Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I will come to embrace ya once more in spring, when the forsythias and plum blossoms are in full bloom.”

“I dunno what to do.”

“Ya said that a gazillion times, for Pete’s sake, Tsumu, shut the hell up. I’m tryin’ to get a business runnin’ here.”

“’S not like yer aimin’ for a Michelin star or –“

“Cut the ham over there.”

Atsumu puffs his cheeks, grumbling as he cut the block of ham into cubes. His twin brother, Osamu, also the owner of Onigiri Miya, turns to him with a puzzled frown. “It’s a sweet chance, ain’t it? Ya were dyin’ to get an offer from a Division 1 team; the other ones all had contracted setters. The Jackals are renowned, yeah? They got Fukurodani’s Bokuto, too.”

“I mean, ‘m fine with Bokuto, and the lineup is solid. It’s just,” he glares at the pink ham cubes, “y’know.”

A sizzling noise erupts from Osamu’s pan as he stirs the onions. “Don’t tell me yer wrackin’ yer head over this because Sakusa Kiyoomi is on the team?”

Silence. Sizzle, sizzle. Chop, chop.

“Grow up, Tsumu, Jesus Christ.”

“Ya just don’t get it!”

“Well, maybe it’s ‘cause ya never told me why ya hate his guts so much!”

Atsumu slashes through the ham with a frustrated swing. “’S not like I hate ‘im, I,” he squints at the smashed cubes, “… we don’t get along.”

“Ya don’t get along with ninety-five percent of the human population, how is he any special?”

“As I said, it’s not that simple.”

“Trust me, Sakusa won’t give a shit about ya joinin’ the team.” He pouts, his lips protruding. His twin smacks him with the oily spatula and Atsumu screeches. “Ya can’t possibly resent the guy more than ya love volleyball. Are ya really gonna let yer feelings take over yer years of effort and perseverance?”

Osamu had a point, of course, because Osamu always, unfailingly had a point. This was a once-in-a-lifetime – well, no, he’s only twenty-two – but he’s been waiting for this opportunity since he’s graduated high school. Coach Foster had requested him to sign a contract with the Jackals and promised a regular setter position on the team for him. Even Suna is with the EJP Raijins; Atsumu can’t afford to fall behind.

It’s just – Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“Yer an idiot, but yer not an idiot, Tsumu.”

“The heck does that even mean?”

“Note the difference in emphasis.” Osamu steals a glimpse at him and resumes his stirring, “What’s with yer reluctance when it comes to Sakusa, anyway? Yer not that kinda person, and I know what kinda person ya are better than anyone on this planet.”

“He’s,” he furrows his brows, “a scrub.”

“Doesn’t seem significant, comin’ from ya,” shaking his head, Osamu grunts, “if ya don’t wanna tell me, then fine, but I dunno what could’ve been so bad.”

Bad?

It wasn’t bad, not really.

Not bad, but worse.

There is not much which Miya Atsumu remembers with extreme clarity.

He forgets what he ate for breakfast. He has to write down his assignments in journals because he can’t even memorize his year-long academic schedule. There was a time when he had been so immersed in volleyball practice that he almost didn’t notice it was his birthday until the club threw a surprise party for the twins. He doesn’t bother to learn the names of his twenty-something classmates because he won’t be able to, not to mention he’s not that interested.

One thing, though – one thing.

There is one memory that lingers in his mind till this day, a memory woven into his brain, so vivid that it’s as if he’s living through it again.

It’s when he first encountered Sakusa Kiyoomi.

They met at the U-18 volleyball youth camp for prospective national Japanese athletes. The cool scent of salonpas, the inevitable tinge of rubber, and remnants of saline sweat mingled together and floated through the atmosphere. The court was woody with white lines. Sunlight shone through the windowpanes above. It was slightly stuffy and hot, as the air conditioner was turned on only a couple of minutes ago.

He was sixteen then, a first-year, a setter from Inarizaki. Osamu wasn’t invited, which Atsumu didn’t understand, but his brother was indifferent about the result.

In sequence – he stretched his arms, then his legs, left and then right. He greeted other players, helped them practice, and exchanged dull conversations about the Interhigh.

“Hey,” someone muttered, “isn’t that Sakusa Kiyoomi?”

Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Atsumu turned.

There was a boy in a half-lime green, half-yellow jersey. His ebony curls curtained his forehead, and his hands were shoved into his jersey’s pockets. He was wearing a blue surgical mask. He appeared as if he hadn’t slept for three weeks.

If that were it, the sceneries of that day wouldn’t have been engrained into Atsumu, even years later.

It wasn’t as if he perceived Sakusa as strikingly attractive, given his horrible posture and obtrusive mask. It wasn’t as if Sakusa said or did anything unnatural – in fact, he didn’t utter a single syllable. Sakusa simply marched past Atsumu, his back hunched and skin wan.

Right then, crystal tears rolled down Atsumu’s cheeks.

The tears spilled in rivulets, splashing to court. A stray droplet grazed the joint of his thumb.

It was abrupt, unanticipated, and mortifying. He was fortunate that everyone’s attention was glued to Sakusa, not him. What, he touched the corner of his eye – it was wet. “What the fuck,” he whispered, wiping his eyes with his hands fiercely. Blood pumped to his heart at a rapid rate, and he felt cold sweat gather in the wrinkles of his palms. His knees were weak. For a split second, he lost his balance and tipped forward, but was able to regain it as he sucked in a sharp breath. What’s goin’ on, a sensation akin to panic and anxiety pricked his nerves, as he clawed his chest.

He felt – hollow.

As if someone had left a gigantic, unmendable hole through his abdomen, stripping him of his lungs and organs – and more.

(I wanna die.)

That all occurred in the span of five seconds.

“Hey, Miya, you okay? You’re pale.”

His memories blur from thereon. He does, however, recall avoiding Sakusa like the plague. He did not converse with the boy, did not interact with him at all – not once in their three years of camp together. They exchanged terse commands and phrases, such as, ‘Sakusa, the ball,’ and ‘Miya, higher’ – standard volleyball dialogue. Thankfully, Sakusa was not an extrovert and did not question his transparent ignorance towards the spiker. Because what is he supposed to say? Yeah, I cried when I saw ya for absolutely no reason, and that fuckin’ bothers me.

Yeah, right.

Now, don’t get him wrong; Atsumu is an emotional person. He sobs over trashy rom-coms, shrieks over horror films and zombie apocalypse movies, and wept a river after watching a dog documentary on television when he was twenty years old (yes, the dog died. The dog always dies. Atsumu doesn’t know why they always kill the dogs). He has shed liters of tears over the course of his life.

He does not cry over people, though, and when he does, it’s rare.

He has been through his abundant share of breakups – most of his girlfriends were sullen that he never paid enough attention to them, and most of his boyfriends were sick of his attitude. Everyone in between had been casual, with no strings attached. The last occasion he openly bawled at was his grandmother’s funeral, which has now been four years.

So – the fact that Atsumu had cried over some teenager who he had never met before – was a huge deal. In his defense, it’d be a huge deal for anyone.

Such a huge deal, that he’s solemnly considering whether he should reject a Division 1 team contract just because Sakusa is on it.

“Listen, Tsumu, if ya turn that offer down because of Sakusa, I will slit yer throat with this knife.”

“Why does my livelihood depend on ya?”

“Because I’m a good brother.”

Atsumu snorts. “What ‘bout ya and Sunarin?”

“Don’t switch the topic.”

He sulks, knocking his forehead against the tabletop. He knows, of course – this inner game of tug of war is stupid. It’s a no-brainer. He is eager to advance towards the national league, the Olympics, and the world beyond. Volleyball was his oxygen, his blood, his career, and his dream, and will always be. Sakusa Kiyoomi is a nobody – a nobody on the Black Jackals, who happens to be a professional volleyball player.

A nobody.

Even so, he cannot forget the emotions which swept over him that noon.

