him.
Atsumu wishes he would have stayed asleep, or in his weird state of pretending to sleep. “None of your business, Omi-kun.” He leans over and rummages around in his bag for his shower stuff, and when he stands up, Sakusa is still watching him with a frown on his face. The yellow-orange light casts shadows over his skin, and his hair is a bit more tousled up than usual, as if maybe he tried to sleep but couldn’t stop tossing and turning. It reminds him a little of the dog he and Osamu got when they were in their mid-teens; she could never stay still when she was sleeping.
“You’re shivering.”
Atsumu rolls his eyes, because he’s still upset, not yet having quite reached the stage of just not caring about his dumb joke, and also because yeah, no shit, way to point out the obvious Omi-kun. “Yeah, that’s why I’m showering.” He walks over to the door leading to the bathroom and switches on the light inside, chucking the bottles he’s holding onto the floor of the shower with an accidental bang that makes even him wince.
“That’s not a safe way to defrost, Miya: the difference in temperature could cause you to pass out, or—”
Atsumu shuts the door, blocking off his voice completely. He doesn’t need his fake concern, or whatever the fuck he’s trying to do. It’s been made pretty obvious that he doesn’t give a single fuck how Atsumu feels, and that he doesn’t seem to like him at all.
He spends a while in the shower, with the temperature turned up too high so that the room is clouded with steam and his skin is burning and his head is so hot that he can’t think clearly. It makes him feel a little calmer though, like he’s somewhere safer than the cold, dark, lonely park that really just reminded him of days spent on his own in junior high, looking out the window after Osamu left for his own class in the next room over. None of the other kids in their class really wanted to talk to him; he was always… too much for them. Or not enough, maybe. It almost makes him laugh, now, how it seems that he never grew out of that.
When he walks out of the bathroom, carrying his clothes from the day, his fingers still cold and red, he sees Sakusa laying on his side, facing the wall. He can’t tell if he’s actually asleep this time or not.
There’s a small paper cup sitting next to Atsumu’s bed, steam rising from it; it smells like the usual shitty tea that you get in one of those shitty machines at hotels or car dealerships, but it makes his eyes sting just a little as he looks between it and Sakusa’s still body. Knowing him and his inability to ever say something nice or feelings related, he figures this is his way of apologising. And, also, maybe making sure that his setter doesn’t get hypothermia or pneumonia and die.
He plops himself down on his bed, pulls the duvet over his legs, then pulls his knees up to his chest and takes the cup of tea in his hands. It’s just the right warmth, probably from being left out for so long while Atsumu was in the shower, and it warms up his fingers just a little, which are still bright red from the late winter air.
He takes a sip, revelling in the warmth that instantly spreads through his body, even though it tastes like absolute shit, and then holds it in front of himself, staring down into the tea like it will answer all of his questions and fix all of his problems. He really does appreciate Sakusa going out of his way to get him this, even if he was all sneaky about it, and he does believe that he probably feels bad about what he said – he wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t, even if someone else told him to – but… he can’t help but wonder why he even said it in the first place.
‘Well, you’re neither likeable nor loveable, so.’ He really did say it casually, like he thought it was just a joke. But… it feels like him saying that means it should be obvious that Atsumu is unlikeable. The thought makes him feel sick. Does he really believe that? Did he do something bad that made him think that? Does the rest of the team think he’s difficult to like too? Their teasing sure did imply it, at least a little. But maybe he’s just being dumb.
‘I thought you didn’t even care if people liked you.’ He’s never really outwardly said that to any of them, other than maybe in passing when he was talking to Inunaki after one of their earlier matches together, which means that they must have picked up on that fact themselves. Does that mean he’s done or said something particularly rude that made everyone think that he didn’t care what they thought of him? Because he does. He does care about what they think. He cares about what any of his friends think.
The MSBY team means so much more to him than his classmates ever did, when they made him feel alone and isolated and disliked. He feels so much closer to his current team, and he had thought of them all as friends; they make him feel… less alone. Moving to Osaka where he didn’t know anyone, after sharing a bedroom with Osamu for 18 years, was terrifying, but the team made him feel better, especially with people like Bokuto and Shoyo there. Even his dumb little competitions with Sakusa have helped. But none of that really matters much if they’ve never actually liked him.
He blinks, ridding himself of the feeling that’s been building in his throat, as if he’s holding back tears, and gulps down the rest of his tea. He just needs to be a better friend then, maybe do more for them all. He can do that. He can be more vocal with his appreciation for them. Maybe he’s really just being too sensitive, overthinking the situation, but… well, he might not be the nicest person out there, but he never wanted to make any of his teammates upset or angry or worse, uncomfortable, with him. He doesn’t even want to risk that being a possibility.
He turns off the lamp and lays down with the decision made in his mind to at least watch a few of his teammates’ old games, see if there’s anything he can do better when it comes to volleyball – though, he doubts that, seeing as he’s a God at the sport – and see if there’s anything he can do outside of that; maybe he should research Sakusa’s germ thing a bit more. He doesn’t want any of them to think he’s unlikeable. Not anymore. He doesn’t want to be alone like he was before.
The next morning, Atsumu packs up his things without saying much to Sakusa, not wanting to bother him or get in his way, and just not really wanting to talk to anyone either. He’s not as angry and upset as he was last night, but his brain is still kind of on overdrive, and he honestly just wants to get home and hide himself away for the weekend, watching old matches and movies, until they go back to practice on Tuesday. But they’ve still got breakfast and the train ride home, so he takes a deep breath, leaving his packed bags on his bed, and heads down to the dining hall where most of his other teammates are. Sakusa’s still in their room, silently getting his things together.
Meian waves him over to the table, and Atsumu, with hesitance, walks over to them; he had been hoping he could maybe just grab something to eat and then run back upstairs, so that he didn’t have to talk to them. So long to that plan.
“Mornin’,” he says, trying a smile on his face as he sits down next to Bokuto.
“Sleep well?” Meian asks, and he nods, not really meeting his eyes.
“I waited up for you, but it got to half eleven and Hinata was falling asleep in the lobby, so we went back to our room,” Bokuto says, smiling at him before swallowing down a spoonful of his cereal. Oh. That makes Atsumu’s heart pull at him a bit. Thank every God out there for Bokuto and Shoyo.
“Yeah, I was out for a bit. Was just getting’ some fresh air,” as he says it, he wishes he had grabbed something to drink or eat before coming over, just so that he would have something to do with his hands. He pushes them into his hoodie pocket.
Inunaki and Barnes look between themselves, then at Meian, then back to Atsumu; the former speaks first, looking sheepish with his twiddling thumbs and slightly pink face. “Hey, Atsumu, we’re really sorry about what we said last night.”
Huh?
“We had some drinks down us already, so we weren’t in our right minds, and we weren’t thinking properly about how you were probably feeling,” Barnes adds on, and he really does look guilty, making an effort to keep his eyes on Atsumu to show that he’s being sincere.
“Not that being drunk is an excuse,” Meian says, and with the three of them looking at him like that, he feels like he’s being ganged up on. But, like, in a good way, somehow. He didn’t think they would apologise. It makes him feel a little lighter, a little better. They do care.
He’s not really used to getting apologies. Growing up, whenever he and Osamu fought, they always made up by playing a videogame, or doing something for the other, or playing volleyball together and re-syncing; they only ever said sorry when it was a really big argument. And, well, what happened last night wasn’t an argument exactly, just some teasing that struck him too far in his heart.
He smiles at them, feeling a bit more hopeful about the long train ride back. “It’s— that’s alright. Thanks, for thinking about that, and like, apologising.”
“That interviewer was rude anyway,” Tomas comments, tapping his fingers on the table in a random rhythm.
Shoyo nods, looking up from where he had been paying close attention to his slice of toast – Atsumu’s not sure if it’s a good idea that he’s got Nutella on it, seeing as he’s going to be stuck on a train for the next few hours. “Yeah, she was kinda nosey. Like, she kept bugging me about who I like, even though it was obvious I didn’t wanna give a name.”
Bokuto sits up a little straighter, bobbing his head. “Yeah! Me too!”
Atsumu grins, turning to look at Bokuto. “I think if anyone saw you with Keiji-kun, they would probably know you two were in love, though, Bokkun.”
His ever-permanent smile gets smaller, but more genuine, and he shrugs. “Yeah, but the whole world isn’t gonna see us together, so until we’re ready to make our relationship known, I don’t want a random interviewer pressing me about it.”
Huh. Sometimes Atsumu forgets how emotionally mature his friend has become over the years, especially considering how he was in high school; he remembers hearing about Bokuto Koutarou’s infamous emo mode.
Meian gives him a thumbs up, smiling with a hint of understanding. “Yep, it gets real annoying. My wife and I didn’t tell the public about us until we were getting married.”
Bokuto’s eyes widen, his smile dropping ever so slightly, before he shoots up from his seat. “Well, it’s not like I’m getting married to Keiji anytime soon! ANYWAY, I HAVE TO PEE!”
Atsumu watches him go with a raised eyebrow. That’s… weird. That was suspicious. He thinks about calling out to him, but he’s already too far away, running off to his hotel room. He’ll talk to him about it sometime later, then.
Once they’re on the train and heading back to Osaka, Atsumu doesn’t talk much to anyone, too tired after losing sleep last night, spending too much time thinking about love and like and everything in between. Occasionally, Bokuto or Shoyo poke him to get his opinion on whatever they’re talking about, but other than that they mostly leave him to himself, listening to music and staring out the window at fast passing fields.
He heads back home instantly once they get off at the station, waving goodbye to the others, and as soon as he’s in his apartment, he throws his bag down on the floor beside his bed, deciding he can unpack later. He takes a shower in an attempt to wash away the awful energy of the past few days before changing into his pyjamas, then retreats to the couch in the living room, dragging his duvet with him and some other extra blankets, too. Next, he grabs his laptop, his collection of Ghibli DVDs, and the old notepad that sits on his coffee table, filled with notes from research he had done when he had first joined the team, and then when the newer members had joined after him; it always helped him to write out the best moves or their preferred sets, anything that would help them sync up more.
