Chapter Text
There’s broccoli in the toilet bowl and it came out of Atsumu. It shouldn’t have, because he hasn’t eaten a single vegetable in his entire adult life so there’s really nowhere that it could have come from, but there’s broccoli in the toilet bowl and it most definitely did come out of him. He'd know, he was there when it happened.
It didn't come out of his ass — he’s not currently crouched over the seat staring at a turd, come on. Even through a haze of panic he's got enough presence of mind to realize that that's sort of a disgusting thing to do. No, the broccoli had come out of his mouth. It had crawled its way out of his lungs and straight into the potty, making a delightful little splosh noise as it broke the surface of the water where it now sits bobbing gently like a little green buoy out at sea. Atsumu stares at the tiny baby tree swimming in his toilet, and realizes three things all at once.
One, broccoli floats in water.
Two, broccoli is apparently a kind of flower.
Three, he’s going to die.
The clinic Atsumu is in is small and cramped, tucked away in a hidden corner of the hospital’s outpatient department like an afterthought, and in many ways the place feels like a blip in reality. Ignoring the liminality of being in a waiting room, the fluorescent lights above flicker briefly every once in a while, the interval between flickers so stretched out that just as he begins to think he might have imagined the flickering in the first place, it happens again and feeds the sickening feeling of unease roiling in his stomach.
The lights also have the unsettling effect of painting the waiting area a sickly hue, like that first Twilight movie where everything was green and blue and so dark that Atsumu spent most of the film staring at his own reflection instead of Edward and Bella. The blueness aside, everything else is a stark lifeless gray, from the walls to the carpet to the uncomfortable metal bench that keeps stealing the warmth from his ass because the temperature here is cold enough to be mistaken for the mortuary. There isn’t so much as a houseplant or a painting to break the drab monotony, and even the receptionist behind the counter is just as gray and dull as her surroundings. Her wiry hair is pulled back into a bun so tight it probably doubles as a facelift, and she’s been carefully watching him through her cat-eye glasses from the moment he walked in, no awkward fidget or nervous tic of his going unnoticed.
He’s been waiting for the better part of an hour for his doctor now, and he can’t help but wonder if it might be some sort of a weird power trip thing because he’s the only patient who's walked in today and everything else is eerily silent apart from the muffled thump of his foot tapping against the carpeted floor. The receptionist sucks air from behind her teeth sharply, and he immediately ceases the action. He’s more than a little terrified of her, in all honesty. He had tried to help himself to a candy sitting in the little glass bowl on the counter earlier, only for her to swiftly pull the bowl away with a loud tut. It’s midday, but the blinds are completely drawn and Atsumu would love to have some natural light in this place, but he’s too afraid of what might happen to him if he gets up to adjust them.
“Miya Atsumu,” she calls suddenly, and he jumps three feet into the air. “Dr Hanazawa will see you now.”
Atsumu gets to his feet in a hurry, scurrying towards the doctor’s office so fast he almost forgets to knock. His doctor looks up when he enters, and Atsumu is deeply unsettled to find her office just as gray and no-nonsense as the waiting area outside.
“Have a seat, Miya-senshu,” Dr Hanazawa says, gesturing at the chair before her desk.
Her face, though not yet wizened, is lined at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, suggesting a fondness for smiling, perhaps. Right now, however, she isn't smiling in the slightest. Her grim expression doesn’t do anything to help Atsumu’s already wretched mood, and as he lowers himself into the chair he turns his teary gaze towards her.
"Doc, am I gonna die?"
Wordlessly, she pushes a box of tissues towards him with the tip of a bony finger.
“The results of the x-ray are in, though I'm sure you must have come to your own conclusions by now," she begins, then frowns as Atsumu blows his nose loudly. "I regret to inform you that you have Hanahaki disease."
Atsumu sniffles loudly. "And how long do I have left to live?"
Her frown deepens. "Miya-senshu. It seems to me that you harbor several misconceptions about Hanahaki disease, but I can assure you that it is not usually fatal. Firstly, let's go over what it is, shall we? Hanahaki disease is an uncommon disorder triggered by extreme stress, and it primarily affects the lungs and airways. Sustained periods of negative emotion are the most frequent triggers, and anecdotally, unrequited love can cause a strong enough reaction to kick-start a sudden onset of symptoms.”
“You’re tellin' me I’m gonna die because I got friendzoned?” Atsumu asks miserably.
“No,” Dr Hanazawa sighs exasperatedly. “You are not going to die, Miya-senshu. I recognize that most people only have the faintest idea of what Hanahaki really is, and we have romance literature to blame for that. I certainly will not be surprised about your misunderstandings if that’s where you have been getting your information from?"
“It’s not,” Atsumu says in a nasally little voice, suddenly feeling defensive. “Do I look like the sort of person who reads romance novels?”
Dr Hanazawa pauses again, and looks at him over the top of her wire frame glasses. “No," she concedes, nodding. "You look like someone who doesn’t read at all."
“Hey—”
“Right, the first matter I’d like to clarify with you is that Hanahaki disease is a chronic condition and not a terminal one. Do you know what that means?”
Atsumu shakes his head.
“It means that yes, you are going to die, but only the same way that any of us are going to, eventually.”
“Oh."
“That’s right. In mild cases, some people with Hanahaki continue to live with the symptoms for the rest of their lives, all of which may be suppressed as much as possible through lifestyle changes. With that said, I’d still recommend working out a drug dosage plan for you as any disease that affects the respiratory system can be dangerous in your line of career.”
“But it's not an approved drug for athletes, and the competitive season is comin' up soon,” Atsumu protests.
Dr Hanazawa steeples her fingers. “Please, reconsider your decision. Medication is the most effective form of treatment. Diet and lifestyle changes may reduce symptoms to a certain extent, but medication is recommended as the most reliable and lasting treatment plan.”
Atsumu shakes his head. “Not happenin'. I can’t jeopardize my career. Do I have any other treatment options?”