The pang in his chest, the excruciating tingle which vibrated through his fingertips, the numb soreness in his heart, and the needles under the soles of his sneakers – and the tears. Although he had never experienced death before, Atsumu was truly convinced that instant: this is what it must feel like. Death. Meeting Sakusa felt like death. Something more acrimonious, more crude, more brutal than death.

But why?

“Samu, if I die,” he murmurs, “bury me near a volleyball net.”

“Just go and sign that damned contract, Tsumu.”

He thinks about Sakusa’s speckless blue mask as he shuts his eyes.

“You’ve made up your mind?”

“Ah, yes,” Atsumu squirms as he receives a thick stack of paper from Samson Foster, the coach of Inarizaki. Terms of agreement, yada, yada… “Sorry it took a while.”

“No problem. Plenty of players ruminate on their options before selecting a team. Have you looked at our team’s roster already?”

He nods, “Seems like a strong team.”

“Certainly. I was searching for a setter with more grit and deemed you as a perfect fit for the Jackals. Our spikers are, well… wild.” Atsumu doesn’t doubt it. Bokuto’s ambitious and charismatic persona was famous when they were in high school, too. “Oh – you and Sakusa are the same age, correct?”

He bristles for a millisecond, but sports a positive smile, “Yeah. He was a beast.”

“He still is. I reckon he’d be one of the candidates for the national team in the upcoming years. Are you friends?”

Friends. If anything, they were strangers. Atsumu prefers to be strangers. “No, we… we didn’t interact much. The youth camps were pretty short, and we weren’t matched up at Interhigh or the Spring tournaments. I guess we’re acquaintances.”

Foster laughs at that, “Well, he isn’t too social, to begin with. Perhaps he’d loosen up when you join the team.”

I’m very skeptical of that possibility. He flips through the contract and picks up the pen. His pulse beats slightly faster as he holds it over the sheet – this is it. He is stepping closer to his dream, his lifelong vision. His preoccupations surrounding Sakusa dissipate as he signs his name on the blank line. “I’m done.”

Foster skims over the papers and organizes them into a pile. “We don’t have training on Sundays – a break for both the players and related staff. Saturday training is typically three hours shorter than regular weekday training sessions, but the gym will be open till midnight every day. The season officially kicks off next Wednesday, so you’ll have around a week to adjust dynamics with our members.”

“Roger that.”

The coach rises and extends his hand towards Atsumu.

“Welcome to the Black Jackals, Miya Atsumu.”

He wakes up with a mild headache.

Can’t have that – it’s his first training with the Jackals. He swallows a painkiller and styles his hair with gel. Osamu calls him when he is munching on a granola bar for breakfast. “The hell, what are ya eatin’?”

“Granola.”

“Don’t be a jerk today.”

“Yer unwaverin’ faith in me is appreciated.”

“Don’t be too excited either, ya might mistake a red light for green and crash yerself into a pole.”

“That’s an overly realistic example, Samu.”

“What about yer Sakusa allergy?”

“Aller- ‘m not allergic to ‘im, don’t phrase it like that!”

“I’m remindin’ ya to get yerself together. Tell me how it goes; gotta open the store.”

“’kay, ‘kay.”

The gymnasium is a twenty-minute drive from his new flat. He scratches the leopard-patterned cover of his steering wheel, jittery. Division 1. MSBY Black Jacals. The Olympics. The national team. It’s just the advent of a new chapter, another milestone, he grins to himself.

At the entrance to the main building, there is a man in a Jackals’ jersey. Upon spotting Atsumu, he waves in greeting. “Hey,” he pats Atsumu’s shoulder – he has calloused palms. Must’ve practiced lots. Ooh, sideburns. “You’re Miya, aren’t you?”

He straightens his posture, “Yessir.”

“Don’t be so stiff. I’m Meian Shuugo, the captain of the Jackals.” Ah, the guy on the roster. Gotcha. His muscles relax. “Which team were you on again? I get the names mixed up.”

“Division 2’s TY Eagles.”

“Right, right, they’ve been doing well these past couple seasons. How much have you heard about the Jackals?” Meian eases him into a natural flow of chit-chat as he guides Atsumu to the court.

“Quite a bit – along with the Adlers.”

Meian clucks his tongue at the mention. “The Adlers, they’ve recruited Kageyama Tobio. They were a pain in the ass with just Ushijima and Hoshiumi, goodness.” A twinkling gaze is sent towards Atsumu, “But now that we have a star setter on our team, it’s no problem, yeah, Miya?”

“Aha,” so Tobio-kun’s with the Adlers, huh, “yeah.”

“Well, it’s not like we’ll be relying on you throughout the season. We’ve got a dependable group.” The captain proceeds to walk him through the locker rooms, the extensive courts, the fitness room, and the cafeteria. “I recommend the chicken breast salad. They’ve got a healthy, delicious dressing. Now, around this hour we’d be playing a practice game, but since it’s your first training with us, we’ve asked everyone to gather at the meeting hall.”

Everyone.

Atsumu swallows. “That’s considerate of y’all.”

Meian points to a door with his thumb. The placard reads ‘Meeting R. A’. “You ready?”

Am I?

Sakusa’s deadpan face clouds his mind. The face which brought Atsumu to tears, all those years ago. The face Atsumu longed to erase for eons. Sakusa Kiyoomi was an entity that Atsumu could not comprehend. He wouldn’t ever be able to describe coherently – the emotions which inundated him that spring, the sheer somberness which inhabited his soul every second he talked to the man – what Sakusa Kiyoomi was to him.

That is six years ago, though, and Miya Atsumu must move forward.

“Yeah.”

The door opens.

His initial impression is – wow, it’s loud.

“Miya!” Bokuto exclaims, pumping his fist, “long time no see!” There is a trio huddled together in the corner, discussing something with solemn expressions; they swirl as Bokuto dashes to high-five Atsumu. “It feels like forever, bro! It’s been four years, huh?” Bro? Have we been that friendly with each other in high school? “I saw your eight-point jump floater last season when you were against the Frogs! Holy cow, that was phenomenal, you’ve got to teach me sometime!” Rambunctious, chaotic, exuberant – Bokuto Koutarou, at your service.

“Sure,” he responds, half-stunned and half-skittish. “Er –“

“Hey, hey,” a lean giant – he’s gotta be at least two meters, dude, two meters – actually, make that two giants, “Tomas Adriah.” Adriah speaks in western-accented Japanese to introduce himself, “Oliver Barnes.” Atsumu recalls both of them from Sports Daily; they were on the magazine cover.

“Hi,” he imitates the standard Tokyo dialect, hoping it’d be easier for them to understand. “Miya Atsumu.”

Oliver hurriedly digs through his pockets and takes out his phone. What’s he doin’? The man beams proudly as he displays his screen to Atsumu. There is a baby girl with rosy cheeks that resemble pink marshmallows sleeping in a crib, chewing on her chin. Atsumu snaps to Oliver with pearly orbs, “The heck, she yers?” His effort to use Tokyo Japanese is launched out the window as he freaks out because if she isn’t the cutest thing he’s seen in two thousand years – Oliver nods enthusiastically. “She’s like a human strawberry daifuku, my lord.”

“She visits the gym every week or so,” someone else chimes in – purely based on his height, Atsumu presumes he’s the libero. “I’m Inuaki Shion, the libero.” Bingo. Inuaki smirks, “You guessed my position from my height, didn’t you?” Whoopsies. “It’s fine, it’s fine. You don’t have much of a poker face, do you?”

“Don’t crowd Miya,” Meian swats them away like flies, “he’s not Mona Lisa.”

“What? He’s the only guy who hasn’t been chosen from the tryouts, it’s a given that we’d be curious!”

“We’re all aware Miya is an exceptional setter.”

“Monster generation,” Adriah gasps, “yes?” He twists to Bokuto as well, and the latter chortles heartily.