He grabs Ponyo and shoves it in the old DVD player that he barely ever uses, one of his favourites of the more light-hearted Ghibli movies – though, My Neighbour Totoro is up there as well – and then opens up the notepad, ready to look through some of the prewritten notes, maybe add some stuff. It’s not that he thinks his volleyball particularly needs much practice or change, because that’s the one thing he’s always been comfortable in, but it can’t hurt to take a look at it and try out some new things: that’s how you get better. Plus, it will hopefully work as a good distraction, from the loneliness he felt as soon as he stepped into his flat, dark and quiet and empty, and from the homesick feeling that’s buried itself in his gut: have somewhere he could go to and pretend, just for a moment, that he’s not still hurting. Maybe it could even distract him from the general nauseous feeling that’s been building in his stomach and throat since last night which had only died down a little after breakfast this morning. From the memory, too, that he had stored away in the back of his mind years ago, desperately trying to claw its way back to the surface, to make him feel even worse about himself: even more unlovable than any of his random old classmates or Saito could ever make him feel. Basically, he’s got a lot that he’s really hoping to just avoid.
So, he runs a hand through his hair, pressing play on the movie and readying a pen in case he wants to change or add to his volleyball notes, all prepared for his weekend to be spent here on this couch. And then he gets a call from Osamu.
He sighs, but picks up anyway, knowing that things will just be worse for him if he ignores it. “Hey.” He pauses the movie.
“You didn’t answer my texts, fuckface,” Osamu says in lieu of a greeting. “Normally I wouldn’t give a shit, but….”
Atsumu frowns, pulling his phone away from his ear and opening up their last conversation; sure enough, there are six new messages.
Dumb Idiot Osamu: Hey you good?
Dumb Idiot Osamu: I just watched the interview
Dumb Idiot Osamu: That lady was way outta pocket
Dumb Idiot Osamu: Tsumu
Dumb Idiot Osamu: You better not be dead idiot
Dumb Idiot Osamu: Wait no scratch that I don’t care
Atsumu puts the phone back up to his ear. “Sorry, I didn’t see ‘em. I was out late and slept a lot of the train ride back.”
“Out late doing what?”
He presses himself up against the arm of the sofa, pulling his knees to his chest and pulling his duvet even tighter around him. “Went for a walk to clear my head. Got back at like, midnight or something. Was too cold to sleep well.” It’s not a lie, just… a half truth.
Osamu sighs, but it doesn’t sound too exasperated or anything, so he takes it as a half-win. “It’s too cold for people to be out that late. I know for a fact ya probably didn’t have a coat either, dumbass.”
Atsumu sticks out his tongue, even though his brother can’t see him. “I was— am fine. Stop acting like Mama.”
“Fine, my ass,” he mumbles. He stays quiet for a few seconds, and Atsumu knows he’s thinking through his words. “I watched the interview this morning, since I couldn’t catch it live. That lady knows nothing about you. Like, she probably doesn’t know how much of an idiot you are, and that all you can cook is a basic meal of rice.”
“Shut the fuck up. I like my rice meals,” he defends, looking down at where his page of Sakusa-related notes is waiting for him. “You literally make rice dishes for a living. Plus, you’re just jealous ya don’t have instant ramen in your diet.”
Osamu lets out a noise that sounds almost disgusted, just at the thought of it. “I’m really not. I just make nice, fresh ramen.” He sounds way too smug about that, the asshole. “Also, my onigiri is godly, you’ve said it yourself. Plus, I cook other things, too.”
“Shut it. I bet you miss the… instantness of it; home-made ramen takes way too long,” he argues, really just to distract him from bringing up the interview and trying to talk about it in depth. He doesn’t want to think about it right now; he would much rather ignore it all in general. Though, he does appreciate Osamu taking it all seriously. It makes sense, seeing as he’s one of the only people that has seen first-hand what being unlovable can do to Atsumu, but still. It means more than it should, which is absolutely disgusting because Osamu sucks and Atsumu should not be thinking about how glad he is that he has him as his brother.
“You gotta trust the process,” Osamu says, and he almost sounds at peace saying it. What a loser.
He repeats the thought aloud. “You’re a loser.”
There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. “Seriously, though, ‘Tsumu, she doesn’t know anything about you.”
Atsumu sighs, looking down at his hands now picking at the stray strings of his hoodie, fingers which were still red and cold even after his shower last night, only going back to normal after holding the hot cup of tea that Sakusa left out for him for a while. “I know.”
“You better. Anyway, what’re ya doing now?”
Atsumu shifts slightly, still holding his research notepad. “’Bout to spend the weekend watching movies and doing work. I wanna be more…” likeable, “I want to make sure that I’m being the best teammate I can be. Y’know, give ‘em the sets they need, and be… cool… without making it too easy for them. If they want me to keep giving them my best sets, then they need to stretch themselves and work hard for it.”
“You’re a dick, y’know that?” Osamu says, and despite it hitting him a little harder than normal, Atsumu’s more than used to hearing this shit from him, and he knows he doesn’t really mean it. It doesn’t hurt as much as it would to hear it from, say, Meian.
“Well lucky you, I’ll tell Omi-kun that you guys have something in common,” he says, and it’s meant to come off as a joke, but it bites at his chest slightly.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. He just… said something similar. It’s fine. I know how to take an insult,” he rushes, smiling big even though there’s no one there to see it. Maybe he can fool himself. “I do have to go, though. Gotta get started, yeah? Oh, also, can you ask Sunarin to ask Komori if he knows what Omi-kun’s germ thing is called?”
Osamu doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then, “Yeah, sure. Don’t overdo it.”
Atsumu gives him a noise of affirmation, then says his goodbye and hangs up.
About an hour later, he gets a text from Komori saying hello and answering his question. Mysophobia. He adds it to the list of things to look into.
True to his word, Atsumu spends the next two days or so rewatching movies he’s already seen hundreds of times and occasionally filling out his notepad, working out different plays in his head that he could try out with the team – practicing new moves means that they’ll have more time to spend together and therefore more time for him to prove himself – as well as other little things that he could do to maybe make his teammates feel more comfortable around him. Specifically, Sakusa.
He pretty quickly finds out from articles and blog posts that he’s not been going about things too badly, and most of the things that he did wrong when Sakusa first joined the team, he had stopped doing after a couple of weeks, like pointing out his strange habits: for example, how even after he washes his hands, he usually puts on hand sanitiser too if they’re in a public place.
After looking at DOs and DON’Ts articles, he moves onto websites where people shared their own experiences with the phobia, trying to link some of their difficulties or fears with things he’s seen happen to Sakusa. He also looks into things that they have said made them feel more welcome or comfortable, even small things like having friends wash their hands the same way they do, or put sanitiser on when they do, just so that they know that they’re doing it right.
It’s only after he’s closed all of his google tabs and is considering the notes he’s taken, that Atsumu realises that maybe he should have done this when Sakusa first joined the team, instead of solely looking up his previous matches. He should have been more accommodating, more considerate, but he’s trying now, and that’s got to count for something. He keeps repeating it in his head, how much he wants this team to like him and call him their friend, knowing that it will help motivate him.
So, on Tuesday morning, he wakes up, maybe running on a little less sleep than usual but still feeling alright, and heads to practice. This is going to be okay. They’ve got a week until their practice match against the EJP Raijins. That’s plenty of time to work on himself and show the Jackals that he can be likeable.
The first thing that happens once he gets to the gym and into the changing rooms is Bokuto bombarding him with photos of him and Akaashi from their date on White Day; after they got back from Tokyo, he took Akaashi to a massive bookstore that he’s always wanted to go to but couldn’t find the time for. Hearing it makes Atsumu embarrassingly emotional, but Bokuto doesn’t like reading all that much, and he still took his boyfriend to go read anyway. Most of the photos he’s shown, however, are from after the bookstore, where they had gone to a private hot spring in the mountains; the view really is beautiful but seeing the two of them looking at each other with so much love is better. A disgusting feeling of jealousy curls itself around his heart, but he tries to ignore it. He’s happy for them.
Next, Shoyo runs in and scolds him for not responding to any of his texts over the weekend because apparently, he thought he had died on the way home or something, until he had managed to contact Osamu to make sure that he was, in fact, alive. Atsumu has the decency to at least feel a bit bad for disappearing without saying anything, so he scratches at the back of his neck and apologises, saying he had a phone detox over the weekend – which technically isn’t a lie, per se. Though, he would be lying if he were to say that he doesn’t feel a little validation at the fact that Shoyo noticed and cared that he had gone silent.
After that, Atsumu gets changed and heads out, following Bokuto and Shoyo who are shouting about hitting spikes and practicing receives. The three of them join Sakusa for warm-ups.
“Omi-kun, good to see you looking so cheerful today,” he grins, sitting down beside him but leaving enough room so that he’s not popping his personal space bubble or anything.
Sakusa, who is really not looking any different to usual, turns to him, deadpan. “Good to see you looking like you’re not on your deathbed.”
Atsumu presses a hand to his heart, jolting backwards as if he’s been shot. “Ouch, Omi-kun, as if I don’t look amazing every day.”
He rolls his eyes and turns his head back to focus on stretching his freaky wrists. Atsumu, Bokuto and Shoyo watch with mild fascination, even after all this time of seeing it most days each week.
“Just so you know, I’ve been working on some stuff, so make sure you stretch real good today, you three. You’re gonna have to work hard,” Atsumu says when he stands up a few minutes later, finishing up his stretches and starting to walk over to Meian and Foster to see if they’ll actually have time to practice spikes, or sets, in his case.
“We always work hard, Atsumu-san,” Shoyo says with a thumbs up and a grin, obviously excited to see how today’s practice will differ to how it usually goes.
They start the day off with serving practice for a while, in which Atsumu works on his hybrid serve, and then move onto spiking and receiving; he grabs his water and approaches Bokuto and Shoyo.
“Hey, Shoyo, I’m gonna try sending you higher, faster tosses, okay?” he says, eyeing him as he lowers the bottle from his mouth. While watching an old match, he’d remembered that when Shoyo had first joined the team and they had been syncing up, Atsumu had fumbled with his set slightly and the ball was too high – or that’s what he thought, until Shoyo managed to jump higher than normal in order to hit it. They hadn’t tried it out again, because he’d said that he hadn’t stretched enough that day, so he probably shouldn’t keep doing it today, but now… well, Atsumu planned ahead. His usual spike may only be a little lower, but against the right blockers, just a couple of inches in height could really save them.
His eyes light up, like maybe he’s remembering it too – that, or he’s just excited to show off his freaky jump height. “Oooo, is that why you wanted me to do extra training?”