Dr Hanazawa sighs. “No, I'm afraid not. You could make a full recovery if your feelings change, or if they become requited, but statistics tell us that chances are slim to none.”
Atsumu’s face falls.
“I’m sorry,” Dr Hanazawa says, offering a sympathetic smile. “Love is a sickness, Miya-senshu."
Atsumu rings the doorbell of Osamu’s apartment, waits five seconds, and then starts knocking. “Open up, scrub!”
Patience has never been one of his virtues. In fact, his mother often tells anyone who'll listen that she knew he wasn't made for waiting around just by how fast she'd given birth to him compared to his brother. Atsumu usually groans at this point and begs his mother not to tell random strangers at the supermarket about her time in the delivery room.
The door swings open and whatever other rude thing he had been planning to say to his brother dies on his lips at the sight of Suna standing on the doorstep in nothing but a pair of boxers.
“What are you doin’ here?” he demands.
Suna rubs at his eyes tiredly. “Slept over last night. Could you stop yelling? It’s seven in the morning.”
“Why aren’t you wearin’ clothes?”
“Slept with your brother. Next question.”
Atsumu lets out a scream so anguished it’s completely silent.
“Rin? Who is it?” Osamu asks from somewhere in the apartment.
“Atsumu.”
There’s a low curse from inside, and then Osamu appears beside Suna holding a pair of sweatpants alongside a muttered order to put on some goddamn pants at least. “Since when,” Atsumu asks in a strangled voice, pointer finger rapidly switching between his brother and Suna like a metronome on steroids, “was this a thing?”
Suna shrugs. “Two months? Three? Relax, it’s nothing serious. We’re just messing around.”
Atsumu doesn’t miss the small frown on Osamu’s face at his words. “Come in,” he mumbles. “It’s cold out.”
He wanders back inside, and Atsumu follows behind gingerly. For the first time in his life, he steps into the studio apartment like he doesn’t own the place, toeing off his shoes at the genkan carefully and walking on tippy toes to the sofa. “It smells like sex in here,” he complains, feeling ill.
Suna sniffs the air. “No it doesn’t, you liar. It smells like the IKEA furniture I helped your brother to build.”
Osamu gives him a look. “You used your phone the entire time and handed me a Phillips screwdriver when I asked for a Pozidriv.”
“I think it’s so sexy that you know what those words mean.”
“What’re you here for?” Osamu asks Atsumu, who’s debating the merits and perils of sitting on a sofa bed which his brother and Suna may or may not have fucked on. Eventually, he just decides to sit on the floor. Osamu makes a face but says nothing, which Atsumu takes to mean that he’s made the right choice.
“I got diagnosed with Hanahaki,” Atsumu says brightly, with no fanfare at all. Best to just rip the band-aid off.
Osamu stares. “What?”
Suna freezes with one leg into the sweatpants he had been putting on, looking up at him with wide eyes. Atsumu lets out a nervous laugh. “What’s with the faces? It’s not like I’m gonna die! Plenty of people carry on with their lives just fine even with Hanahaki.”
Osamu leans forward, studying Atsumu closely. “Yeah, regular people. Not professional athletes whose entire career hinges upon their physical fitness.”
Suna finishes putting on his pants. It’s probably Osamu’s, with the way it cuts off above his ankle awkwardly. “You won’t be able to play volleyball anymore,” he says quietly, and it’s perhaps the first time Atsumu has seen him look this serious.
He laughs again, forced and reedy. “Sure I can. I just won’t tell the team doctors.”
Suna shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous. What if something happens during training? Or worse, a real game? You’ll have to disclose it.”
“They’ll take me off the starting roster.”
Osamu’s frown deepens. “Your health is more important than anything, ‘Tsumu.”
“Volleyball is more important to me than anything.”
“Don’t be stubborn.”
Atsumu gives him a wry smile. “When in the history of ever has saying those words to me worked the way you want them to?”
Osamu sighs. “Who is it, anyway? Your flowers. Who are they for?”
Atsumu cranes his neck, squinting as he looks up at his brother. “Who else?”
“Someone clogged the toilet again,” Inunaki says at breakfast, staring directly at Atsumu. Several pairs of eyes swivel over to look at him.
“I think,” Atsumu says, “we may be jumpin’ to conclusions here.”
“We all know you don’t eat your vegetables, Atsumu,” Tomas says.
“And what’s that s’posed to mean?”
“It means your rock-hard shit clogged the damn toilet," Inunaki says. “Again.”
It’s hardly evidence beyond a reasonable doubt, but he has coughed out a floret or two into the toilet every now and then, so maybe it is his fault after all. But Atsumu isn't one for an admission of guilt, so he settles for a scowl and a begrudging promise to play plumber later.
Spending his rare day off trying to unclog a toilet is every bit as miserable as it sounds. It’s humid in the bathroom, he’s been at it for an hour, and the sound of the plunger stopped being funny after the second time.
There’s a knock on the door, and Atsumu opens it a crack. He peers out warily, only to find Sakusa standing beyond the threshold of the door. Speak of the devil and he shall appear wearing a mask and a pair of rubber cleaning gloves. The mask is black, because he likes to go incognito, and the gloves are hot pink because it was the only colour available at the store.
“Miya,” he says, then pauses, because he prefaces everything he says with dramatic delays like a corny supervillain from a children’s TV programme.
“What,” Atsumu asks impatiently. “I haven’t got all day.”
He can’t see his mouth behind the mask, but Atsumu just knows that his lips have stretched into that thin line that shows he’s irritated. But then Sakusa takes a deep breath as if to compose himself, and asks, “do you need my help?”
Atsumu’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline, then dip back down immediately afterwards as he narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one.”
“What do you stand to gain from this?” he asks suspiciously.
“Nothing,” Sakusa says, but Atsumu continues to look at him through narrowed eyes. He hears a heavy exhale behind the mask that lets him know that he's growing exasperated with him. “It’s just— I heard you retching earlier,” he says, “and I was wondering if you were alright doing all the dirty work by yourself.”