“’s just a gaudy title,” credit goes to Ushijima and Hoshiumi, “uh, speakin’ of the monster generation, where’s –“

“Oh, Sakusa!”

Pause.

He doesn’t budge an inch. He’s frozen. His eyes drill into the corner of the coffee table located in the center of the meeting room. Several warnings rush through him – don’t cry. Don’t stutter. Don’t be weird. Be natural. Be confident. Be normal.

Don’t cry.

(Clench fist, unclench fist. Clench fist, unclench fist. Curl toes, uncurl toes. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.)

Déjà vu – a familiar sensation.

Familiar, but also disparate.

“Hey, Miya, this is Sakusa Kiyoomi, our outside hitter.”

Taller. He’s taller. His posture has improved. He wears a black mask instead of blue. His curls are trimmed to his neck. Different – he’s different.

“Hi,” he outstretches his hand and then halts. Oh, right. This guy, he’s… what is he again? He’s somethin’ phobic. What was it? The hand is retracted anyway. “Miya Atsumu.”

Sakusa stares at him with depthless orbs, as if he could care less. “I know.” And just like that, he marches ahead to grab a bottled water from the refrigerator.

A brief closeup into Atsumu’s mental state:

You know that moment when you have to confront something you’ve been veering away from? Whether that’s your acrophobia, the petrifying fourteen missed calls from your mother at one in the morning, your end-of-semester grade reports, an overdue breakup, whatever – everyone has those moments. Moments where you must overcome such obstacles.

And when you do, you realize that the obstacle didn’t even reach your knees.

Others may be relieved, and some may even be pleased.

Miya Atsumu, however, is pissed.

Because he’s been escaping the shadows of Sakusa Kiyoomi for almost a quarter of his life for – for what? This? A measly, nonchalant, ‘I know?' He changed TV channels faster than the speed of light when Sakusa’s ‘Sa’ popped up in the captions; he didn’t watch any Jackals’ games because he’d have to watch Sakusa in it; he skipped that YouTube advertisement featuring Sakusa and Ushijima, some stupid men’s perfume ad – his effort of six years for – fuck.

I feel like an idiot.

“Miya?”

“Comin’!” He steals a glance at Sakusa. There is no hollowness, no tears, only a tad bit of familiarity. Which, perhaps, is ordinary when they’ve met at the nationals and camps for three years.

What the hell was I so afraid of?

That’s what annoys him.

He’ll never know why he was so afraid to meet Sakusa Kiyoomi again.

Never.

###

(“Do ya believe in reincarnation?”

“Reincarnation,” he reiterates, “being born again?”

“That’s what it means.”

“I’ve never imagined it.”

The swordsman snorts and nuzzles into his lap. “Maybe it’d be a hundred years – or two hundred.” He strokes the yellow forsythia blossom dangling from the metal hoop piercing his earlobe.

“Do you want to be reincarnated?”

“Hm… if Omi’s there.”

‘Omi’ combs the man’s tousled locks with his thin fingers. “It wouldn’t matter if we were strangers.”

“I won’t let us be strangers,” there’s a comical sort of determination in the other’s voice, “yer too pretty to not capture my attention.”

“I keep advising you to visit a medic, Miya. Your vision seems to deteriorate each trip.”

“No wonder ya get prettier every time I return.” ‘Miya’ intertwines his scarred fingers with Omi’s and kisses his knuckles. “I’ll recognize ya whenever, wherever – whoever ya are, and admire the flowers of spring with ya once more.”

Omi huffs, “What if I’m born decades ahead of you?”

“Wait for me, yeah? Wait until I come for ya.”

“Wait for you… and?”

“And just be,” Miya’s lips journey up Omi’s kimono sleeve, “I’ll do the rest.”

His mouth quirks as it meets Miya’s warmth.

“Alright.”)

Sakusa Kiyoomi peers into the mirror and stares at his reflection. He touches the glassy surface. The faucet runs below him, the water gurgling as it traveled down the pipes. He’s alone in the restroom after training.

Inaudibly, he mumbles –

“Liar.”

Chapter Text

“Hello, O’ beautiful one.”

“Ya haven’t been sleepin’ well?”

Atsumu yawns, “Yeah, I dunno why.” He’s never been diagnosed with insomnia; one of his many talents is to fall asleep within ten seconds into hitting the pillow. If anything, it was Osamu who struggled with insomniac tendencies as a teenager. “I have headaches, too. They aren’t bad, but it’s messin’ with my condition.”

“That’s ‘cause ya aren’t sleepin’ enough.” Osamu answers, “Are ya stressed or somethin’?” Atsumu hums, and his brother lowers the dishes into the sink with a frown, “What, are ya actually stressed?”

“Nah, nah, that ain’t it. Just feelin’ off. Must be the fatigue.”

“Why not set up an appointment with a doctor? They’ll prescribe ya some pills.”

“Don’t wanna.”

Osamu glares at him, “Tsumu.”

“I’m not avoidin’ the problem! I’ll experiment with other solutions first, like aromatherapy and whatever. Pills are my last resort.” Osamu seems to be satisfied with that response. “Or maybe I am stressed. Wouldn’t know, haven’t felt stressed about anythin’ since high school, when I failed that calculus exam because I studied for the wrong module.”

The younger Miya cleanses the platters with a sponge, “Ya not gettin’ along with yer new teammates?”

“Oh, nah, they’re great.” He’s synced up flawlessly with Bokuto’s quicks and has memorized Barnes’s and Adriah’s habits when they leaped for the ball. Meian was a more flexible player, and he discussed with Inuaki how to alternate their sets appropriately during the games. “Really, Division 1 feels different.”

“Hmm,” clink, clank, “what about Sakusa?”

Atsumu twitches.

“… Seriously, Tsumu? It’s him?”

“I dunno how to communicate with ‘im!” Groans Atsumu, exasperated.

It’s been a month since he’s joined the Jackals. He was meeting Sakusa on a daily basis: on the court, during training, on Saturdays, in the locker rooms, in the fitness gym – everywhere. And yet, he can count the number of conversations he’s shared on both hands – eight times. Eight. “I ask him how he prefers his tosses – he has the nerve to tell me to figure it out. When I do, he fuckin’ gripes that he doesn’t like it, that it should be higher or farther from the net and whatnot- like, just tell me then, what’s so hard ‘bout that? Then he goes all, ‘what, aren’t you a setter?’ on me,” Osamu snorts at his imitation of Sakusa’s Tokyo accent, “what the actual fuck is wrong with him, huh?”

“Are ya sure ya haven’t done anythin’ to him in high school?” Queries Osamu from the sink, “Like spittin’ on his face. Or maybe he saw ya eatin’ with yer mouth open.”

“Absolutely no chance,” he rejoinders disgruntledly – zero chance. He dodged Sakusa for all three years of high school. “That much I can swear on.”

“Maybe he just hates ya.”

“The fuck’s with that?”

“I’d hate ya for no specific reason if I weren’t yer brother.”

“Aw, does that mean ya love me?”

“No, it means I have many justified reasons for abhorrin’ yer ass.”

“Bitch,” Atsumu mutters with a pout. ‘Just because,’ eh… I mean, it’s not like I was amicable towards him in high school, but it wasn’t like he was tryin’ to befriend me either. Those camps lasted less than a week, and we haven’t been matched up in tournaments either, so it made sense to not interact, right? Shouldn’t things be different now that we’re on the same team until both our contracts terminate? He pinches the bridge of his nose. Communication is key to a team sport. It doesn’t matter whether you are an introvert or extrovert, whatever the hell you got on your Myers-Briggs test – quality communication connects to the team’s success. Though they are somehow managing with minimal eye contact and fragmented phrases for now, they won’t last during an actual game.