“Mhm,” he nods, then turns to Bokuto. “Also, Bokkun, I bet ya could put a bit more force on your spikes.”
He almost looks offended, slouching slightly. “Mean, Tsum-Tsum. Did you not see the spike I hit last week?”
“Yeah, I did, it was pretty sick,” he compliments, then directs a more challenging look at him. “What I wanna know is why you’re not hitting spikes like that all the time.”
Bokuto’s face turns into a competitive grin to match his own and slams his water bottle down on the bench, jumping over to the net, already wanting break to be over. “HAH! I’ll show you, Tsum-Tsum!”
Atsumu laughs, just a little, as Shoyo jumps over to join him, mimicking spiking motions as he does so.
“You better not start criticising me,” Sakusa says suddenly from his side, and Gods, that scares the absolute shit out of him. He didn’t even see him walk over.
He shrugs. “Nah, but I’m gonna send you higher tosses. I saw one of your—” he cuts himself off before he can out himself for spending so much time researching his teammates. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the act, but… it feels kind of embarrassing. “I saw you jump higher than normal last week, so I thought why not keep that up?”
Sakusa narrows his eyes at him slightly as he lowers his water bottle and places it down a few inches away from all the rest, but he doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to just stare at him. It makes an itch run down Atsumu’s spine, but he just stares back with a raised eyebrow.
“You’re being weird today,” he says after what feels like minutes of just intense staring. He’s being weird?
The statement forms a lump in his throat; he tries to laugh it off. “I’ve barely talked to you today, Omi-kun. How?” Is it a bad or a good thing that he can tell he’s been different? Does he mean ‘weird’ in a good way or a bad way? It sounds like a bad way… but why? He’s trying to be considerate. Plus, he’s being serious when he says that they’ve barely interacted today.
He tries to shake off the slight panic building in him. Sakusa’s always been overly observant and aware of his surroundings; it makes sense that he would maybe notice a change in Atsumu’s behaviour. Plus, Mama’s always said that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Still though, he thought he was doing a good job at being subtle, by being quieter than normal as not to annoy anyone. Yeah, okay, so maybe during his serving practice he kept messing up and getting overly frustrated because he was caught up in the thought of what it would mean for him if he were suddenly unlikeable, unlovable, and bad at volleyball. But seriously, he’s still been mostly like his normal self, other than putting a bit more thought into his actions and trying to be more forward in his niceties. Is he that much of a dick that Sakusa’s noticed already?
He keeps his eyes on him for another few moments before he shakes his head and turns around. Atsumu can’t really help but watch as he walks away, twisting his wrists as he goes to stretch them a little more, but before he can overthink the interaction any more than he already has, Foster calls them over to the court and he gets into position. It goes pretty well, he thinks, with him adjusting his sets slightly as he had promised and examining his teammates’ expressions, giving them pointers and compliments. He holds the doors open for Sakusa so that he doesn’t have to touch the handles or anything and waits to shower until he’s finished – which he’s always done, but still, he wonders if he appreciates it – and discusses their upcoming practice match with Meian and Barnes while they change. When they all leave for the day, he feels good about himself; he did well, and everyone seemed happy with him.
The next few days continue to go pretty well for him, with Atsumu listening to everyone more and trying to do more for them, occasionally saying less when he feels like he’s talking too much. He pays more attention to his teammates, looking at what makes them happy, what sets they like best, and also what sets make them play the best. He’s been okay this week, he thinks, and everyone’s continued to seem happy in his presence, too – or, well, everyone but Sakusa.
He tries not to think too deeply about it, but it does kind of suck, especially because he’s been doing more for him than he has for the others on the team. It’s not even that he cares about doing it, because it takes no effort to wash his hands a little longer than usual, matching Sakusa’s pace and movements, and he really doesn’t mind paying extra attention to the space in between them, making sure that he’s not too close; he’s also not too bothered about talking a little less around him every now and then, just so that he doesn’t annoy him any further – honestly, sometimes the silence is comforting, especially when Sakusa seems to be at peace around him. So, yeah, he doesn’t really give one about it all, but he would’ve at least thought that all of that would maybe make him a bit happier. Obviously not, though.
He keeps looking at Atsumu as if he’s done something wrong, giving him the same narrow-eyed look continuously, similar to his expression when he’d told him he was acting weird the other day. Which he’s not. If anything, he would say that he’s being less weird. He’s tried to spend less time sulking – which he leaves for the nights when he’s lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling – and instead has practiced more, joked around with his teammates more; he even stayed behind longer after practice to help clean up. Honestly, he doesn’t mind that at all, either. He likes doing these little things, he’s realised, even if they’re rooted in a slight hatred for himself. Though, him reading that dumb WikiHow article on how to be more likeable was a mistake, and definitely a marker for a low point in his life; he’d deleted it from his search history almost instantly.
He can’t quite explain why Sakusa’s opinion towards him seems to matter more than everyone else – the only explanation that comes to him is that annoying intrusive thought that he’s been having for months now, that he likes his spiker, which, just, no, he doesn’t – but it’s starting to stress him out, not being good enough for him. Or whatever.
So, after they miss the last point in their match against Bokuto, Meian, Tomas, and Inunaki, he turns to Sakusa, a smile on his face. “Sorry, Omi-kun, that one was definitely my fault.” He scratches the back of his neck, an old nervous habit of his. “Is there, like, anything you think I should do different? Y’know, like, go further from the net, go higher, whatever.”
Sakusa looks almost disgusted at the question, like Atsumu’s insulted him by even saying it. He looks at him like he’s a whole other person, which seriously, he doesn’t get. He’s trying to be more considerate, so why does he look like that? “You’re still being weird.”
Atsumu frowns. How? “I don’t think I am, Omi. For real, will ya tell me if you want something done different?”
Sakusa, eyes once again narrowed, looks him up and down, then towards Bokuto and Hinata who are watching them curiously, then back to him, and promptly turns around to join the others are taking a break and drinking their water. “No.”
No?! What the— “Uh, Omi, I don’t—”
“No,” Sakusa repeats, like it’s simple; he’s obviously decided he’s not saying anything else on the matter, which is really fucking annoying.
“I think what Omi-san means,” Shoyo pipes in, looking almost sheepish, “is that you normally don’t ask us what set we want. Like… you just do it, because you know we can rise to your expectations; it’s actually super reassuring! So, this is just… strange, I guess.”
But… “But I thought you guys would prefer if I was more considerate. Y’know, didn’t boss you around and shit. How is that weird or strange or whatever?”
Bokuto frowns, but doesn’t say anything, so Shoyo replies again. “Well, I guess it’s just not what we’re used to.” He laughs slightly, and honestly, this whole interaction is starting to make Atsumu feel uncomfortable. He’d thought he was doing the right thing. There’s no way that him being considerate is being taken as a bad thing. He literally refuses to accept it. There must be something else he’s doing that’s ticked Sakusa off, something that even Shoyo and Bokuto haven’t been able to figure out.
He takes a deep breath to calm himself, shrugs because he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say in response to that, and goes to practise his serves. He’s tired, but there’s still a while left of practice, so he might as well keep working as hard as he can and find solace in the distraction that is repeatedly serving balls to the ground; there’s no way he’s letting Suna win at their practice match.
Over the next couple of days, Atsumu continues to try out different moves with his teammates, and even though some of it goes wrong, he finds that it only really pushes him to work harder, to be better. So, he keeps going, keeps trying to be more considerate of Sakusa’s mysophobia, keeps trying to be nicer and more likeable. Because for as long as he’s working on not being unlikeable, he doesn’t have to think about being unlovable.
He spends the weekend trying his best to relax, desperately attempting to avoid the thoughts that fight in his mind, telling him that he’s never really been good enough for anyone, and he probably won’t ever be. He hates this. Caring about people’s perception of him, thinking too much about what happened in his third year of high school, the last time he let himself feel strong emotions for someone. He knows that it’s pointless dreaming of being in love when it’s so likely that no one will ever love him back; someone would have to be crazy to want to be in a relationship with him.
He manages to distract himself mostly on Sunday by going over to watch a Disney movie at Bokuto’s apartment with Shoyo, Inunaki, and even Sakusa, who shocked everyone when he agreed to go. It’s nice, and it makes Atsumu feel good that he was invited along, but as soon as he’s back home, he just feels tired and worn out, so he goes straight to bed.
By the time Monday rolls around, greeting him with grey skies and a day of practice, Atsumu’s tired, the bags under his eyes probably worryingly obvious. It’s not even that he spent that much time obsessing over his sad little life, but sleeping is pretty hard anyway for him sometimes. All of his energy and thoughts sometimes gets built up inside of him and he feels like he’s about to explode. He spent the first quarter of the night knitting. The second quarter, he got caught up in a YouTube spiral.
The day, surprisingly, starts out pretty well, with them going from serve practice, in which his hybrid serve is finally starting to get more ins than outs, to receives, and then to a 4-on-4 match, where things go downhill. He just can’t get into the game and he keeps fumbling his sets – he really shouldn’t have stayed up until 3am watching those dumb Super Nanny Best Moments videos.
Sakusa keeps eyeing him with a look of what he thinks is anger, but maybe… something else? It’s unclear. Meian looks concerned. Atsumu ignores both of them and just keeps trying to focus on the ball and getting it to the right place. He’s just really fucking tired.
It feels like forever until practice finishes, but by the end of it, Atsumu’s ready to just sink into his bed and never leave it. After some questioning from Coach Foster about what’s up with him – he tells him that it’s nothing – he heads to the showers, spending way longer in there than necessary, just letting the hot water soak through his skin, taking away the tense feeling in his muscles a little.
When he finally gets out of the shower everyone’s gone, and one look out of the window tells him that the sky is pouring with rain; he probably should have picked up on that this morning when he saw the colour of the sky. He doesn’t have an umbrella.
He sighs, getting changed into the t-shirt and jeans he had on this morning when he left his apartment, and takes comfort in the sound of the rain hitting against the window. He actually enjoys being the last one in the locker rooms; it gives him time to just breathe after practice before he has to go back out into the world. Though, he figures that if he stays here much longer, the rain will just get worse. So, he grabs his bag and pulls it over his shoulder, then sets off, the rain hitting against his skin and soaking through his clothes. It’s cold.