He hadn't been retching. He'd been coughing up broccoli. But Sakusa doesn't need to know that.
Atsumu blinks. “Why do you care?”
“I can stop any time if it bothers you that much,” Sakusa deadpans.
Atsumu relents. “Fine, I’ll accept your help. Come on in then,” he says, opening the door wider to reveal the crime scene. “You might wanna get some rubber booties, though. I flooded the place a little.”
“I see that now,” Sakusa says dryly. “Give me a moment, I’ll be right back.”
Sakusa’s waterproof footwear of choice turns out to be two plastic grocery bags tied around either foot. Atsumu takes one look at them and bursts out laughing.
“What?” Sakusa asks, scowling. “Never heard of ‘reduce, reuse, recycle’?”
“That’s not gonna work,” Atsumu snorts, gesturing at their watery surroundings.
“Yes, it will,” Sakusa insists very seriously. “I double-knotted them.”
Atsumu rolls his eyes and hands him a mop and a bucket. “Suit yourself. You’re on overflow duty. Try to get as much of the water back into this bucket. Don’t worry, it’s not doo doo water.” He pauses. “Not all of it, at least.”
Sakusa takes the items from him gingerly, and his face immediately takes on a green cast as he wades into the flooded bathroom. Atsumu eyes his sickly countenance for a moment, then sighs. “Look. You don’t have to help, if you really can’t do it. I appreciate it enough that you offered.”
Sakusa shakes his head determinedly. “No. I’ll help. It’s only right.”
“Aw, you’re gonna make me cry,” Atsumu says, struggling not to roll his eyes again. “The lone wolf decides to be a team player. A real tearjerker.”
Sakusa gives him a look. “Right,” Atsumu says, straightening up and clearing his throat. “I’ll stop being an asshole now.”
They clean together in silence after that, with nothing but the lovely gurgle of the plunger as the soundtrack to an overall extremely charming experience. At one point, Sakusa gags and hides his face in the crook of his elbow, panting heavily. Atsumu considerately and politely asks to know if he's okay, only to be rebuffed and told to mind his own business.
"Someone's got a stick up their ass, damn," Atsumu mutters.
Sakusa sends him a baleful glare. "I'll stick my foot up yours if you don't shut up."
Fighting words, but lucky for him Atsumu isn't in the habit of beating up the sons of multibillionaires with the nation's best attorneys on speed dial.
After what feels like forever, he discovers the cause of the clog and clears his own name in the process, though if you ask him he’d much rather take the blame than accept the gross reality of what he’s just discovered. He clears his throat. “Um, Omi? I think I found out what’s been clogging the toilet.”
Sakusa shuffles over in a flurry of rustling plastic bags. He peers into the toilet as Atsumu points, though there’s no real need for the action because there’s quite literally nothing else he could be referring to. A second passes, then two. Finally, Sakusa says in a voice so filled with visceral disgust, “is that Bokuto’s dead goldfish?”
“Looks like Stephen, alright.”
“You know what? I hate this fucking house.” He storms away after that, but there’s only so far he can go in a cramped bathroom. Atsumu respects the dramatics all the same.
He manages to fish out the, well, fish, and clears the clog, triumphantly flushing the toilet multiple times to let the entire household know of his rousing success. Sakusa gives him a begrudging round of applause for his efforts and he offers a curtsy in response, but Sakusa pointedly stares in the opposite direction as he does so. That's showbiz. They mop up the rest of the spill together afterwards, Sakusa appearing remarkably less like the vomit emoji once they move on to bleaching the entire place.
“Thanks for the help,” Atsumu says when they're done, washing his hands and looking over his shoulder to send him an appreciative nod.
Sakusa grunts out a response from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, busy working off his plastic-bag shoes. Miraculously, they did work, and his feet are somehow completely dry. He straightens up once he’s done, taking a step towards the towel rack.
And completely slips on the still-wet floor.
Atsumu sees it happen in slow motion, a blur of dark hair and hot pink in his periphery as Sakusa goes careening to the ground, an aborted yelp leaving his lips. Atsumu's reflexes kick in immediately, arms shooting out to catch him mid-fall in a clumsy hold that has himself slipping as well, but then Sakusa’s hands reach around his waist to grab at the edge of the sink, and Atsumu suddenly finds himself sandwiched between him and the sink countertop, the marble edge cold where it digs into the small of his back.
For several drawn-out seconds there’s nothing but the sound of heavy breathing echoing off the walls of the bathroom while they steady themselves, and Atsumu suddenly becomes aware of the proximity of Sakusa’s face to his. He can count each individual eyebrow hair. He can see his pores. And he's used to looking up at him under normal circumstances, but their current position has this pattern reversed and Sakusa now stares up at him unblinkingly with round, wide eyes, like a deer trying its best to get hit by a car on the freeway. His bottom lashes are surprisingly thick, and Atsumu is close enough to spot the small freckle in the white of his left eye, almost unnoticeable where it sits flush against his waterline.
“You okay?” Atsumu whispers, arms wound around his waist where he'd grabbed onto for purchase earlier. His grip loosens now, fingers splayed across Sakusa’s ribcage gently, tentatively. He doesn’t know why he’s whispering. Sakusa’s chest against his is very warm. There’s a slight flush high on his cheeks. Their noses are a hair's breadth from touching, and Atsumu is shocked to realize how much he wants to close that gap even with the damn mask in the way.
But then Sakusa’s eyes return to their usual size, he turns his gaze away, and begins extricating himself from Atsumu's hold. “I’m fine,” he says, monotonous voice sounding far too loud in the small space. “You can let go of me now, Miya.”
“R-right,” Atsumu says, disentangling their limbs and stepping away from him to stare at the ground. There’s a tickle in his throat.
“Thanks,” Sakusa says gruffly, “for catching me.”