While Sakusa’s value as a player was already proven as he’s been on the Jackals for the last two seasons, Atsumu was new – and not selected through typical procedures. If he floundered his first seasonal game because he couldn’t effectively coordinate with a spiker, his worth would plummet instantaneously. I’d rather shoot myself than let that happen.

“Samu,” he drones, “how do ya get someone to like ya?”

Osamu squints, “Ya wanna get Sakusa to like ya when he refuses to maintain a proper conversation with ya? The hurdles seem high, Tsumu.” Atsumu lets out a groan. “Does he even greet ya in the mornin’?”

Does he? To be fair, he hasn’t greeted Sakusa in the past month either. “… No.”

“Start with ‘good mornin’,’ then.”

“I don’t feel good when I see ‘im in the mornin’.” An empty bottle of soap hits his forehead and Atsumu yelps. “Samu!”

“Whoever asked about how ya felt in the mornin’? Do ya wanna solve this problem or not?”

Atsumu rubs his forehead, “Didn’t hafta throw the damned bottle, geez.”

“It’s light as fuck, ya coward.” Osamu dries his hands with a towel and takes off his apron, slumping on the stool across Atsumu. “Look, if he doesn’t wanna make the move, then ya gotta do somethin’ about it. Yer not in high school where ya can blubber shit to a classmate ‘cause ya know yer gonna graduate in three years. Yer life depends on this, Tsumu, we’re adults.”

“I know, I know! I’m older than ya!”

“By ten minutes.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “… What are the chances that he talks to me first tomorrow?”

“Ya should know better than me.”

Zero. In the negatives. Right.

“Hi, then.”

Osamu frowns, “Hi?”

“No ‘good mornin’. I’m compromisin’ for a ‘hi.’” Pause. “’Hi, Sakusa-kun.’ How’s that?”

“Sounds like a line straight outta an elementary English textbook, but better than nothin’.”

Hi, Sakusa-kun, he recites in his heart, hi, Sakusa-kun.

He grimaces.

I wanna vomit.

Atsumu retched in front of an audience when he was in second grade.

It wasn’t for a play, but for a class competition of ‘who-can-drink-more-coke-in-five-minutes.’ Atsumu still wants to assassinate the teacher who believed it was a terrific idea to gather a bunch of competitive second graders and induce them to test the limits of their capacity to digest soda in such a narrow timeframe. Atsumu was nominated from his homeroom, and after chugging down three five-hundred-mil bottles, he doubled over onstage; the next second, his acid-drenched lunch was out on display.

He has flashbacks to that competition as he waits for Sakusa in the locker room.

Okay, but should I say ‘Sakusa-kun’ or ‘Sakusa’? He forms a triangle with his hands and glowers at the steel gray lockers. ‘Hi’ or ‘Hello’? He shakes his leg. “Ugh.”

The doorknob creaks and Atsumu snaps up, “Hi –“

It’s Bokuto.

“… Bokkun.”

“Hello, Tsumu-Tsumu!” Bokuto jumps to his locker, “Yer early today, huh?”

“Yeah, uh,” calm down, calm down, “set my alarm incorrectly.”

“Must’ve been annoying – but waking up early has many pluses! Like morning jogs, fresh air, all that.”

“I’m sure,” but Atsumu isn’t a morning person. Bokuto skips to the showers and Atsumu is alone again. It’s no use, my mouth is conditioned to blurt out, ‘Hi, Sakusa-kun,’ I can’t change it now. When is he coming anyway? Atsumu usually arrives fifteen minutes before practice, and they still have forty-five minutes remaining. Why did I think I’d hafta greet him in the locker room, anyway? I could’ve said ‘hi’ sometime else, like –

“Oh, Miya, you’re fast today.”

He jerks in surprise; Inuaki waves at him. “Wan-san,” Inuaki was ‘wan’ because ‘inu’ meant ‘dog,’ and dogs barked with a ‘wan.’ “G’mornin’.”

The libero smirks at him, “What, are you feverish?”

“No, and that’s rude! I set my alarm clock wrong.”

“Hm,” Inuaki takes note of Bokuto’s belongings, “dang it, thought I’d beat him today. Whatever. Are you going to take a shower, Miya?” He shakes his head. “Alright, then.”

Bokuto, Wan-san… three’s the magic number. He’s gotta be the third one.

Click –

“Oh, Miya!” Nope. Sakusa would never initiate a conversation. “You sick?” Barnes towers over him with a friendly smile.

“Why is that everyone’s immediate guess?” He’s never been tardy to practice since he’s entered the team, at least. Barnes replies in English, but Atsumu doesn’t quite catch it. He’s still repolishing his rusty English from middle and high school. As Barnes swivels to the showers like everyone else, Atsumu calls, “Hey, Oliver!” The man blinks curiously. “Uh… Sakusa. When does Sakusa come?”

Barnes raises a quizzical brow; his index finger shoots to the left.

Oh, crap.

There is Sakusa at the entrance, staring at Atsumu in doubt. He’s in his running attire, his Bluetooth earphones glinting black under the fluorescent lights. His mask is white today. Crap, Atsumu gulps – Barnes walks away. Crap, did he hear that?

To his relief (or dread), Sakusa heads to his locker and tugs at the towel around his neck. The hell, is that all for one shower? There is shampoo, conditioner, a bar of soap, hand sanitizer, an alcohol spray, wet tissues – and whatever else the rest are – in Sakusa’s basket of supplies. Wait, that’s not important. He speedily reminds himself of his mission for the morning. Hi, Sakusa-kun. C’mon, ya rehearsed this a gazillion times. Why’d I even rehearse? Kinda ridiculous, why do I hafta be the one exertin’ effort when- no, don’t overthink it. Yer gonna trigger yerself again.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Okay.

“Uh,” he clears his throat, but Sakusa doesn’t shift. “Uh, Sakusa…” Sakusa’s hand freezes mid-reach. “Sakusa… kun.” His target’s grasp around his – bodywash? Plum-scented bodywash, what – “Um,” just say it, just fuckin’ say it, Atsumu, don’t make this weirder than it already is. “Hi.”

There.

The monumental ‘hi.’

I did it, Samu.

(He gives himself a pat on the back.)

Sakusa frowns at him.

And –

Ambles right past Atsumu.

Huh.

Sakusa’s colorful assortment of toiletries blurs in the corner of Atsumu’s eye as he passes. What the hell, his brain is processing the situation, did this ass just ignore me, Sakusa disappears from sight, he did, this son of a, “Hey,” he lunges forward and obstructs Sakusa’s path towards the stalls. Sakusa backtracks. “I said hi.”

Say somethin’.

“I heard you.”

Not that.

“Isn’t there somethin’ ya should say?” Don’t growl. Don’t growl. Patience, Miya Atsumu, patience. “Sa-ku-sa-kun?” He enunciates each syllable of Sakusa’s name with a venomous grin. His nails dig into the steel of the lockers.

Sakusa glances at his sneakers, “You’re blocking the way.”

“You’re blockin’ the- hah,” his bowl of patience (which isn’t that large, to begin with) cracks. “Listen, I dunno what’s yer problem with me, and to be perfectly candid,” he growls anyway, “I don’t give a shit about what that problem is. But whether ya like it or not, yer stuck with me as the regular setter for the next two years, so unless ya wanna spoil the team’s reputation, cooperate.”

It’s ironic in itself that Atsumu is demanding someone to cooperate.

An almost inaudible sigh echoes from Sakusa, his mask inflating tersely. “Hi, Miya.” The spiker flashes a look that evidently reads, ‘satisfied?’ before walking around Atsumu.

‘Hi, Miya?’