As he walks, his thoughts drift off into the back of his head, as they often do when he’s left on his own, and he can’t help but wonder if his poor performance today made his teammates annoyed. It’s dumb, he knows it is, and he really isn’t as upset as he was the night of the interview, and they’ve all seemed pretty happy with him, but… even before all of this, he would occasionally get lost in the feeling of being hated by everyone. He feels trapped, sometimes, like he’s back at school and is surrounded by the whispers of his peers talking about how much he is, how he’s difficult to get along with and honestly not worth it half the time. Atsumu was – is – a star when it came to volleyball, and he was – is – always adored on the court or in photos, but not so much when he started – starts – talking. Too much volleyball, too much family, too much competition. Not enough compliments, not enough hobbies, not enough… well. Not enough.
He sighs, pushing a hand through his hair; it stays stuck to his scalp, already so wet from the rain even though he’s only halfway to his apartment.
Atsumu just wasn’t ever enough for most people. He wants so badly to be enough for them, for these people. He wants to be liked outside of pretty photos, outside of his abilities on the court. He knows the only things he really does is play volleyball, go on walks, doodles when he’s bored, and knits – people always have a hard time believing that one, not that he tells anyone other than his family and closest friends – but… does that make him boring? He likes talking to people, he would talk to someone all day long if they wanted to, whether that’s him making the conversation, or him just listening to someone else. He likes getting out of the house and taking in the fresh air and the world around him, sometimes taking photos on his phone of pretty things like a bird taking flight or a flower in full bloom. He likes watching movies, getting to know different characters and different worlds and trying to understand who they are, what they came from.
Would people like talking to him more if he was more? If he were into baking, and reading, and videogames? If he were more like Shoyo, or Bokuto, or Osamu? If he weren’t so honest, or obvious about his emotions, or invested in volleyball? He’d never thought about it so much before, but there’s a certain phrase running through his head that he’d tried to block out years ago. He tries to block it out now. It’s not working very well.
He takes a step forward and rain splashes at the bottom of his jeans, but he still feels trapped in his mind, as if he’s locked in a cage surrounded by tinted glass, and he can’t really see through it, can’t look at the world clearly anymore; everything seems distorted and off colour and confusing. It makes him feel sick.
It takes him far longer than it usually does to get home, and by the time he’s unlocked the door and is inside, he’s soaked to the bone. He takes another shower, just as an attempt to warm up, and then hides under his blankets, seeking the warmth. Hopefully if he sleeps, he’ll stop thinking so hard about all of this.
Waking up the next morning is quite possibly the worst thing Atsumu has ever done. As soon as his alarm goes off and his eyes open, his head is pounding and his vision swimming, like he’s anaemic and has just stood up or something. He doesn’t know how anaemia works.
He starts to yawn, covering his eyes with his duvet to block out the light, but then he just starts coughing, and he realises with frustration that he is definitely sick.
Thank you, rain. Really fucking appreciate that.
He considers calling up Foster and telling him that he probably shouldn’t come in today, because he knows that if Kita were there, he would send him home immediately, probably with a little care bag of snacks and medicine and— Gods, he misses him. And Aran. And Suna. And Osamu. So yes, he does consider it. But then he remembers that it’s the practice match today, and that he actually gets to see Suna, and he’ll be given the chance to wipe the smug grin off his face, one that he’s seen every time they’ve face-timed over the last couple of weeks, talking about how EJP will definitely beat them. There’s no way Atsumu’s letting him get away easy after that.
So, he pushes himself out of bed and gets himself a glass of water and an energy bar; it doesn’t help much, but it definitely takes away the pain in his throat at least a little bit. He really doesn’t feel that bad. If he thought it was anything super serious, he wouldn’t go, if not for his own sake, then for Sakusa: he doesn’t want to go in and give his spiker a panic attack.
The whole team is already in the changing room when he finally gets there, having run late due to his search for a mask – he knew there was a box of them in his cupboard by the door – so he hurries to his locker with an apology for being late. He doesn’t even realise the room has gone quiet until he’s sitting on the bench, pulling out his change of clothes from his bag.
He looks up and sees them all staring at him. “What?” he croaks out.
Meian’s eyebrows form a little crease in between them. “Since when did you apologise for being late?”
“Since when were you ever even late?” Inunaki pipes in, looking at him with the same expression.
“Huh?” he blurts out, then realises that they’re not wrong. “I was just, uh, tryin’ to be… nice?”
Barnes looks at Inunaki, then back to Atsumu. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Are you sick? You know you have to be careful, Atsumu-san! You don’t want to get a fever like I did in my first year,” Shoyo says, looking at him with worry in his big fucking eyes. Atsumu turns his head and sees Sakusa taking a not-so-subtle step away from him, eyes narrowed. Somehow, it’s different to all the other looks he’s given him.
“I’m fine, it’s just a tiny cold,” he says, trying to reassure him. He points to the mask covering his mouth and nose. “I’ll keep this on until the very last second before the match, okay? Also, look what I bought on my way here!” He pulls out a bottle of sanitiser from his bag and squirts it onto his hands, rubbing it in carefully, and then up his arms too. “There, now I won’t get any germs on the ball, right?” He smiles up at him, even though the mask covers it.
Sakusa watches him for a moment, already changed and ready to leave the room. His eyes flick from the bottle of sanitiser to Atsumu’s face, then takes his wrist in his hand and starts absentmindedly stretching it. “That’s not really how it works. You shouldn’t be pushing yourself if you’re sick, anyway.” He looks more relaxed, though.
Tomas nods. “You should be more careful.”
He rolls his eyes, trying to laugh them off. “I’m fine, guys, seriously. Geez, you’re all acting like my mama, worryin’ over me and stuff.”
Meian sighs, though not harshly, and turns back around to his locker to grab his shirt and pull it on. “You seem to have a habit of not properly taking care of yourself, Atsumu. We kind of have to mother you.”
Atsumu feels a slight spike of guilt at that, not wanting to burden them, but he tries to swallow it down. He’s just making a big deal out of nothing again. “Aw, Meian, I’m gonna start calling you mama now.”
His captain shivers and the rest of the team laughs, going back to their previous tasks. The only person that seems to still be keeping their eye on Atsumu is Sakusa, who’s still frowning.
“Aw, Omi-kun, are ya worried about me?” he coos, clasping his hands together in front of his chest and fluttering his eyelashes.
He looks him up and down again, pulling at his own wrist. “You’re an idiot, Miya.”
Oh. Atsumu tries to stay where he is, even though he wants to lean in closer. He doesn’t like the large distance between them. “Sorry, Omi, I didn’t mean to make fun of you. I swear, it’s not that bad. Just a bit of a sore head and throat. You’ll be fine.”
At that, Sakusa’s eyebrows raise a little, like he’s surprised that he’s pushing the fact. Though, he can’t quite tell if that’s a good or a bad thing, because he’s pretty sure that even before this whole self-improvement thing, he would’ve tried to reassure him of that anyway.
“Aw, come on, Omi-kun, are you really that surprised by me being nice?” he cries, trying to play it off as a joke. He really does want to know the answer.
He stares at him for a few more seconds, and he honestly doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer, until he speaks up. “No, not at all. And I know I’ll be fine. You’re just… confusing.” Not at all? Confusing? What?
Atsumu smiles at him, shrugging. “Well, Omi-Omi, I would say the same about you.” He pulls off his shirt and switches it for his gym one; his vision only sways a little with the movement. “You’re not exactly the easiest guy to read.”
Sakusa lets out a small puff of air, looking away from him. He can’t tell if it’s meant to be a laugh or a sigh. “Do you have to use that nickname every time you address me?”
Atsumu’s smile widens; he honestly hadn’t even realised that he did that. He shrugs. “I just like the sound of it, Omi Omi Omi Omi Om—”
“Okay, I get it,” Sakusa cuts him off, then pauses for a moment, still watching him, before turning around. “Unlike last week, you really do look like you’re on your deathbed today, though, Miya.” He leaves the room before Atsumu can attempt to shout back an insult of his own.
“Oi, Atsumu, you look like shit,” is the first thing Suna says when Atsumu walks out of the changing room and into the gym. He was standing next to Sakusa and Komori, but obviously decided that making fun of Atsumu would be even better.
“Shut the fuck up,” he groans, nudging him lightly, and as annoying as it is that insulting him was his first thought, Atsumu’s glad to see him. It’s nice, seeing someone that he knows for sure does actually like him.
Suna considers him, looking at him a bit more carefully, then frowns. “Seriously, you look like actual shit. Are you good?”
Atsumu can’t help but slouch slightly, feeling as though he doesn’t need to put up a front when he’s with him. “Do I seriously look that bad?”
“Yes. You’re avoiding the question.”
He sighs. “I didn’t sleep much… the last few nights. Also, I caught a cold from the rain yesterday.”
“Well, good to know you feel just how you look, then,” Suna says. Then, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why haven’t you been sleeping?”
Oh. Well. Atsumu may trust Suna almost as much as he does Osamu, but that is too embarrassing to voice aloud to anyone. Especially surrounded by both of their teams, who could potentially overhear him say ‘I realised that I’m actually a massive fucking dickwad and I’ll probably be alone forever, and the thought of it has really been keeping me up at night.’ So, he just settles with a shrug and looks over to where Sakusa and Komori are talking, the latter laughing loudly while the former stares him down.
“You what they’re talking about?” he directs towards Suna.
He keeps his eyes on Atsumu for a second, then turns to watch them too, shrugging. “Probably Sakusa. Komori said it was his birthday the other day, but they decided they could just do something to celebrate it today after the match.”
That makes him straighten up. “I MISSED OMI’S BIRTHDAY?!” he can’t help but shout, voice cracking.
Suna winces and takes a step back, and then Sakusa’s turning around, glaring at Atsumu. Komori’s eyes widen and he laughs even harder. Oh Gods, he’s gonna die, isn’t he?
“What?!” Bokuto cries out, swivelling around in his spot from where his attention was on whatever conversation he was having with Washio, Shoyo right alongside him.
“Omi-san, when was your birthday?!”
Sakusa, whose glare has turned to daggers, does not look away, even when he addresses Shoyo. “At the weekend. I don’t typically like making a big deal out of it.”
Atsumu gulps. He can’t help it. Sakusa’s eyes fixed on him makes him feel some type of way. And by that, he means fear. Definitely only fear. Nothing else. Absolutely not. Just fear.
Komori grins, giving Atsumu a thumbs up. “Good job, Atsumu-kun.” This does not make him feel any safer. He’s got the sense to know he should look out for a serve to the back of the head later. Though, he doesn’t have the sense to stop talking.