“No problem,” Atsumu says, trying to keep his tone light, but the itch in his throat only grows more intense and soon he’s coughing violently into his hand.
Sakusa backs away slowly, eyes wary. “Are you sick?”
Atsumu shakes his head quickly, looking up at him through watery eyes. Sakusa doesn’t look convinced. “I’m just…I’m gonna go,” is all he says before he departs quickly, shutting the door behind him with a click.
Atsumu coughs until there’s a large white flower sitting in the palm of his hand, the waxy petals furled and tinged with red — a magnolia, he thinks. He blinks against the wetness in his eyes, staring at the shut door all the while and willing it otherwise. He’s not sure if the tears are from the coughing fit or if they mean something more, but there’s a flower in his hand and the taste of metal in his lungs, so really, there’s his answer. He wraps the bloodied mess up in toilet paper with shaky hands, then tosses it into the bin and washes his hands again afterwards, scrubbing at his skin and nails until the water runs clear, and reminds himself that his sickness isn't caused by love after all, but the lack thereof.
He searches it up online later and it confirms his suspicions, though he doesn’t exactly need it spelled out for him to know that coughing up a new kind of flower in such a short timespan can't be a good thing — it’s progressing quickly, his disease. Much faster than it should, according to the many health sites he’s navigated through. Coughing out a different flower isn’t at all uncommon, but what’s worrying is that it’s begun this soon.
The root system, he thinks hazily, staring blankly at his computer screen. He feels like Sakusa himself, frantically searching up each and every minute symptom the second they appear and running his own anxiety through the roof when it brings up a match. Except he’s not a hypochondriac like him, and the symptoms aren’t half made-up by his own brain.
Slowly, his left hand slides under his shirt and comes up to rest against his chest, palm flat against the muscle beneath the skin. Inhale, Exhale. He imagines feeling something underneath his fingertips as he breathes, a whole network of roots and plant growth just sitting there beneath the surface of his skin, siphoning his air and energy with each breath.
He drops his hand.
“Fuck,” he whispers shakily, closing his eyes. “I'm so fucking dumb. Why did I have to go and fall for him?”
He hadn’t meant to. But then again, who does? Nobody chooses to fall in love, they just do. If you had told his high school self that he would fall in love with Sakusa Kiyoomi the way people fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once, he’d tell you to shut the fuck up and stop quoting The Fault in Our Stars. Then, if you asked him how he knew what book that quote was from, he’d probably turn very red and stomp away, but because he’s Miya Atsumu and always has to have the last word, he’d probably stomp back after a while, jab his finger in your face, and obstinately declare that he’d never, ever, fall for the asshole with the ugly, frizzy hair.
"Your hair looks like seaweed,” Atsumu says, walking up to the taller of the two Itachiyama boys he’s taken to calling Tokyo Banana and Polka Dots respectively. He knows what their actual names are, it's just easier to be a dick. More fun, too.
"And yours looks like piss," Tokyo Banana replies without missing a beat. He's got a razor-sharp tongue to match the pointed canines that show when he smiles, mocking and unkind. It makes him look like a predator, and it's hard not to feel like you're being hunted for sport when he looks straight at you with that calculating gaze of his. Atsumu suspects he's already painted a huge target on his back by now, simply by existing in his near vicinity. But at least the distaste is mutual.
"I'd see a doctor if I were you,” Atsumu retorts, hands in the pockets of his track jacket while he watches him stretch. He's got funny wrists that bend this way and that, like his hands are made of Play-Doh or something. “Something’s gotta be terribly wrong with your kidneys if your pee is this colour."
He looks up sharply. "That's not funny. My uncle died of renal failure last year."
Atsumu blanches immediately. "Shit. I'm sorry, I didn’t—"
"That was a lie. I don't have an uncle, you fucking loser.”
Atsumu sputters in indignation, and then Sakusa Kiyoomi is laughing at him and Atsumu decides that he’s finally met his match.
It’s been years since they were both sweaty teenagers and top contenders for the world’s worst hairstyle, but nothing much has changed other than the two of them discovering purple shampoo and diffuser attachments respectively. That, and maybe the fact that Atsumu is in love with Sakusa and Sakusa values him only slightly more than a common cockroach. An improvement, all things considered.
It’s unfortunate, but somewhere along the line he began to realize that abrasiveness aside, Sakusa's personality wasn’t even half bad. He rather liked it, actually — one man's trash is another man's treasure — and he would have done something about his feelings if not for the fact that Sakusa liked to act as if he himself had none whatsoever.
He’s heard the words I don’t date slip past his lips countless times as he rebuffs the affections of yet another jilted lover, finally disillusioned as they stand in the doorway of his room the morning after a sordid affair. Atsumu doesn’t make it a habit to eavesdrop on his teammates’ love lives too often — he prefers to be regaled by the tales in person, illicit details and all — but his room is right beside Sakusa’s in the share house that they live in, and the walls really aren’t as soundproof as they ought to be. Regardless, it’s not like his next-door neighbor tries particularly hard to hide his nighttime activities, anyway, because that’s just all they are to him — an easy thing to blow off some steam. Never the same face twice, never a long-term arrangement, never anything serious.
Cool, casual, no-strings-attached, and very, very bad news for the poor guy who’s head over heels for him.
Atsumu steps out of his room at the same time that Sakusa does. There’s a brief moment where surprise colours both of their faces, before Sakusa recovers and offers a perfunctory good morning.
Atsumu has often wondered why he bothers to live in the share house with the rest of them when he's got the money to live practically anywhere else. He's looked up the net worth of Mommy and Daddy Sakusa before, and it's definitely enough to get a nice penthouse with a glittering view of the Osaka skyline, or maybe a charming loft apartment with lots of light and room to breathe. Certainly something much more befitting of the baby of the family than the bare-bones residence they call home, with cramped bedrooms and communal bathrooms.
“Going for a run?” Atsumu asks, though he already has his answer by virtue of Sakusa’s outfit of choice: a MSBY training tee, running shorts, and compression leggings underneath. That, and the fact that he goes running almost every morning of the week.