He snorts. A scorching hot, sticky substance boils within him. What’s with that attitude, like he’s doin’ me a favor? If Couldn’t he have just answered like an average person? ‘Hi, Miya?’ The fuck, is he mockin’ me or what? He wants to kick his past self for wasting half an hour of precious sleep for this disaster. And did he just address me as ‘Miya,’ without any honorifics? When I added ‘-kun’ to his name? The hell’s with that? Just because he’s been on the team longer, he swats away his thoughts. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Throughout practice, Sakusa’s taunting (regardless of what his motives were), ‘hi, Miya,’ rings in his mind like jingling bells. And what, he’s not even denyin’ that he has a problem with me? What did I even do? It’s not like the silent treatment was one-sided, yeah? I don’t deserve this, don’t I? I definitely don’t deserve this.

“Miya, aren’t you gonna eat lunch?”

“Go without me!” He shouts, “Wanna concentrate on my serves!”

“Don’t overdo it!”

He drowns himself in honing his serves – his floaters, in particular. Floaters were ideal distractions, as they required precision and accuracy, as well as the ability to execute the movements in various angles, in any course. He serves one ball after another, collecting his breath and liberating himself from his ire. Just one more. Just one more. Moving from one side of the court to the other, he goes on for what seems like forever.

“Miya-san!”

Ah, shit, that felt like a no-touch ace. He clucks his tongue as his throw-up motion falters.

The security guard is by the gates, “We should lock up the courts soon – are you going to continue?”

“Oh, nah, nah,” already? Thought it’d be five or six. “Sorry for keepin’ ya here, sir.”

“No, it’s fine – take your time.”

He retrieves his towel and bottle and jogs to the showers. His stomach rumbles, oh, I didn’t eat lunch. Should I go for takeout? Maybe I can order a delivery from Samu. “Fatty tuna toppings or seasoned salmon, that is the question…” Osamu’s onigiris were all heavenly, so it’s an insignificant debate – but Atsumu likes to mull over his choices. “Or maybe his new monthly menu, I didn’t try that yet. What was it?” Ume… pickled plums and seaweed soaked in soy sauce.

Plums.

Sakusa used plum-scented bodywash.

Atsumu’s jaw tightens. Agh, I remembered.

He had been distracted, too. “’Hi, Miya?’” The pompous expression Sakusa was wearing still ticks him off. “See if I say ‘hi’ tomorrow, ya jerk.”

When he stomps out to the lobby, he heeds a faint thunderstrike from outside. Did the forecast say it was gonna rain tonight? No, the probability for precipitation was less than twenty percent. What’s the meteorological department or whatever doin’? “Well, I drive, so…” he can park in the underground parking lot at his apartment. The traffic will undoubtedly suck, but it’s rush hour. I should place an order before Samu shuts his store.

Lightning crackles and the surroundings whiten for a second, a deafening roar of the rainstorm succeeding the flash. “Yikes,” gotta go, gotta go – he bunches his shoulders inward and swerves to the right, towards the elevator. Wait. Was that a, it could’ve been his imagination, but when the lightning struck a while ago, he saw a shadow loom over the floor. It wasn’t a ghost, was it?

His pulse thumps as he lifts his chin.

He spots the silhouette of a human being – thank god – who is Sakusa Kiyoomi – never mind.

Sakusa is gazing at the sky, his sports bag dangling by his side rather pitifully. Why’s he there? Everyone else had gone home. None of my business, though. Huffing, he twists and takes a step towards the elevator again.

And halts.

Okay, but like, seriously, why’s he there?

Does he not have a car?

Sakusa was in his jogging clothes in the morning. Atsumu can deduce that he normally comes to the gym on foot. No car, then.

No umbrella? He seems to be prepared for everythin’. He carries around seven bottles of bathing products, so he’s gotta have an umbrella.

But then again, it’s a vicious thunderstorm. An umbrella won’t do much to shield the man from the rain.

He could call a cab through the Uber apps, right?

There were no Ubers available during this time; it was when businessmen and employees all over the country went home. Not to mention, there weren’t many drivers during storms and rainy seasons due to the horrendous Tokyo traffic jams. Atsumu misses his less densely populated hometown.

Really?

Do I hafta?

Really?

He doesn’t have to.

Of course.

He doesn’t owe Sakusa anything at all.

But he’ll owe you something if you do this.

Oh.

That’s enticing.

With renewed determination, he turns around and approaches Sakusa, who is glaring at the sky. “Hey.” Sakusa notices him at last.

“… Miya?”

“What are ya doin’ here?”

Sakusa’s face oozes ‘can’t-you-see’ vibes, featuring the obstreperous downpour outside the building. “The closest Uber is forty minutes away,” he grunts back instead.

“Ya don’t drive?”

“The distance from my apartment to the gym is fitting for a morning jog.”

“No umbrella?”

I wouldn’t be here if I had one, is what he’s thinkin’. I know it. “I gave mine to one of the staff.” Sakusa appears as if he wants to be anywhere but here, conversing with Atsumu in this manner. “She had to pick up her kid.”

“Aren’t ya a gentleman?” No response. “I can drive ya home if ya’d like.”

“No need.” Why’s he so quick to answer that?

“How’re ya gonna get home then, huh?” Sakusa’s attention is plastered to his phone’s screen – thirty-eight minutes until your Uber arrives! Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Better to just take the offer while it’s on the table.”

“I wouldn’t,” Sakusa purses his lips, and then parts them, “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.” Okay, either this guy believes I’m blind or a complete dumbass because that’s not what his expression says. That’s a total ‘fuck off,’ and Atsumu has seen countless ‘fuck off’s in his life, including his own in the mirror.

“Yer not.” It’s not actually an issue of whether it is an inconvenience or not, this is about troubling Sakusa Kiyoomi. Atsumu is a petty person, and he prides on it. “C’mon. I haven’t had lunch yet, and I won’t wait for ya.”

The other glimpses regrettably at his phone – thirty-seven minutes until your Uber arrives! – and at Atsumu, then the opaque sky. “… I’ll pay you back.”

“An expensive coffee will suffice,” and yer humiliation is a bonus. “Tell me the directions. Is it far?”

“No, perhaps twenty minutes without traffic.” Sakusa presses the button for the lift.

“How long does that take ya by foot?”

“An hour or so.”

“Which side is it? Towards New Takara mall or the opposite?”

“The opposite.”

“Oh, that’s where I’m goin’, then.” He’s lucky; he was on the verge of internally contemplating whether this was worth it. “Get in.” Sakusa reluctantly grabs the handle and climbs into the car. He doesn’t lean back on the seat. “Hardly anyone’s sat there since I bought this car, chill.”

“When did you buy this car?”

“Er,” when was it? “Hasn’t been a year.”

Sakusa massages his temple. “Just go.”

I’m doin’ ya a favor here, excuse ya. He pedals the gas, nonetheless. Arrows of rain droplets ambush the vehicle as soon as they’re out of the building and on the road. It’s awfully quiet. He wonders whether he should blast some music to diffuse the awkwardness but remembers that the playlist in the inserted USB is Suna’s favorite anime BGM tracks. Even my friends are useless.

“Left,” Sakusa mumbles, and Atsumu obeys. “And a ten o'clock at the next four-way crossroad.”

“’kay.”

More silence.

Oh, my dinner. “Hey, Sakusa-kun,” he tosses his phone; Sakusa receives it with his fingertips. “Can ya order my dinner? There should be a delivery app on the main screen.”

He can sense Sakusa’s discontentedness permeate the atmosphere, but, “Which store?”

“Onigiri Miya – what after the ten o'clock?”

“A right at the next light. What toppings?”

“Fatty tuna and bonito. Ah, also the monthly special. There should be a separate option for that.” Sakusa taps away. “The address is automatically set so don’t mind it.”

“Done.”

“Thanks.” He gets his phone back. “Have ya eaten?”

“I have food at home.”

“Mm.” Well, it’s not like I was gonna invite him over. And y’know, now that I think about it, this direction is… eh, no. Not possible. “Straight?”

“Yes.”