“Omi-kunnnn, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me your birthday,” he complains. “I’ve not had enough time to think of a present to get ya!”
Sakusa’s eyes widen just slightly, but Atsumu notices; there’s no way he wouldn’t, with how intently he’s looking at him, trying to figure out what he would like. “That’s really not necessary, Miya.”
Suna lets out a ‘pfft’ at that. “He still calls you Miya. That one’s gotta hurt, ‘Tsumu.”
Atsumu turns on him, face red. “Shut it! Osamu totally called you Sunarin even when you’d been dating for like, a month!”
Suna’s previously amused face turns challenging, almost evil. “Oh, you’re comparing your friendship with Sakusa to my relationship with your brother? Interesting.”
Atsumu’s face turns even redder. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he practically screeches, and Gods that does a number on his throat.
Suna opens his mouth, grin spreading, but before he can speak, Atsumu’s saving grace, Coach Foster, speaks up, standing next to the EJP coach. “Alright, enough bickering. We’re starting warm-ups.”
Before Atsumu can even laugh in Suna’s face for not getting to insult him further, Bokuto is walking past. “Bro, even Foster’s scolding you like a parent now.” Atsumu takes back every nice thing he has ever said or thought about him. He is no longer considered one of his best friends.
Suna lets out another ‘pfft’ and walks off to the rest of his team. Atsumu takes his quick moment of solitude (in the middle of the gym) to take a deep breath, and then joins the rest of the team.
It goes well at first, just as practice did yesterday, with Atsumu sticking between trying out enough new moves that he can gauge what works and what doesn’t, but also playing normally in order to still bring in points without experimenting too much. The key words here are that it goes well at first.
They lose the first set thanks to Atsumu overshooting a set to Bokuto because his head starts pounding again, and that’s when it goes downhill. He just can’t stop thinking about how if he becomes bad at volleyball, then people will probably be less likely to want to talk to or hang out with him, because he doesn’t have many other qualities, like being extremely nice like Shoyo, and he’s not extremely good-at-heart like Bokuto, and he’s not extremely smart like Sakusa. Who, speaking of, when Foster calls a time-out – mainly just to give Atsumu some time to breathe because his intake of air is getting too shallow, too fast – the motherfucker decides to once again point out that there’s ‘something wrong’ with him today. That he’s ‘still acting weird.’ And seriously, why? What is wrong with him? He’s been trying so hard to make himself act normal, be a person that they would want around, so why? Why does Sakusa keep pointing it out like it’s a bad thing? Will he just never like him? Is Atsumu just destined to end up as some failure, alone forever because there’s only a couple of people that actually want to be around him? Or is it just that weird cage again, the tinted glass mixed with his getting-more-painful throat and can’t-see-straight-anymore eyes, messing with his view on his surroundings.
He doesn’t know why he’s so upset about this. He doesn’t want to be. He wants to be his old self again, ignorant and fine. He was fine. He could deal with it all. He didn’t even care about the teasing and the banter from everyone, he still doesn’t really, as long as it’s not too far. But… he hates this. He hates being so obsessive and angry and emotional over something so dumb. What Sakusa said was just a joke. What that asshole in his third year said was so long ago. He should be over all of it. He shouldn’t be making such a big deal and acting like some fucking angsty teenager.
Halfway through the second set, it all gets a bit much for him. What had gone well at first, then gone worse, suddenly goes awful. He runs to set the ball, hoping to do a quick with Shoyo in order to finally get another point, when he starts to feel both cold and hot at the same time, and a shiver passes through him as his breath catches, and this time his vision really does fuck him over, because all of a sudden, he’s on the floor and everything is moving around him and his ankle kind of fucking hurts.
The glass cage smashes.
His hand shoots to grab at the injury as if that will somehow satiate the pain, and he lets out a string of curses which eventually turns into a coughing fit. And then the embarrassment of collapsing in the middle of a practice match because he was too sick and has now probably sprained his ankle all because he didn’t want to let anyone down kicks in. And then the panicked thought of what if I can’t play volleyball anymore oh Gods this is it, I’ve lost everything.
His breathing comes in too quick, and his eyes are stinging, and he stops even feeling the pain spreading through his body that much because the panic is so much stronger, taking hold of every muscle in his body, of every sensible thought that could possibly run through his brain that would tell him the injury is definitely not bad enough that he’ll never be able to play again. His body then decides that is the perfect moment for it to start coughing again, the pain in his throat only growing.
Gods. He’s overreacting. He’s being a drama queen. He’s getting too upset over shit that isn’t serious.
“Atsumu, fucking hell, take deep breaths,” comes from Suna, and Atsumu opens his eyes – when did he close them? – to see his best friend kneeling beside him, worry etched across his features. He shakes his head, because he doesn’t think he can even try to count the seconds right now, not with his mind running a mile a minute and everything being tainted by distorted shards of glass.
He remembers Mama telling him that when he starts to feel hopeless or overwhelmed, everything blows out of proportion in his head, that he loses his grip on the reality of things. He knows that’s what’s happening now, but he can’t make it stop; he doesn’t know how.
A water bottle is shoved into his hands, and he tries to swallow it down, but he has to lower it after a second because there’s a fuzzy feeling spreading throughout his body, and he can’t tell if it’s panic or nausea, but it’s making breathing really hard.
Then, out of nowhere, Sakusa’s in front of him with his usual almost-expressionless face – if you don’t look close enough, anyway, which Atsumu always does – and he’s telling him to watch him and follow along with his own breathing pattern. Atsumu’s so shocked that he can’t find it in himself to properly think about why he’s shocked, to think about the fact that Sakusa Kiyoomi is guiding him through a breathing exercise. He just watches him, keeps his eyes on his face even as he feels hands pulling his own away from his ankle to inspect the injury.
He didn’t care about any of this that much before yesterday. He was upset, yeah, anxious, yeah, but… he wasn’t so overwhelmed by it all. He’s had bad days in practice before, and he always gets over it. He overcomes it. He wasn’t even that angry at Sakusa anymore. He apologised, or at least tried to, in his own awkward non-verbal way. He just— he just wants to know if he’s liked. For sure.
He feels like he’s a child sitting in the playground all on his own, begging for someone to come play with him, come give him attention. Osamu always appeared eventually. Osamu’s not here, though. Not anymore. Not in the volleyball world.
He tries to stay focused on Sakusa’s breathing. He’s just overwhelmed. He’s sicker than he’d hoped, and he’s exhausted, and it’s all made him delusional and emotional.
He keeps his eyes on Sakusa.
Wait.
Holy shit.
Sakusa’s eyes are green?
Just noticing this fact should be enough to take his breath away and make the act even harder, but he feels almost entranced. Sakusa’s eyes are the darkest green he’s ever seen. He didn’t even know it was possible for green eyes to get that dark, but there they are, like dark emeralds, or, like, grass in the moonlight – wait, no, that’s awful, fucking hell – or, well, Atsumu can’t think of that many green things, but seriously, Sakusa’s eyes are green. He feels even more like he’s going to be sick, but this is, like, in a good way; though, he would probably be murdered for that, so he just keeps following along with his breaths, unable to tear his own eyes away.
It doesn’t take that long for him to calm down after that distraction, for his breathing to mostly go back to normal – or as normal as it can be when he’s feeling this sick – but he keeps his eyes on Sakusa’s for a bit longer than necessary, feeling weirdly safe under his gaze.
“Wow, Omi-san, how did you know how to help?” Shoyo asks after what feels like an hour, but is probably only a minute or two, breaking Atsumu out of his trance. Unfortunately, that means his attention goes back to the pain in his ankle, as well as the heat that seems to be spreading itself through his body despite the goosebumps on his arms. He sniffs.
Sakusa stands back up straight and takes a few steps away from them. “Well… I’ve dealt with my fair share of panic attacks in the past.” Oh. That must be because of the mysophobia; a lot of the articles and forums he read said that it’s not uncommon by any means for anxiety to come hand in hand with the phobia.
“You should also probably stop crowding him,” he comments offhandedly, still watching the scene.
Atsumu wonders if he’s so far away because he’s trying to give him space, or if it’s to separate himself from all of the germs; he doesn’t blame him if it is the latter reasoning, considering how awful he feels right now. He doesn’t really care much, but a part of him does want to keep looking into his eyes, just to find out what hidden secrets lie there. Maybe he could figure out why he’s been so persistent with telling him he’s been acting weird.
“It looks like a light sprain,” Foster says from where he’s been looking over his ankle, and it pulls Atsumu’s attention back away from Sakusa. The words make him feel even more sick, his brain focusing on the word sprain and ignoring everything else.
“What?” he blanches, and now he’s starting to feel cold. Sprains can take weeks to heal if they’re serious.
“It’s fine, Atsumu. We’ll go get the doctor to just look over it and make sure, but it doesn’t look too bad,” Meian says, his voice holding a comforting tone than Atsumu’s not really heard from anyone in a while. He knows they’ve been making a bunch of parental jokes all day, but it makes sense that Meian is a father, even if his kid is only, like, four.
“But—”
Suna cuts him off. “I’m calling Osamu.”
Atsumu’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. Gods, please no. If he sees him right now, or has to talk to him, he’s going to end up getting all emotional and then he’ll have to explain everything, and he doesn’t want that, not yet. Especially not in front of everyone. If Atsumu wears his heart on his sleeve around most people, he has it tattooed on his fucking forehead when he’s with his family.
“Don’t,” he says, trying to make his voice as commanding as he can; it doesn’t work with how croaky it’s already become.
“Atsumu—”
“Not yet,” this time, it’s more choked out. Desperate. He’ll talk to him later, but he’s just not ready yet. He wants to know exactly what’s wrong, wants more time to stew in the fact that apparently, he’s not even good enough for volleyball, never mind people.
Bokuto and Shoyo help him hobble over to the nurse’s office, and once he’s there, it doesn’t take long for her to look his ankle over. Relief floods through him when she confirms that it’s only a minor sprain and he’ll only have to be off of it for a few days – though, she pretty quickly starts scolding him for leaving his house when he’s got such a fever, and she instructs him to take the week off.