It’s more than a little bit insane. They do upwards of forty-two hours of grueling training a week, and he chooses to top that all off with extra cardio any chance he gets. Atsumu thinks it’s a compulsion, almost, the way he obsesses over his cardiovascular health in a manner not even anyone else in their line of work would. His resting heart rate is probably in the insanely low forties, and he'd likely get verbal confirmation from the man himself if he asks, because Sakusa wears a little fitbit around his wrist everywhere he goes. Outside of volleyball, he never takes it off, and Atsumu knows it's so that he can look down every now and then to check his heart rate and oxygen levels to remind himself that he's indeed still superhuman and better than everybody else.
Sometimes Atsumu wonders if he might be an alien. That, or an incredibly realistic robot. The Sakusa family's best-kept secret, maybe.
Sakusa nods in response to his earlier question, and the action draws Atsumu’s attention to the blue-purple bruising by his pulse point. It looks fresh. Unconsciously, his eyes flick over Sakusa’s shoulder, catching a glimpse of his bed past the doorway. The mattress has been stripped of its bedding, and there’s nobody else in the room.
“He left in a hurry earlier,” Sakusa says quickly, sounding almost defensive. Atsumu doesn't know what he has to defend. “Didn’t even get his name. Not that it would matter, I suppose.”
Atsumu shoots him a doubtful look. “I heard you yell ‘Shinji’ last night."
“Twice,” he adds, when Sakusa looks unconvinced.
The taller male considers this for a moment. “How likely do you think that was his name?”
“Not at all.”
“Then that would explain the hasty exit this morning. And the sock he threw at me on his way out.”
“Callous.”
“I know, it was unwashed.”
“I meant you. You really don’t treat your one-night-stands too kindly, do you?”
Sakusa shrugs. “I don’t see the point. I mean, it’s just sex. It's their fault for expecting something more.”
He walks away after that, and Atsumu watches his retreating back with a frown. It's just sex. Just a bodily function, a means to an end. You get an itch, you scratch it. You get pent-up, you bring a stranger home from the bar.
Easy, straightforward, and uncomplicated. It's the lens through which he views the world, and Atsumu, with all his messy, tricky feelings, has no place in any of that tidy, manicured neatness.
The ball ricochets off of Atsumu’s hands, smooth leather making contact with the tips of his fingers for the briefest of moments before redirecting to cut an arc towards Sakusa’s waiting hand. Almost. He misses, and the ball falls to the ground on the same side of the net with a pathetic slap. Atsumu immediately turns an accusing glare at him.
"Interesting way of playing volleyball you got there, Omi-kun. The way I'm used to playing it, though, is to actually touch the goddamn ball."
"Too high," Sakusa grits out, teeth clenched. "That set was too damn high and you know it."
"Jump higher."
So he does, but this time Atsumu adjusts his set to meet the height of his previous vertical, and his hand swings just shy of the ball again. Sakusa sends him a disgruntled look. Atsumu clears his throat sheepishly.
"My bad. Didn't think you were gonna follow instructions."
On the third try, Atsumu's sweaty palm slips and the ball is sent off course by several degrees. Sakusa fumbles and though he manages to get a hand on it, the resultant spike lacks power and lands with a weak plop on the other side.
"I don't think this is working out," he sighs, staring at the ball as it rolls across the lines of the court.
"'Course it's not," Atsumu pants out, wiping his hands on his shorts. "There'd be a lot more cardio, don’tcha think?"
On the next try, Sakusa moves faster than Atsumu's set, leaping into the air before the ball manages to even graze his fingers. He lands on the balls of his feet, and quickly levels Atsumu with a glare.
“Could you go any slower?”
“Is that a challenge?”
Sakusa groans. "Miya, quit being stubborn. We've been at it for hours now and it hasn't worked even once. Give it up."
"Maybe because your mouth has been workin’ hardest all day."
“Why are you so hellbent on this new quick set anyway?”
“As if you don't want it to work as much as I do."
Sakusa doesn't respond to that, but the ball he tosses Atsumu for another set is all the answer he needs. Unfortunately, the next couple of attempts are just as unsuccessful, fatigue causing both of them to repeatedly make otherwise avoidable mistakes.
"That's it," Sakusa calls, leaning over with his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. "Let's call it a day."
"What? No. I've still got plenty of juice left in me."
Sakusa scoffs. "Oh, please. You can't even stand."
"Can't stand you," Atsumu mumbles, lying spread-eagled on the floor. His entire back is soaked through with sweat, and there'll no doubt be an unattractive print of his ass on the floor when he gets up.
"Right, you're exhausted. Even your comebacks aren't clever anymore."
"What, you think I’m funny?” Atsumu preens, then frowns. “Where are you going? You can’t leave me to clean up all by myself!”
Sakusa glances at the stray volleyballs littering the entire expanse of the gym, shrugs, and continues to walk away.
“Hey!”
He dodges the shoe Atsumu hurls at the back of his head, and the heavy door swings shut behind him. Atsumu lies in the middle of the court, fuming.
“Stupid,” he mutters, glaring at the ceiling. “Stupid Omi!” he yells, hoping that sound travels easily through the walls. His voice echoes throughout the empty gym, and he scowls. After a minute, he considers getting up, but flops back down after a half sit-up, groaning as sore muscles protest the action. Craning his neck, he tries to do a mental count of all the volleyballs dotting the space, but loses count in the mid-thirties and gives up.
“Stupid Omi,” he mutters again. “Mean, ugly, stinky, nasty, stupid— ”
“Weren’t you taught not to say unkind things about someone behind their back?”
A shadow blocks the overhead light, and something icy-cold touches his cheek. Atsumu goes cross-eyed staring at the bottle of isotonic drink Sakusa tries to balance on his forehead, before he relents and hands it to him instead.
“For me?” Atsumu asks happily, sitting up. “Ooh, grape. My favorite.”