Hm. Atsumu tongues his cheek. I mean, what are the odds… he places his chin on the steering wheel as he watches the car’s wipers move back and forth. A waterfall has formed at the other four windows. “A cocoa milk smoothie with chocolate chips and chocolate sauce, as well as crushed biscuit toppings and extra whipped cream.” Sakusa eyes him in bewilderment. “My coffee.”

“That’s not coffee.”

“Coffee’s synonymous to ‘drink,’ it’s the twenty-first century.”

A sigh. “Okay.”

Aw, yeah, this is so much fun. “What next?”

“Eight o'clock.”

Huh. “Is it another left after that?”

Sakusa looks at him, “Yes.”

“And then go straight?”

They’re five minutes away.

From Atsumu’s apartment.

No way.

“… Yes.”

No fucking way.

Sakusa seems to be on the same page, based on the horrification which emanates through his surgical mask. Neither of them utters a word. Maybe not. Maybe not. Maybe not. Atsumu doesn’t ask for directions and drives to his apartment. Sakusa doesn’t correct him.

No.

They glide into the underground parking lot. Atsumu parks his car and flicks to Sakusa. The latter looks as skeptical as he does.

Atsumu’s the one to break it.

“… Ya live here?”

Sakusa nods gloomily.

“How’d we never,” he’s been here since he’s transferred to the Jackals. He has never had his routine aligned with Sakusa since he’s joined the Jackals. It’s not a surprise once he reflects over their nonexistent dialogues and nonverbal cues. “Which floor?”

“Fourth. 407.”

“Oh. I’m on the ninth. 910.”

They share yet another moment of discomfort. Atsumu feels like he’s getting the hang of this. Without further ado, they briskly trudge to the lift. This is so awkward. He struggles to not ruminate on it. It’s a herculean task. God, it’s so awkward. The lift is sluggish as it travels upward. Who’s the engineer who installed this lift, I might wanna kill them.

‘This is the fourth floor.’

The doors slide open.

Atsumu relaxes as he exits the cramped space.

Then –

“Thank you, Miya.”

The doors close.

Belatedly, Atsumu squeaks:

“… Bye.”

Chapter Text

“I have no name worthy of being called.”

(“What’s yer favorite flower?”

The moist, grassy scent of morning dew, the florid fragrance of budding blossoms, and the crisp green leaves dancing under the sun – amidst everything, there is a man sitting in the grass. His sapphire blue kimono, tailored for women, is splayed out on the field, like radiant summer streams. His onyx curls glow with the shades of a moonless twilight under the blanket of trees, braided and reaching his back, tied with a satin ribbon. His prim elegance and enrapturing gaze render him limbless for what feels like days.

“I don’t have one.” The man answers, “Why do you ask?”

“’Cause,” he crouches by the beauty and tucks a strand of his smooth hair behind his pale ear, “I wanna look like somethin’ that’s yer favorite.”

“My favorite… hm, let’s see…” his eyes dart around their lush surroundings, and then stall. “Forsythias, I suppose.”

He swivels around to catch sight of the vibrant golden quilt of forsythias. “Forsythias? Yellow flowers, really?”

“Why?”

“I can’t be yellow! I don’t have anythin’ yellow!”

The other huffs, “In that case, I’m not pink like plum blossoms, either.”

“What d’ya mean,” he swoops in and brushes his lips against the man’s lashes, “there we go – yer pink.” His cheeks blush in the color of blooming meihua.

“Cut it out,” a hand swats him away, and he laughs at the telltale reaction. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he collapses onto his companion’s lap.

“Omi.”

“Hm?”

“How would I look with yellow hair?”

“Horrid.”

“Omiiii.”

A low, melodious chuckle tumbles out, as cool fingertips stroke his profile. “You’re fine as you are.” He melts into the gentle touches.

“Yeah?”

“I promise.”

“’kay,” if only time would stop, right now, this very second, “if ya say so, Omi.”)

Atsumu groans as he hits the snooze button for his alarm. His skull feels as if it’s being split open into eight slices. God, kill me. He stays like that in bed, his sheets wrapped around his head until the throbbing becomes bearable. “Was I dreamin’?” He used to have headaches in high school, when he’d wake up in the middle of dreams or nightmares. It’s been a while since then, though.

“Whatever…” Maybe I should set up an appointment with- nah, why do that? It’s costly and a hassle. At least it’s a Sunday, so he gets to rest. I’ll binge some dramas I didn’t get to finish last week, and go out for… what do I feel like, sushi? Italian? Crap, got a diet, too. I mean, when was my cheating day? Today can be my cheating day, right? Right. “Shower, shower…”

He goes into the shower and twists the faucet.

He twists the faucet.

He twists the –

Faucet.

Wuh?

Twist.

Twist.

“Are ya fuckin’,” he grits his teeth and wracks the faucet. Nothing happens. Not even a single drop of water comes out. “Sweet baby Jesus, tell me yer jokin’…”

After the umpteenth reattempt, Atsumu resigns and dresses back into his sweatpants and tee. Just spend the day without a shower? Nah, I didn’t shower last night, too. Public bathrooms… repulsive. What about goin’ back to the gym- fuck, they’re remodeling the showers today, right. If I crash Samu’s… bleh, Sunarin must’ve slept over. Don’t wanna have anythin’ to do with ‘em.

What to do?

He has an idea.

It’s been drifting in his mind since his twenty-first attempt, but he’s been shoving it away to the farthest corner because – well, the stakes are low, for one. And he doesn’t want to resort to that idea. It’s the most logical solution, of course, and had it been any other person, Atsumu would’ve opted for it immediately.

The idea: ask Sakusa to use his shower.

He’d reject, though, a hundred percent. Ninety-eight percent if I’m bein’ real hopeful. Is he even home? Yeah, what if he ain’t home? He doesn’t seem like the type to play out durin’ weekends, but… his scalp itches. Not showering and not being able to shower are two completely different things. “Before that…” he rings up the maintenance office of the apartment, who informs him that they’d send up a mechanic in a minute.

A mechanic in an orange jumpsuit comes in with a toolbox and a nifty-looking belt. “Ya think ya can fix it today, mister?”

“Ah, not today, sorry. This is a problem with the pipes installed inside, so it’d take at least two days…” An in-depth explanation of the pipes and how it relates to the water issue is provided, and yet all Atsumu can think of is, crap, so I’ll hafta ask Sakusa after all.

His discomfort stands victorious over his reluctance. With a plastic bag containing his change of clothes, razor, shaving cream, and towel, he boards the elevator for the ninth floor.

I mean, he owes me coffee.

Yeah, if I threaten- no, negotiate with him, about how I drove him home that evening, then maybe…

… If this doesn’t work out, I’ll hafta call Samu. I swear, if he answers the phone again while havin’ sex with Sunarin, I’ll murder him.

Goddammit, couldn’t it malfunction tomorrow? I don’t need the shower tomorrow.

Sakusa said he lived at 910.

As Atsumu raises his hand to press the doorbell, he belatedly regrets, shit, maybe I should’ve brought hand sanitizer or somethin’.

The pit-patter of footsteps resound beyond the door. Atsumu inhales and prepares to speak, until:

“I’m not interested in buying your garbage, please fuck off.”

… Huh.

For three seconds, he’s paralyzed, and then, “Wait, wait, wait, Sakusa- oi, Sakusa! It’s me, ‘m not a damned salesperson, c’mon, don’t ya even look through the peephole when someone rings the door?” He bangs the door frantically, “Sakusa, hullo, Sakusa- whoa, fuh –“ the handle lowers and Atsumu nearly loses his balance as the door is swung open.

“Miya?”

He grips the doorframe, preventing the almost inevitable collapse. “Are ya always such an ass to everyone who rings yer door?” Oh, “Who the hell wears their high school jersey at home?”

True to Atsumu’s word, Sakusa is in his neon-green and yellow gradient Itachiyama jersey and drawstring pants, his mask gone. “Why are you here?” The man glances at Atsumu’s hand on the frame; he’s probably thinkin’ about how he’ll hafta disinfect it, and he ain’t even bein’ subtle.