The whole time, he can’t help but keep thinking about going back into the gym, having to explain that he was being stupid by coming in and that he has to take time off. A part of him is waiting for them all to say ‘good riddance’ or tell him that they don’t really care that much. It makes him think of his third year again. Of being rejected and insulted and—
He tells Foster and Meian first, and then the rest of the team, and the whole time he’s trying so hard not to be sick, or just start shaking, or lock himself in some cupboard so no one can see him. But they’re all kind to him. He fucked up, but they’re still kind, and they tell him off for being reckless and not getting enough sleep, and they tell him to look after himself, because they care. Even Sakusa doesn’t yell at him straight away for coming into practice when he’s got a fever – he doesn’t even move back. Atsumu doesn’t get it. Do they care because he’s been nicer to them the past week? Or did they care before that? Is he really someone worth caring about?
Then Sakusa finally speaks up, looking… angry? Concerned? Something else? “Why did you come in today when you obviously weren’t fit to?” Oh. Scratch that, then. He must be angry.
“I wanted to see Sunarin,” he tries, but Sakusa’s not buying it.
“He easily could have gone to your apartment after our game. Try again.”
Atsumu sighs, and he’s so glad that Bokuto and Shoyo are still standing next to him, otherwise he would feel completely ganged up on right now, even if the rest of the team aren’t saying anything. “I didn’t want to disappoint anyone by not showing.”
Sakusa doesn’t narrow his eyes this time, just tilts his head slightly. “You’re still acting strange. Not… like yourself.”
He can’t take it anymore. He wishes he had never left his bed. “You keep saying that like it’s bad!” his voice cracks. Embarrassing. “I’ve been trying to be a better friend, y’know, be more likeable. How is that a bad thing?”
Something like recognition flashes in his eyes, and then he frowns. “So, you’re changing yourself so that people like you, or something? Since when did you care about what other people think of you?” His throat hurts way more than it did this morning. He hates this. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not now, not here. He doesn’t want to care about it anymore. “Since I joined this team!” Since the interview. Since I found out that you all probably hated me at first. Since I realised that I’ll never have anything more than this.
Before anyone else can say anything more, Bokuto puts a hand on his shoulder. He’d been so quiet that Atsumu had almost started to forget that he was still there, standing by his side. “Alright, Tsum-Tsum, I’ll help you to the locker room. You should get home so that you can rest your ankle, and just, in general, I guess.”
Atsumu, who feels like if he speaks anymore, he’s going to devolve into another coughing fit, nods and walks away with Bokuto next to him, who doesn’t say anything else until they’re out of the gym. “Y’know, Tsum-Tsum… none of us think you’re a bad guy,” his voice is contemplative, but it’s gentle. Kind. “Even Sakkun doesn’t think you are.”
He scoffs. “Doubt that.” He had thought maybe they could be friends, but… well.
Bokuto frowns, pushing open the door to the locker room. “I dunno. He’s seemed pretty worried about you this week, and he felt guilty for saying that thing after the interview.”
Atsumu, who wants to believe him so bad, can’t help but still doubt his words at least a bit. “I don’t think he would’ve said I was unlikeable if he didn’t mean it, Bokkun.” Even if it was a joke.
“Well, the two of you do have a pretty weird sense of humour when it comes to each other; I’m pretty sure it was just a bad joke,” he says, sitting on the bench opposite him as Atsumu routes around in his bag for a clean t-shirt; he sounds like he genuinely wants to convince him. “Not that what he said wasn’t bad, and I totally told him off for it. I felt like Meian.”
Atsumu puffs out a small laugh, just because being around Bokuto makes him happier, but other than that he says nothing, so he keeps going.
“We really like your sets, too, Tsum-Tsum. I didn’t know much about you when we joined the team, other than you were half of the Miya Twins, and I didn’t know you were gonna be on the team with me, so I didn’t have a huge reason to join because of you, but… Hinata told me that he was really excited when he found out we were holding trials; he said your sets had always looked like a ton of fun to him. And, well, I don’t really know why Sakkun joined the team, but you’ve set for him before in that youth camp, right? And I heard you worked well together then, so he probably liked the idea of being your spiker again!” he says, and Atsumu can tell that he really does believe that, whether he’s right or not. “I like that you push us to do more and be more, too. It’s boring being with a setter that only does the same stuff and just tells you: ‘hit the ball like this and be normal’. What’s the point of staying good when someone else can help you be better?”
Oh. “Thanks, Bokkun.” He can’t help the slight smile that starts to creep onto his face.
“Sakkun’s right, you know. You have been acting a lot different recently… and I don’t think he meant anything bad by it. I mean,” his eyes flick to the floor, “you’ve seemed sadder, lately.”
Atsumu doesn’t say anything to that, because he doesn’t know what else he can say, and they’re silent for another minute or two while Atsumu gets changed. He really does appreciate Bokuto trying to help, but he also can’t stop thinking. He embarrassed himself by having a panic attack in front of everyone, Sakusa had to get close to him in order to calm him down which makes him uncomfortable, and now he’s too sick and injured to play volleyball. All because he had some dumb breakdown.
“People didn’t used to like me very much,” is whispered across from him, and it takes Atsumu by surprise. When he looks up, he sees Bokuto sitting on the bench, looking down with a melancholic smile.
“Huh?” Who doesn’t like Bokuto? He’s like, the nicest person ever.
“I used to be a lot more difficult than I am now. I had a lot of… mood swings, like, all the time, and I had too much energy, and people couldn’t keep up with me,” he says, like it’s just nostalgic, like it doesn’t bother him too much. Not anymore, at least. “But then I met Kuroo, my best bud, and obviously that meant I became friends with Kenma too, and things started to feel a bit better. And then Keiji joined the team, and he was the first person that just… got me. Even more than Kuroo, who really does get me! And I felt great! And then people started to like me more, I guess, or maybe I just didn’t care all that much about random people I don’t know, kinda like you. Anyway, I met people that I liked, and they liked me too, and I found out that I could feel amazing, like when I hit a super cool cross shot against three blockers! Life got better, I guess.”
Atsumu raises an eyebrow, but still smiles. “I’m happy for ya, Bokkun, but what’s that got to do with me?”
He grins. “Well, I just mean that… I hope you find that out, too, sometime soon. You know, that you can feel amazing and get better. I bet Myaa-sam is like your Kuroo, and Suna’s your Kenma, and like… maybe you’ll meet your Keiji too, right? Whether they’re a romantic partner or just a super special friend.” He shifts a little in his seat, smile getting a bit smaller, but no less genuine. “I mean, I might not be your Kuroo or your Keiji, but I’m really glad I’m your friend, Tsum-Tsum. You’re a lot of fun to be around, and you’ve always been nice to me, even when I was kind of difficult at the start. I just… hope that I was part of your life getting better. Or that I will be apart of it.”
Oh. Atsumu’s eyes are stinging a little. He sniffs and reaches up to wipe at the tears that haven’t even escaped yet, just in case he had started crying without realising it. He really does love Bokuto; it had been really good when Atsumu joined the team at the same time as him. Seeing a familiar face, even if they had only ever talked in passing maybe once, was comforting, and they’d gotten along fast, despite their on-court synchronisation taking a little longer. “Thanks, Bokkun,” he can’t tell if his voice cracks because he’s sick or emotional, “I’m glad you’re my friend too.” And really, he can’t hold himself back from hugging him. He gives the best hugs out of anyone he knows.
It feels… good, knowing that Bokuto likes his sets, he thinks that he’s always been nice and fun to be around. He likes him. He likes having him in his life.
He stays there for a while, but he figures it’s fine, since he’s not had a hug for so long and Bokuto loves physical contact. When he pulls away, Bokuto gives him a little squeeze, then tells him that if he wants to head out before he has to face the rest of the team, he should probably go now. So, he helps him up and together they walk out into the hallway together. Where Suna’s waiting.
“I’m going back with you,” he says, pushing himself off the wall. “I’ll head back to Tokyo later with Komori when he’s done hanging with Sakusa. Also, I called Osamu.”
Atsumu doesn’t need a mirror to know he goes pale. “Why? I told you not to. Sunarin—”
He shakes his head, cutting him off and pocketing his phone. “Don’t care. He’s heading over after work.”
Oh Gods. If he wanted to be scolded and forced to talk about the unending pile of shit he’s been dealing with recently, he would just stay in the changing rooms, but… he guesses there’s no avoiding it, whether it ends up being today or some other time this week; Osamu always gets him to talk eventually.
“I hate you, Sunarin,” he mumbles, staring down at the floor.
“Again, don’t care. Let’s go,” he rolls his eyes and pulls Atsumu’s arm over his shoulder to help him walk, even though the injury really isn’t that bad. He groans, then turns around to give Bokuto a grateful smile.
“Thanks again, Bokkun. I’ll see ya later, yeah?” he says, and is given a nod and a wave, and just as the two of them start to walk away, Atsumu sees the team heading into the locker room.
They get to Atsumu’s apartment slower than it usually takes, but he finds he doesn’t mind too much; the walk helps him to clear his head a bit and think over Bokuto’s words, even if he’s still tired and upset and feels so fucking sick, holy shit.
He’d said that maybe he would find his Keiji soon, but… Atsumu’s not loveable, or at least, he’s very difficult to be loved. He’s not the top setter in the country despite how hard he’s worked, and he had to think about being kind because it doesn’t just come second nature to him. Or, well, he thought, anyway. Bokuto’d said he was always nice to him. Maybe he’s more likeable than he’d been led to believe, but….
He unlocks the door and Suna follows him in, switching on the light on their way in, and Atsumu’s so glad that he’s kept his flat clean, even with all of his time spent either in bed or watching movies.
“Why do you have no food in here?” Suna calls once Atsumu’s on the sofa and he’s gone into the kitchen to grab something to eat. Of course, he had forgotten to stock up; all he’d eaten over the weekend were pot noodles and some apples.
“Go get somethin’ then,” he groans, not in the mood to apologise for having nothing. Not that he really needs to say sorry for that kind of thing with Suna. He still feels a bit bad though.
“I’ll tell Osamu to get stuff on his way here,” he says with a shrug, coming into view and jumping into the armchair, legs swinging over the side.
Atsumu ignores the glare he’s got glued on him and instead stretches over to reach into one of the small wicker baskets he’s got on the floor beside the end of the sofa, pulling out a ball of wool and a knitting needle. “Please don’t.”