“I know,” Sakusa mutters, seating himself cross-legged on the ground beside him to twist open his own bottle.
They gulp down their drinks in silence for a moment, before Atsumu lets out a pleased ahh and flops back down onto the floor. He folds his hands beneath his head, staring into the air pensively.
“You know, I thought we would’ve gotten this new quick set down easy peasy,” he admits, angling his head slightly to the side to look up at Sakusa. “Really didn’t think we’d be strugglin’ like this.”
“Same here,” Sakusa sighs.
“This sucks,” Atsumu whines, rolling around on the floor. “This! Sucks!”
“Stop acting like a baby,” Sakusa chides, getting to his feet. “Let’s just clean up and go home. We’ll try again tomorrow, and maybe we’ll have better luck after a good night’s rest.”
He picks up Atsumu’s empty bottle for recycling, then kicks his discarded shoe back to him. “Come on, Cinderella.”
“Does that make you Prince Charming, then?”
“If the shoe fits.”
“Oh, that’s clever.”
“Hey,” Sakusa begins, as they’re freshening up in the locker room afterwards. “Are you free on the last Saturday of next month?”
Atsumu pokes his head through the neck of a clean T-shirt and glances over. “Who's asking?”
“The royal family,” Sakusa says, rolling his eyes. “Me, duh.”
Atsumu pretends to think for a moment as he pulls his arms through the sleeves. “Sorry, I'm going shopping with 'Samu.”
The last time Sakusa made plans involving the two of them, he had tricked him into running a full marathon with him, and it was only sheer spite and single-minded competitiveness that brought him to the finish line, by which point he'd exhausted both himself and all the insults he could think of for Sakusa, and resigned himself to lying supine on the grass beside the medical tent looking for all the world like a squashed bug while Sakusa, already changed into his finisher's tee and rummaging through his post-race bag for a granola bar, occasionally kicked him just to check that he was still alive.
Sakusa pulls his head out of his locker now to pin him with an annoyed look. It's just a slight narrowing of his eyes, a minute shift in countenance that gives away nothing to the uninitiated, but Atsumu has long since perfected the art of deciphering his grand total of two and a half expressions: one, 'smug', two, 'annoyed', and three, 'neutral'. That last one also doubles as bored, because it just so happens to be his default setting.
"I'm not asking because I was going to sign you up for another marathon," he says tersely.
"Good, because I nearly died the last time."
And lost both his nipples, too. It only took him slightly over twenty kilometers to figure out why they had been giving out free Vaseline at the start.
"You're an Olympic-level athlete. It should've been a piece of cake for you."
"I'm an Olympic-level volleyballer, meaning I have no interest in something if it doesn't involve balls."
Expression Number One kicks in, and Atsumu cringes immediately. "Don't say it, don't say it, I heard it as soon as I said it."
"Don't worry, I don't go for low-hanging fruit."
So he says, but his expression doesn't let up in the slightest, and Atsumu hurries to clear his name.
"Get your mind out of the gutter," he grumbles. "My point was that running has no tactical aspect, it's literally just putting one foot in front of the other. Volleyball's different. You gotta actually think, use your brain and make decisions. I like that. I enjoy being challenged."
Sakusa's smile only grows wider, canines glinting in the fluorescent lights. "Oh, like vertically?"
"You just said you don't go for low-hanging fruit!"
"Only because I'm tall enough to reach the ones on top."
"You are so— whatever. Why're you asking anyway?"
"My sister's getting engaged and I thought you might want to come to her engagement party."
"For the free food," he hurries to add, after a brief moment’s pause.
"Well, why didn't you lead with that," Atsumu cries. "In that case I'm freer than the second bottle of shampoo in a two-for-one deal."
Sakusa scowls. "You just said you had plans with your brother."
"I'm also a liar, Omi, keep up," Atsumu says, snapping his fingers in front of his face several times. "Tell Kana-san congratulations for me, and that I'll definitely be there on the twenty-eighth!"
"You're being weirdly excited about this," Sakusa says, eyes narrowing.
"Dude. Your sister's hot, what do you want me to say?"
"And what part of her engagement to another man are you not understanding?"
"Just because there's a middle blocker in the way doesn't mean you can't still score."
Sakusa twists the towel in his hands tightly and smacks Atsumu with it, hard. Several times.
"Ow, ow, ow! I won't try anything funny! Promise!"
Sakusa steps back with a pissed-off expression. "You'd better not," he threatens, before walking off to use the shower. Atsumu makes a rude gesture at his back.
There's something wrong with Sakusa's wrists today. To be fair, there's something wrong with them all the time — they really shouldn't be able to bend like that — but there's something wrong with them today that's causing him pain, and that makes for a new and worrying development. Atsumu notices something amiss as early as the middle of practice, when a well-timed spike of his is received by their libero with so little fuss the guy hadn't even dropped a knee. Their third-string libero, the baby-faced rookie fresh out of high school. Wet behind the ears and with barely any experience playing against Sakusa and his nasty spins. So it really shouldn't have happened, not unless Sakusa was off his usual game.
Atsumu glances at him now, knees bent and torso angled, eyes on the ball as it sails over the net. Nothing abnormal about his form to the untrained eye. But he's spent years playing with him, watched him for even longer, and something tells him that Sakusa's pesky joints are causing him trouble again. Setter's intuition. Neighborly concern. Being a busybody. Whatever you want to call it.
"You good?" Atsumu asks him during a break afterwards, studying his face for signs of discomfort. He finds none.
"Yeah," Sakusa responds, just a beat too slow. "I'm fine."