“My shower’s broken.”

Sakusa notices Atsumu’s stuffed plastic bag – and grimaces. “… No.”

“I haven’t uttered shit, ya bastard.”

“I can guess what you’re here for.” Fair, you normally don’t carry towels and shaving cream to a neighbor’s house.

“Please, c’mon. I’d drive to the gym, but the showers are under renovation, and Samu’s – well, he’s, uh, busy on Sundays.”

“I checked his website, and it said his store was closed for business on Sundays.”

“He has a life outside his business,” snaps Atsumu, “and ya owe me coffee.”

“A shower does not possess equivalent value to coffee.”

“Ten minutes,” he outstretches both his palms, “just ten minutes. Ya won’t even see a trace of me in yer house if ya give me ten minutes.”

Sakusa deadpans. Atsumu flashes his best vowing smile. “… Wear those slippers before you enter,” the owner points to the guest slippers at the doorstep. Atsumu nods, “Sanitize your hands with the alcohol spray on the cabinet. Don’t touch anything else in the house. Run straight to the bathroom. I don’t want to see any water droplets on the tiles once you’re finished.” That’s a lot of rules for one shower, but why not. I’ll shower with my clothes on if that’s what he wants. “Ten minutes. Go.”

Atsumu squirms into the slippers, squirts alcohol over his fingers and rubs them speedily, and tumbles into the shower. Ten minutes, ten minutes, ten minutes…

Though he’s in a hurry, he still scans Sakusa’s bathroom as he shampoos his hair. It’s the neatest, most organized, and visually therapeutic bathroom Atsumu’s ever seen – and he’s been to a reasonable number of five- and six-star hotels throughout his career. And why does he have three bottles of shampoo? Why does it matter if ya have sea salt, lemon-lime, and peach-scented shampoo? Even my ma didn’t have three bottles of shampoo, and ma cares a lot about aesthetics. He doesn’t skim through the other two bottles of conditioner, assortments of bodywash, and briefly wonders what the difference between conditioner and treatment is.

“Four minutes.”

“’kay, kay, kay!” Clearly, it’s not the time to linger on such questions. He shaves, dries his body, and wipes the stray droplets on the floor with his dampened towel. He’s done with fifteen seconds left on the timer, which Sakusa is holding outside the bathroom. “See, I told ya ten minutes would be enough.” Sniff, “Hey, are ya brewin’ coffee?”

“I believe your oath was to disappear from this house within ten minutes.”

Atsumu snorts, “Ya don’t have friends, do ya?”

“Do you?”

“More than ya – I can bet two pennies on it.”

“That’s not a lot.”

“Not worth a bet when the winner’s decided.” Atsumu lets the towel veil his head as he walks out of the bathroom. “C’mon, I showered, should be cleaner than when I first arrived.”

“Don’t you have something else to do?”

“On a Sunday? No, we both work six days a week.”

Sakusa sighs. “Are you going to leave after coffee?”

“Sure, yeah.”

Sakusa strolls over to the coffee machine, “Don’t sit on the couch,” and gestures to the dining table; there are only two chairs. He must really not have that many visitors, Atsumu takes a seat and observes the vicinity. It’s a standardly modern, minimalistic place – no extravagant decorations, no paintings, no pictures. There is a potted cactus to the left of the television set, as well as a magazine rack piled with Sports Daily and Volleyball Japan, but that’s about it. Far off to the side, however, there is a wooden shelf of candles – magenta, white, rose, ocean-colored candles.

“Sakusa-kun, do ya like candles?”

The other hums as he pours coffee into two mugs. “Yes.”

“Any recommendations?”

“Preference for candles depends greatly on the person.” A piping hot mug of coffee is set in front of him, and Atsumu mutters his thanks. “It’s like how you wouldn’t gift perfume to a person you don’t know very well.”

Right. “Oh. I see.”

Silence befalls as Sakusa sips the beverage. Atsumu tries not to wince at the bitterness. “… Sugar?” Never mind, must’ve shown.

“Yeah. Thanks.” A spoonful of sugar later, he’s drinking from the mug in peace. “Any… any neutral scents? Good for… er, sleepin’?” He realizes he should’ve selected a broader topic for conversation, but in his defense, this is his second conversation with Sakusa, and Atsumu usually never has to take on the role of the conversation starter. Everyone else did that for him – perks of being handsome and popular.

The spiker purses his lips in a pensive manner. “Chamomile or jasmine. Sandalwood. It doesn’t necessarily have to be candles.” He furrows his brows, “Do you have insomnia, Miya?”

The majority of people wouldn’t be so blunt. “Nah, just, not sleepin’… deeply? I dunno. Got headaches. It’s fine, ‘s not a big deal.” He does feel a little drowsy after a shower and coffee, which is a positive sign. “Haven’t had anythin’ like this before. Don’t get why it’s happenin’ now.”

Sakusa nods but doesn’t respond. What now? He’s temporarily ignored the fact that they were never on friendly terms, not in the six years they’ve been acquainted with each other. Being on the same team did not magically mend their relationship, and an impromptu shower didn’t do the trick, either. Why’d I stay for coffee, again? I don’t even like coffee.

“Tea.”

“… What?”

“Tea might be the cheaper remedy if the symptoms are mild.” Sakusa clarifies, “There are videos online, too. Some techniques are verified, though again, its effects might vary based on the person.”

“Oh,” he swallows a mouthful of lukewarm coffee, “cool.”

“Or perhaps you’re not sleeping enough.”

“I… maybe.” He hasn’t been keeping track of that. “I should.” He seems to know his stuff. “Have ya been… uh, y’know.”

A shrug, “In middle and high school.”

Explains why he appeared like the walkin’ dead. “And yer alright now?”

“It’s not as extreme,” corrects Sakusa, stirring his coffee, “There’s no absolute cure. Though in your case, it might be stress-induced.”

“It’s what, genetic for ya? Somethin’ yer born with?”

“Something along those lines, yes.”

It feels weird to learn about Sakusa like this when he doesn’t even know how many siblings he has, or where his hometown is. He doesn’t have a noticeable accent, though, so he might just be a Tokyo lad. “Well, uh.” His coffee is all in his stomach, “I’ll go back, now. Thanks for the coffee. And shower.”

“My debt has been paid, then.”

“Yeah, yeah. Ya don’t owe me anythin’.” He tucks his towel into the bag and heads to the entrance.

Suddenly, “Miya.”

He turns around with rounded eyes. Sakusa drops an object into his palms.

A cream-white jar – a candle.

Jasmine.

“Ya don’t hafta –“

“Dark roast espresso, no sugar, no milk, extra ice, and three napkins.” Atsumu squints. “My coffee order.”

With that, Sakusa shuts the door in his face.

“He gave ya a what?”

“A candle.” He replies as he switches between channels until he lands on the recorded game of the EJP Raijins and Schweiden Adlers. “Now I owe him coffee.”

“Well, he’s rather hospitable, ain’t he? If he let ya use his shower and all.”

“Yeah, but,” he peruses the label on the candle – a paper sticker with cursive English alphabets spelling out ‘Jasmine’ in golden lining. “No, he’s not.”

“Which one is it?”

“Hmph.”

“So? Did it work?”

“It,” he didn’t wake up feeling like he was run over by a motorbike driven by an amateur, his joints don’t ache, “I think so.” He puts the candle on his bedside drawer and tears a granola bar. “Could’ve just been a phase. Might not be the candle.”

Osamu sighs. “Buy the guy his coffee, Tsumu. Black coffee ain’t even that expensive. Ya gotta know how to be grateful.”

“Don’t treat me like ‘m five, I was gonna do it!” … “Yer doubtin’ me, aren’t ya? I was gonna buy ‘im his damned coffee!”