“Too late,” he hums, tapping away at his phone. Atsumu glares at him now, then looks back to his wool and continues from where he left off with the knitted scarf he’s been making. He had felt embarrassed by the hobby when he first started, but it always helps to calm him down and keep his fingers busy, and it was an activity that allowed him to spend time with Mama when he was still living at home. It’s good at keeping his fingers strong, too.
Suna snorts. “What, are you stress knitting?”
“I’m not stress knitting,” he lies, stretching out his leg a little more on his coffee table to make his ankle more comfortable where he’s rested it on a pillow. “I’m just… knitting.”
He is definitely stress knitting, but he figures it’s better than gluing himself to his laptop and doing more research on his teammates: obviously that didn’t work out so well last time. He likes it, too. It’s been a good companion through his hard times and his lazy days, the perfect mix between being a mindless task, especially after all this time, but acquiring enough attention that it distracts him without also stressing him out. It’s especially good for moments like this, when he can’t even go for a walk to calm him down, but he’s too stressed out to sleep, despite the exhaustion soaking into his bones and his skin. Plus, sometimes he feels a bit weird going on walks alone. He misses taking the old family dog, Adzuki, out to the park or the local trail back home every day.
Suna doesn’t say anything for a while after he switches on the TV and turns on a reshowing of an anime that they both like, either too invested in the plot and characters, or just thinking of what to say. After what must be a couple of hours, considering the fact that Atsumu’s almost finished his scarf already, he finally speaks up, voice a little gentler than before. “Y’know, Atsumu, Sakusa was right… you have been weird as fuck recently.”
He sighs but doesn’t look away from the wool in his hands. It’s too late to be making scarves, but he figures they’ll be useful when winter comes back around. “Sunarin, I really don’t wanna talk about this.”
“Yeah, I know, and I’m not gonna make you, ‘cuz I know Osamu’s gonna give you an earful, but I just wanted to mention it. You used to push us all to do more and be better, and you were always straight up and honest, so I don’t get why you’re suddenly trying to make them all happy or some shit.” He pulls his phone out with a shrug. “You were always an idiot, but obviously you’ve just gotten even dumber with age.”
Atsumu sits up a little straighter, but not so much that he jostles his ankle, and whips his head around to face him. “Shut up, Sunarin! I’ve always been a genius, you know!”
Suna rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”
It’s 6pm by the time a knock sounds from the door and Suna gets up, saying that he’ll get it. Atsumu keeps his eyes on his wool, having changed from knitting scarves to jumpers, seeing as Mama sent him a bunch of super soft wool a few weeks ago.
He hears muffled talking, and then footsteps, and he almost just gets up and runs out of the room in fear of Osamu, but then all of a sudden, he hears two more sets of footsteps.
“Komori’s here early, so I just invited him in,” Suna says, walking in, and Atsumu shrugs, doing nothing more than slumping a little deeper into his seat and looking back at his knitting pattern on his phone.
“Oh, also Sakusa’s here too.”
“HAH?!” Atsumu shoots up straight and he hurries to shove the jumper into the basket he keeps his wool in, panic taking over. The yell makes him start coughing again.
“You knit?” comes the ever so familiar voice, slightly muffled due to the mask covering his face; he’s got an eyebrow raised in an almost teasing sense. Atsumu sighs, but before he can really think to say anything, he’s hit with the realisation that Sakusa Kiyoomi is in his apartment. Sakusa. Kiyoomi. Omi-kun. Is in his apartment. He is standing in his space, his dark jade eyes scanning the room curiously – seriously he cannot get over them – and he’s in Atsumu’s fucking apartment holy shit. Gods is he glad he cleaned up.
“Uh, Omi-kun? What’re you doin’ here?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady and ignoring the fact that Sakusa did in fact see his knitting.
“I was with Motoya, so I thought I would drop by with him on my way home to see how you are,” he answers, like it’s the most normal thing he could say. His eyes drop to look at him now. “I didn’t know you knitted.”
He rakes his mind for some excuse, too used to being made fun of for the hobby by the few people he has told about it, too used to confused faces because all Atsumu cares about is volleyball – it’s his only love, after all, and the only thing that will ever love him back, as well as being the only reason why people will probably ever like or spend time around him. Nothing comes up. He feels like his whole head is being filled up with dark black scribbles of pen on paper, spools of wool tangling itself up in his brain and getting caught on the small cracks in his skull.
He decides his best course of action might just be… honesty. “Yeah. Been doing it since third year.” His mother had introduced him to the craft after what had happened; he felt too sad to leave the house, and so she stayed with him, letting him know that if no one else loved him, she, at least, always would.
“What are you making?” Sakusa asks, and honestly, it really does take him aback slightly. It doesn’t feel right, him being interested in his life, him giving a shit. Bokuto or Shoyo would make sense, but… Sakusa only ever really seemed to care about making fun of him, little competitions to make things more exciting, and of course, over everything else, volleyball. Maybe Atsumu’s wellbeing, at least a little, if he lets himself believe it.
He stretches his neck to look down into the basket, then at the scarves in his hands. He reaches back over to pull out the unfinished project. The wool is dark red, one of Atsumu’s favourite colours. “A jumper. I like ‘em for when I’m lazing around the house. Like, on weeks like this one, I guess.”
Sakusa makes a quiet humming noise, and nods, a small, barely noticeable thing. It’s weird. This is weird. And not necessarily in a bad way, but it shakes him a bit. Like, Sakusa Kiyoomi is in his apartment right now. When he’s sick, no less. It just doesn’t feel real. Honestly, Sakusa doesn’t feel real to him sometimes. He feels a bit like an enigma, like some kind of God or something that just appeared one day to play volleyball and spread knowledge about how the average human adult carries roughly 1,500 germs on each square centimetre of their hand, which yes, Atsumu googled just to make sure Sakusa was right – he was, of course – and to entrance him with his good looks and quiet, confusing yet intriguing personality.
Atsumu looks away from him and instead stares down at the jumper, his hands moving automatically through his panic and continuing the knitting. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Suna watching him with some kind of mix between concern and suspicion; Atsumu finds the idea of curling up into a ball and never being seen by anyone again to be very enticing.
Sakusa looks like he wants to say something else, eyebrows furrowed, but before he can, Komori, who seems to be enjoying himself by snooping around the apartment and not even bothering to hide it – which is fine, he doesn’t really have anything to hide – moves over to stand next to him. He points to a small but scruffy notebook sitting in the middle of the coffee table, having been thrown haphazardly onto it in a rush before Atsumu went to practice this morning. “What’s that?”
“Oh, probably Atsumu’s dumb volleyball study notebook,” Suna says with a shrug. “He’s had it since high school.”
“Volleyball study notebook?” Komori repeats, intrigued.
Atsumu freezes. Now, that is something he does want to hide.
“Yeah, he always writes down things about his teammates that he thinks are important to remember. Like, there’s an old page in there about me and one of his notes is ‘likes Osamu back, wingman them?’. I think I remember seeing a comment about you Sakusa, it said something like ‘wash hands for same amount of time to make comfortable’ I think. No idea what that means.” He shrugs, grinning. “He’s just a massive loser with too much time on his hands. And we love him for it.”
Atsumu can’t even be happy that he just said he loves him, because he’s going to end his life. Whether that’s his own or Suna’s, he’s not sure yet, but someone is losing their life today. Or at least they would be, if Osamu didn’t choose that exact moment to burst in through the door, shouting. He can’t tell if his presence is a blessing or a curse.
“’Tsumu ya fuckin’ idiot, the fuck happened to—” he stops in the doorway when he sees the three other people in the living room. And maybe at Atsumu’s most likely very pale face, considering the way he’s feeling.
The room is silent for a minute, and he feels like he’s stuck in some kind of TV drama. Then Osamu looks at Suna. “He’s stress knitting.”
Suna looks over at Atsumu and nods. “Told you.” Then he looks back at Osamu. “He’s been at it for hours.”
“I’M NOT STRESS KNITTIN’!” he yells, gripping the wool in his hands so hard he thinks he might stretch it. His eyes are stinging, and he feels sick. He feels so fucking sick.
There’s more silence for a couple seconds, one that makes Atsumu feel like he’s drowning, grasping at the water as if there will be something solid that he can hold onto to pull him back up to the surface. His throat is starting to hurt even more from the pressure he’s putting on it to not cry, the pressure of water filling up his lungs and taking away his breath. A shiver runs through him.
“Okay, let’s go. We wanna catch the train back before we get stuck here,” Suna says, obviously seeing the tension in Atsumu’s physique and standing up, leaving the room. Komori follows him, and Sakusa gives him one last look, eyebrows still furrowed, before he follows them too. Atsumu hears bags being placed on the kitchen counter, quiet muttering, and then Osamu’s face appears in front of him.
“What happened, Tsumu?” he asks, sitting beside him. Atsumu stares at his ankle, still rested out on in front of him on a pillow, and his vision goes a little blurry.
“Sprained it. Got a fever.”
“Rin said you only have to stay home for a week.”
“I shouldn’t have hurt it in the first place,” he mumbles, his voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have let myself get this sick either. I was being dumb. I just wanted—” he cuts himself off, swallowing. The water fills his lungs.
Osamu raises an eyebrow. “Wanted…?”
This is why he didn’t want to see him, because he knew that just him being there would mean that he would spill. He wouldn’t be able to hide it all from him. He’s never been good at keeping things from Osamu. Like he said, his feelings are scribbled on his forehead around his family. Especially so with his twin.
“I wanted them to like me.” Saying it makes him feel childish. Immature. Stupid. Lonely. “I was trying to be nicer, to not be so annoying and stuff. I started thinkin’ maybe I’m… not enough for them, I guess.” He thinks about Bokuto telling him that he’s always been nice, that he’s glad he’s got Atsumu as a friend.
Osamu doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watching him. “Well, then you’re right, you are dumb.”
Atsumu’s eyes shoot open. “What the hell?!”
“Stop shouting, you’re wrecking your voice,” Osamu says, rolling his eyes. He nudges him. “Obviously your friends care about ya. I mean, Sakusa showed up at your apartment when you’re sick just to check on you. And I got a text from Hinata and Bokuto asking if you’re still alive; they said everyone was worried, with the way you collapsed.”
Oh. “They did?”
“Yep.”
“But—”
Osamu sighs. “Look, idiot, you’re gonna have to get yourself together soon ‘cuz being this nice to you is makin’ me feel sick. But seriously, listen up. People like ya, okay? I know that interviewer said some fucked up shit, and it’s messing with your head, but she was wrong. You’re not unlovable, or unlikeable, or whatever you’re thinking. I like you, and I had to share a room with you for eighteen years.”