Well, someone's a liar. But that's only to be expected. For all his complexities and intricacies, Sakusa's motivations have always been plainly transparent to him, because when it comes down to it, his very person can be boiled down to a single bouillon cube of pride and self-sufficiency. Strong flavours for a two-ingredient soup, but Atsumu just so happens to be a glutton for that stuff. And he's no chef, but he's been around Sakusa long enough to know that extending any sort of help to him is a masterclass in persuasion. There's a sort of delicateness to the entire affair, a fine balance to be struck: too soft in the initial proposition and he'll shut it down before it's even begun; push too hard and his walls come up. Being nice to him is both an art form and a precise science, and Atsumu is well-versed in neither but thinks he's figured it out all the same.
The locker room empties out quickly once practice ends, leaving him to sit in the middle of the benches with nothing but the sound of running water to accompany him. Sakusa always takes long in the showers, longer than anyone else, but today he's set a brand-new record. The shower has been on non-stop the entire time, and the steam wafting from the top of the stall lets Atsumu know that the temperature's turned all the way to boiling. Probably the only way he'll get some relief from the stiffness in his joints. Atsumu frowns, then taps his foot absently as he waits. He'd wanted to help earlier, when he saw Sakusa struggle to peel away his compression sleeves and knee pads, fine motor skills rendered useless by the joint pain. He'd wanted so badly to help him then, anything to smooth away the scowl on his face and gently tug his bottom lip out from where they were clamped so harshly between his teeth they must have drawn blood. But Sakusa's frustration with himself is his own war, and Atsumu knows better than to meddle where his help isn't welcome.
It's self-serving, in a way, trying to be nice to him all the time. He's nowhere near to being the most considerate person in the world, but strangely enough he's nothing but helpful when it comes to Sakusa. Or maybe it isn't strange, because being helpful makes him feel useful. Needed. Not nearly the same as being wanted, but it's close, and he'll take what he can get. Selfish as he is, though, he knows when not to push it. Caring for Sakusa, really caring about him, is realizing that helping him isn't always about being there by his side. Sometimes, leaving him alone is the kindest thing you can do. It took Atsumu an embarrassingly long time to realize that. But he knows now that caring for Sakusa isn't linear; it's a push and pull, a partner dance to an unknown choreography. Two steps forward, one step back. A waltz so slow the dancers barely seem to move at all from the outside looking in. But slowly, surely, he's getting the hang of it. Left foot here, right foot there. Move to your own beat but make room for the other. Let him take your hand, don't step on his toes.
Work your way up to the dip.
So Atsumu waits, patient and unhurried, until the water shuts off and Sakusa steps out with wet hair and tiredness in the shadows of his face.
"I thought you would've left already."
Atsumu looks up from his phone and pretends to look sheepish. "I'm taking an Uber home. Was hoping you'd wanna split the fare with me."
Sakusa looks unimpressed. "You've been playing pro for far longer than I have. I don't even think we're in the same tax bracket at this point."
"Your parents are literally celebrities."
"So? That's their money. Not mine."
"Fair enough. So, Uber?"
Sakusa rolls his eyes. "Give me five minutes to get my stuff."
"No worries. I've been waiting forty, what's another five?"
He grins at the scowl sent his way, then goes back to staring at his phone while Sakusa packs his things, occasionally sneaking glances over while he isn't looking. His hair is still damp, unstyled and frizzing lightly in the humidity of the room, and Atsumu likes him best like this. He always likes him, will like him even if he grows a mullet or gets frosted tips or goes entirely bald, but there's something about Sakusa with his hair down that's just…special. It makes him look younger, more boyish, an unusual softness about his appearance that tempers his harsh and unyielding edges. This way, he looks almost gentle. This way, Atsumu thinks he could make even the dip happen.
"I'm done," Sakusa says, zipping up his gym bag and hoisting it over his shoulder. "Let's go."
"Okay," Atsumu says, picking up his own bag and making for the exit.
He talks the whole way to the pickup location, filling the silence with inane chatter and rambling monologues to distract Sakusa from the pain but keep the pressure of conversation off of him at the same time. And when their ride arrives he clambers into the backseat alongside him but sticks his bag in the gap between the two of them, ever mindful of his personal space. After a brief exchange of greetings with the driver, silence settles into the spaces between them and Atsumu keeps himself busy with his phone while Sakusa stares out the window wordlessly. Like most interactions with him go, it's quiet but not uncomfortably so. Atsumu scrolls through his social media apps mindlessly until he stumbles upon a post on a forum discussing his skill as a setter. It's not the first time he's lurked on one of these discussions, curiosity getting the better of him even though he knows it's unwise to get caught up in what people on the internet have to say.
There are mostly kind comments, and the good far outnumber the bad, but for every ten supportive statements there's a negative one. His eyebrows draw further and further together the more he scrolls, his inner critic echoing the harshest fault-finders as if to say see? I told you you weren’t good enough . It's a measured discussion as far as the internet goes, but something about armchair observers rehashing his shortcomings sends a sudden spike of bitter insecurity through him, threatening to breach the surface of his unflappable facade. The top reply in particular has hundreds of upvotes, three digits that feel like a slap to his face:
Honestly? I think Kageyama is the better setter, even if Miya might be one of my favorite players at the moment. Don't get me wrong, I think his play style is a lot more fun and he's unafraid to try out new things, which makes him the far more entertaining player to watch, definitely, but at the same time that same unpredictability is also his Achilles' heel. When he's good he's really good, better than Kageyama even, but the problem is that he's not always in top form. Kageyama is far more consistent in that regard, and as much as I'm a fan of Miya I have to admit that he's just not very reliable in a pinch.
"What's the matter with you? You look constipated."
Atsumu looks up to find Sakusa's gaze pinned on him. He shakes his head. "It's nothing."
Sakusa looks unconvinced. "What are you looking at?" he asks, gesturing at his phone. As usual, he's far too perceptive for his own good.
Atsumu sighs, then angles his screen towards him for a better look. "They're discussing the national team setters," he mumbles.
Sakusa's face is blank as his eyes scan across the screen, taking in the words. He looks up when he's done, and it's not like Atsumu had been expecting any form of reassurance from him, but when he cocks his head and says, "they're right," it feels like a knife to his gut all the same.