Atsumu’s head hurts, but he thinks the stinging in his eyes are good tears. Or maybe not. He doesn’t know anymore. “I don’t think Ryo thought that.”
Osamu’s eyes widen for a moment, and then he looks at Atsumu with such a sad look that he can’t help the tear that escapes his eye; he hurries to wipe it away, but more keep coming.
“Tsumu—”
He’s not talked about this for years. He’s tried so hard to not think about it. It’s getting too hard to pretend it didn’t happen, though.
“It’s so shit, ‘cuz I know I should be over it, but…” he chokes on his words. Ryo was the first boy Atsumu ever really liked, other than Kita who he doesn’t count, seeing as he never had a chance with him. But Ryo… Atsumu had thought he did have a chance with him. They were good friends, and when Atsumu wasn’t at volleyball or hanging out with Osamu and the others, he was with Ryo, talking about random shit and more important shit. They just… well, Atsumu thought they got each other; he’d never felt that way, never let himself feel that way, for anyone else. Then, one day in their third and final year of high school, Ryo asked him out, and it was the best day of his life up until that point. They went to the beach and got ice-cream and spent hours together, and then at a party the next day, they got drunk and made out and Atsumu lost his virginity. And even though he had always rolled his eyes at the idea of that, because people were right when they said it was just a dumb social construct designed to make people feel bad about themselves, it was special to him, and he was so fucking happy. And then the next morning he woke up to a text.
‘Ryo <3: hey btw Atsumu I know u like me and stuff but I don’t really feel the same way :/ You’re not really the type of guy ppl stay with if u know what I mean? No hard feelings though, yeah? Anyway, if u wanna hook up again some time I’m up for it, so let me know’
Gods, Atsumu had sobbed so much that day. And for the next few weeks, too. He had been so heartbroken, and once it started to hurt just a little less, he told himself he would never let himself get close to potential partners ever again. He refused to go through that again, to let someone hurt him that bad.
And then….
‘Miya Atsumu, adored by all but loved by none.’
People suck.
“Atsumu, you know that guy was a dick. He was awful from the very start, but you wouldn’t listen to us,” Osamu says, trying to keep his voice calm. “I told you back then, and I’ll tell you again: don’t fucking believe a single thing he told you. He’s probably off somewhere in some shitty job, depressed and all alone, and here you are now, successful and surrounded by friends who do care about you and like you.”
Atsumu nods. He knows. He knows that. He spent months telling himself that before he managed to block away the memory. But still…. “It just… still hurts, Samu. Like, what does that even mean? You’re not really the type of guy people stay with. What type of guy is that? Nice? Funny? Caring? I try to be those things. Even before—” he swallows, “before the interview, I tried to be good. I tried to be the person that people would want to stay with. But they never do.”
“Because, idiot, ya keep going for the worst ones. You keep goin’ for the same fucking people but just in different fonts. They all just want a casual hook-up, or they want someone else, or they want fucking clout, and that’s not your fault,” he pushes, and it’s the same thing he used to tell him when it was midnight and Atsumu was looking through his old text messages with Ryo. “You need to like, fucking turn your thinking around or some shit. Look at the people who actually… do nice stuff, people who show you that they care. Stop following around assholes that do nothing for you. Whether that’s in friendships or relationships or whatever.”
Atsumu looks at him, eyes a bit too wide; it’s been a long time since he’s told him off like this. They don’t have serious conversations much, but when they do, they always remind Atsumu of how glad he is that he’s got his brother. He nods, too fast, and wipes his eyes again. “Yeah.” He thinks of people who are good to him, the immediate ones being Osamu, Suna, Aran, and Kita. Bokuto, Shoyo, Meian and Inunaki and Barnes and Tomas. Sakusa.
Huh. That’s a lot of people.
“Ryo was a prick, Tsumu. I know it, everyone else knows it, and so do you. And like we always said, we don’t let pricks get to us. The only person that gets to fuckin’ ruin your life is me, asshole,” he says, and it makes him smile, despite the dried tears on his face and the quiet voice at the back of his head that’s still whispering to him that he’s just not good enough. Ignoring it isn’t as hard as before, but he can still hear it.
He leans into Osamu, playing it off as him trying to push him over with his side, but he stays there. “Thanks. Loser.”
He snickers and nudges him back.
Osamu’s right, probably. The people Atsumu’s around now… they care about him; if they really did go to the effort of texting Osamu, then they must. And Bokuto said all of those kind things to him earlier. And Sakusa did come to see him, even if all that happened was a short conversation about knitting before Atsumu started to break down. Maybe he should try to take off some of the dating pressure he’s put on himself. Maybe turning his thinking around and looking at people differently will help. He used to look at people more positively before Ryo, before Osamu quit volleyball, before life started to feel too lonely. Maybe he can be optimistic again, if just… lets himself try.
“Okay.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll… try to turn it around,” he says, and it feels like a breath of fresh air, like after desperately swimming upwards, he’s finally broken through the surface and found land. It’s not quite dry, and the sun isn’t out, but it’s somewhere to breathe, and maybe as the days pass, grass will grow and the weather will change. He claps his hands. “Anyway, you were right, you bein’ nice to me is disgusting.”
“Yep.”
Atsumu tries to smile, but then he just starts coughing, and there’s goosebumps running up his arms, and by the time he finally catches his breath, his apartment is once again moving in front of him, like he’s in some kind of optical illusion.
“Right, well, I’m getting your medicine. And you’re going to sleep. Idiot.”
Atsumu sleeps most of the day away, spending his waking moments either in the bath or being forced to eat the food Osamu makes for him while he puts a random movie on the TV. It’s not too bad, honestly; he likes spending time with him again. It takes him back to when they were still at school, still at home, sharing a bedroom and talking about the dumbest shit. It’s different, he knew it would be when he moved out, but… it’s safe. Comforting.
Osamu stays until lunch the next day, leaving some containers of meals in the fridge for him to heat up, and then leaves to go back to his own flat; there’s only so much time he can take off from his restaurant.
After he’s gone, Atsumu goes back to sleep, his bed disgustingly wet from sweat and his pyjamas much the same by the time he wakes up on Friday. He feels better though. Sure, his throat still hurts like a bitch, and his head is still seemingly trying to kill him, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to throw up, and the swelling in his ankle is basically gone. Even better, his first thought when he opens his eyes – at noon – isn’t something about being a disappointment. But maybe that’s because the thing that wakes him up is a text from Shoyo, asking how he’s feeling.
He replies with a quick update, and then pushes himself out of bed; his head doesn’t feel like it’s underwater. So, after he’s eaten a slice of toast and had some tea, he decides that maybe fresh sheets and a clean body will help him get better quicker, so he changes his bed covers – which takes much longer than it really should – and then showers off all the sweat and dirt. He rummages around in his drawers until he finds his softest pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and cardigan Mama had knitted him when he was still in high school. He has no idea how it still fits him.
And then he just sits, and he thinks. Thinks about the past few weeks, Ryo, the people he spends his time around. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did before, even if there’s still something in him that tells him he could do more. One of the last things Mama had told him the other day when Osamu had made him call her was that he needs to spend these days trying to enjoy being alone; she had always told them that the trick to being happy was to like spending time with yourself, just as you would a friend. He didn’t realise the loneliness in him was that obvious, just by the sound of his voice, but he figures she’s probably right. Osamu’s always been happier being by himself than Atsumu, and he’s also always been more at peace with himself.
So Atsumu, for the first time in a while, listens to someone other than the self-degrading voice in his head, and he pulls up the pattern for a knitted jumper on his phone. Maybe he can do something for himself, while also doing something for someone else at the same time. He was being serious when he said he was going to get Sakusa a birthday gift, no matter how belated it was, but maybe he could make one instead.
He reaches into the wicker basket next to his sofa and pulls out different balls of wool, trying to decide which one Sakusa would like, until he comes across a dark green wool, almost the same shade as Sakusa’s eyes other than being a bit brighter; it’s a soft one Mama had gave him a while ago. Maybe he would like a jumper. Atsumu wonders if it would even bring out his eye colour more and decides that he kind of wants to find out.
It’s the evening when someone knocks on the front door and breaks Atsumu out of his focus. He’s been here for hours, just knitting away with a Ghibli movie marathon playing quietly on the TV; he doesn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed.
He pushes himself up from the sofa, careful not to put too much pressure on his ankle, and makes his way to the door. He is not expecting Sakusa to be standing there, holding a container of soup. He pushes it at him and Atsumu takes it wordlessly, too shocked to really process what it is.
Why is Sakusa here? Why did he bring him soup? Why is the box still warm? Why is Sakusa just looking at him like that?
He flicks his gaze past him, at the dark grey sky, and Atsumu realises it’s raining. When did that start? His eyes drift to look Sakusa over, just to make sure this is real, because there’s no way this can be real, and sees an umbrella dangling from his hand. Water drops off the end of it.
It hits him suddenly, then. Sakusa came here to give him soup. In the rain. Sakusa Kiyoomi walked to his apartment in the rain just to give him homemade soup. All because he’s sick. What the fuck?
Atsumu’s eyes sting a little, because he’s an emotional loser, but a small smile spreads on his face anyway. “Thanks, Omi,” he says, voice soft so that he doesn’t hurt it any more than he already has, and maybe just because he fears that if he speaks too loudly, he’ll break the moment. The moment that probably means nothing to anyone else, but means something to him. Sakusa cares enough to walk to him in the rain just to give him soup so that he gets better.
Sakusa nods, already opening his umbrella back up. “Get back to practice soon. It’s… boring without you.” Look after yourself, is what Atsumu knows that means. His heart skips a beat in his chest, and he has to fight himself not to grab at it as he turns away and walks towards the stairs.
Atsumu, wide-eyed and confused and flustered, steps back into his apartment, staring down at the container of soup, and begins to shut the door. Sakusa Kiyoomi brought him soup. In the rain. And told him that practice is boring without him. And he wants him to be there. He feels like he’s going to be sick, but in a good way.
Just before the door shuts, he swears he sees a flash of orange and hears a not-so-whispered shout of “Shut up, Hinata!”
Atsumu spends the rest of the night and the next day knitting. On Sunday, he goes for a walk on his own and finds that he doesn’t mind it so much.