"Cheers," Atsumu mutters, sending him a half-hearted thumbs-up before locking his phone and turning away to look out the window. Something flutters uncomfortably in his chest, and he swallows thickly.
"It's true, you know. You do have a bit of a problem with making consistent plays."
Atsumu feels his scowl deepen, shoulders subconsciously withdrawing as if to make himself even smaller than he already feels. "Okay," he grits out. “Good to know. Thanks.”
Sakusa leans over to peer at him curiously. "Are you upset?"
"No."
"Liar."
"Fuck off," Atsumu says, tone clipped. "I'm not upset, ‘kay? It's just strangers on the internet saying things. I don't care."
"But you do. You're doing the thing where your jaw locks up because you're upset but don't want to say the wrong thing."
Atsumu unclenches his jaw, but continues to say nothing. Sakusa stares at him for a little while.
"It's not a bad thing, you know,” he says, after a protracted silence. “You're nowhere as consistent as Kageyama, sure, but—”
“Will you just fucking leave it?” Atsumu snaps.
Sakusa looks at him, wide-eyed, before his eyes narrow into slits. “If you would just let me finish, I was going to say that I don’t think your inconsistency makes you a bad setter. You don't send the same tosses ten out of ten times, or even nine out of ten times, and some people see that as a problem, but I disagree. I think your volatility is your greatest strength. You don’t hit the ball the same way every time, but that’s because you’re always analyzing your spikers first, assessing their condition and fatigue levels. And then you give them the set you feel is best for the situation. Sometimes your judgment is off, sometimes you don't make the right call, but I’m telling you now that a lot of the time your call is the right call. So stop being so hard on yourself.”
“Okay,” Atsumu says.
Sakusa frowns. “‘Okay’?”
“What, were you expecting a ‘thank you’? I know you don’t mean any of that. You’re just being nice to me now as damage control.”
"I don’t aim to be nice, Miya,” Sakusa scoffs. “I aim to be honest."
"Well then maybe you should aim to be nice. Maybe then people might actually like you.”
An emotion Atsumu doesn't recognize flashes across Sakusa’s face, before he turns away without another word, anger in the tense line of his shoulders. The rest of the ride back home is done in icy silence.
The first thing Sakusa does when they get home is to take another shower. Atsumu goes to the kitchen and starts making dinner for himself, but after a brief moment of hesitation he decides to make a second serving as well. He reaches into the fridge to retrieve two salmon filets, pausing when he catches sight of several food containers stacked neatly in the corner of the fridge. They're Sakusa's. He gets them delivered at the start of each week, an expensive subscription plan that covers two meals a day, five days a week. It's exactly the sort of micromanaging to be expected from someone like him, protein and carbohydrates pre-portioned down to the milligram. Atsumu stares at the two packages of salmon in his hands, worrying his lip between his teeth.
Oh, to hell with it.
He’s made plenty of bad decisions in his life, what’s one more? Even his hair eventually grew back after that one time he shaved it all off with clippers in a stress-induced decision made in the early hours of the morning. Besides, if he does get turned down later, it's not like it'll be the most devastating thing to come out of today. All the same, he finds himself reaching into the fridge to inspect one of those boxed meals. Just simple curiosity, he tells himself.
Sakusa is getting scammed, he decides, staring at unseasoned chicken breasts, boiled spinach, and plain brown rice. There's a reason the packaging promises lean protein and high fiber, but makes no such assurance about flavour. It also claims the chicken to have been prepared through sous vide, which only serves to kick his skepticism a notch higher. He doesn't trust sous vide. Doesn't respect it, either. It's food cooked in a little plastic baggie, for god's sake. What about that sounds safe or respectable to anyone? He'd had an argument about it with Osamu once, who made a compelling argument for the case of sixty-three degree eggs, but apart from soft-boiled eggs he's confident that there isn't anything else that sous vide can do better than traditional food preparation methods. Sure, it's great for producing consistent results, but rigid consistency is what you look for in robots and factories and quick sets if you're Kageyama Tobio, apparently. If he's allowed any say in it, cooking should be more like playing volleyball his way: careful and loving. From the heart.
Unreliable.
He puts the container back into the fridge, and slams the door hard enough to send Bokuto's kombucha bottles rattling.
Fuck sous vide.
Sakusa steps into the kitchen nearly an hour later with wet hair, and makes a beeline for the fridge. Atsumu hesitates long enough for a microwaveable meal to be in his hands before he finally musters up enough courage to clear his throat.
“Um,” he begins eloquently, “I made you dinner.”
Sakusa turns at the sound of his voice, gaze landing on the plate of salmon and vegetables he holds out with both hands like a peace offering. He stares at it for so long that Atsumu begins to fidget and regret the whole thing altogether.
“Nevermind,” he mumbles. “You don’t have to eat it. I’ll give it to Bo—”
“Thank you,” Sakusa murmurs, reaching out to take the plate from him. “What is the salmon marinated with? Soy sauce?”
Atsumu nods uncertainly. “And miso. Is that too much sodium for you?”
“More than I’m used to having for dinner,” he admits.
Atsumu grimaces. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. Don’t feel like you have to eat it, then.”
Sakusa shakes his head. “I want to, though. You made it for me. And I like fish.”
“But what about your chicken and vegetables?”
Sakusa glances at the microwaveable box in his other hand like he’s just now remembering it, and shrugs. “I can eat it in the morning.”
Dinner for breakfast.
What’s next, breakfast for lunch? And after that, lunch for dinner? That’s insanity. Sakusa is a creature of habit. He practically lives to make order out of chaos — if he could, he’d try to arrange even the stars in the night sky into neat little rows. There's nothing he hates more than when his system of doing things is thrown into disarray, because his way isn't just the best way; it's the only way.
“Thanks for the meal,” he says softly, before walking away with his plate of salmon like any of this is supposed to make sense. Atsumu stares at his retreating back, head spinning.
Winner, winner, not the chicken dinner.