“He ain’t that bad, yeah? Ya probably realize that he’s not that bad. Just a germaphobe, is all. Not even much of a flaw, if ya ask me. He just likes to be clean and hygienic.”

“That’s not why I,” he sucks in a lungful of air, chewing on the nuts and cranberries. He reflects on Sakusa’s behavior in their past two months together – he could be an aloof jerk, but he’s a skilled volleyball player. He is nitpicky about tosses, but that only fuels Atsumu to refine his techniques as a setter. He lent his umbrella to a staff member who had to pick up their kid. And albeit prickly about it, he permitted Atsumu to shower at his home, and (grudgingly) invited him for coffee.

The candle, too.

“Samu.”

“What?”

“What if,” he ties his shoelaces, “what if… like, a hypothetical situation, not reality or anythin’ –“

“Get on with it, Jesus.”

“What if… he ain’t that bad?”

“Are ya deaf or do ya just not listen to a word I say?”

“Ya wouldn’t understand – yer not sensitive as I am.”

“Yer what?”

Atsumu puffs his cheeks. “’M hangin’ up. Oh, wait – oi, Samu, didja fight with Sunarin?”

“Not really.”

“Not really? What’s with that; ya either fight or not fight. Well, if ya fought, reconcile soon. We called yesterday and he sounded out of it. He gets like that when yer upset with him. Gee, tell yer boyfriend to sulk elsewhere; I couldn’t binge my rom-com K-drama ‘cause of his whinin’.”

“He ain’t my boyfriend –“

“Ya guys have been sayin’ that since high school. I don’t give a shit what ya are, just make amends already. Anyway, see ya tomorrow at the stadium.” He hops into his car and turns the dial to increase the volume of the pumping music. There should be a Starbucks somewhere around the department store… he searches for the franchise’s logo as he weaves through the busy streets. Oh, there it is.

The queue is thankfully short, and Atsumu reviews Sakusa’s order mentally. Dark roast espresso, no sugar, no milk, extra ice… and three napkins? What are the napkins for? And I want a smoothie – why am I on a diet? Once this season is over, I’m gonna be a pig, and nobody can stop me. A band of girls in the corner booth whisper his name, and he pretends they don’t exist. Please don’t ask for a signature, ‘m not a mornin’ person.

“Hello, welcome to Starbucks – how can I help you?” The waitress in the green apron beams – she twinkles upon looking at his face. I do have a pleasant face.

“Dark roast espresso, no sugar, no milk, extra ice – venti.”

“That would be six hundred and fifty yen. Do you need anything else?”

“No –“

(“Omi, hm? That’s cute. Yer kinda cute, too.”)

He wobbles – his wallet drops to his feet, and the coins fly out with a cantankerous chime. Someone gasps – the waitress, he imagines – as he blinks in rapid succession. Pale, he swivels around, but nobody is there. What was that, he feels hot like he’s burning from the inside, a hurricane of smoke consuming his sanity, what the fuck was that?

He heard a voice.

A voice that uncannily resembled his own.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“Oh, uh,” he sees the scattered coins on the floor and cusses, “yeah, ‘m fine. Sorry.” Scurrying to gather his change, Atsumu lowers himself as the sentence reverberates in his brain, pristinely articulated. Omi? He retreats to the benches when he’s picked them all up. Who is that? No, what even – he had experienced this before. This gut-wrenching feeling, as if someone were tearing him apart.

Sakusa.

“No way,” as if that’s possible, “Nah.”

Stop tryin’ to link him to everythin’. Yer not sixteen anymore. A coincidence – a strange occurrence. That’s all it is.

His buzzer vibrates as his order is out. He doesn’t forget to take three additional napkins as he returns to his car. In eight minutes, he parks the car and checks into the gym. Inuaki and Bokuto are there with Meian, and they wave when they spot him.

“Hey, Miya. You purchased coffee? Now that’s rare.”

“It ain’t for me.”

“For me, then?” Inuaki chirps in delight, and Atsumu chuckles.

“Not a chance, Wan-san.”

“You guys don’t appreciate your libero. I’m hurt.”

“Inuaki, didn’t you miss four serves from Romero when he played against the Adlers last week?”

“It’s Romero, captain, cut me some slack!”

“I wish we’d have another spiker with swift attacks and solid receives. Miya’s tosses are fantastic, but we should increase our options. What do you think, Miya?”

Atsumu nods, debating where he should put the coffee. “Yeah, but tryouts aren’t until this season is over. We might have to wait till next year, then.”

“Next year, huh…”

Bokuto abrupt exclaims, “Hey, Sakusa!”

Atsumu splutters and squeaks as the slippery plastic cup almost clatters to the ground. What’s with my grip today? Sakusa’s in his running wear as always, his ears plugged and forehead glistening with sweat. He takes note of Atsumu – well, the coffee, and then Atsumu – and removes one of the plugs. “I didn’t think you would actually buy it.”

“What do ya take me for?” Sakusa stares at him meaningfully. “… Don’t answer that.” The coffee is passed to Sakusa, and Atsumu licks his bottom lip. “Uh, the… the candle.” Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, damn it. “I, er, slept well.”

“Good for you.”

“I didn’t have high expectations.”

“Neither did I.”

“Really?”

“I told you, its effectiveness can vary.” Over a quarter of his coffee has vanished. “Perhaps you’re compatible with jasmine. Try tea next.”

“… Yeah, ‘kay.”

Sakusa advances to his locker, and Atsumu is rigid, his sneakers rooted to the rubber beneath. Grow up, Osamu had chastised, and Atsumu also promised to be a changed person. A more mature person. Rotten animosity and bemusement aside, he has to admit – Sakusa Kiyoomi may not be a bad person.

“Hey, thanks,” he calls out – and he doesn’t know what possesses him. He most likely never will. It’s a spur-of-the-moment, subconscious act, something inexplicable and spontaneous.

(Perhaps, it was fated.)

“Thanks, Omi.”

(“Omi, hm? That’s cute. Yer kinda cute, too.”)

And it may have been just him, but he believes something about Sakusa – barely recognizable – falters. Atsumu was not convinced a world in slow-motion could unfold until then. Sakusa’s mouth parts as his pupils dilate, his earphones falling out of his ears, sweat trickling down the curvature of his face; a flicker of emotion overwhelming him, an emotion akin to –

Akin to what?

But that too evaporates into thin air as Sakusa’s scowl supplants his fleeting expression. “Don’t call me that.”

Even while ruminating on what that was, Atsumu smirks, “Omi-kun, then.”

“You’re a menace, Miya.”

Despite his crude selection of vocabulary, he doesn’t sound genuine.

“I’ll see ya at practice, Omi.”

Chapter Text

“We can’t squander such a mesmerizin’ night just for some fleetin’ pleasure, don’t ya agree?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to our home ground, actually.”

“Well, we usually train at the Tokyo gym for convenience.”

“I’ve been here once or twice – the hotels are luxurious.”

“Osaka castle?”

“Someone take Barnes to Osaka castle!”

Atsumu snorts as he stares out the window of their bus. Though it must feel like a trip for his team, it just feels like a homecoming to him. He travels down every year for New Year’s with Osamu, who moved to Tokyo as his restaurant branch began to flourish in Hyogo last summer. It’s not as if their parents missed them much; they loved each other like they were on their honeymoon for the past couple of decades. Atsumu often wonders how they didn’t wind up with five more siblings (his mother screeched, ‘Are ya tellin’ me to raise five more spawns of the devil, Atsumu?’).

“What’s it like to be back?” Bokuto nudges his elbow, and Atsumu laughs.

“Like nothin’. ‘S not like I have anyone to meet – ah, maybe I’ll say hi to Kita-san.”

“Kita? Who’s that again?”

“My high school captain.”

“Oh, the dude that wasn’t a regular, yeah? Wasn’t a regular, but certainly had presence, mm. Not the flashiest player, but he’s the type of player I don’t deal well with. Y’know, the… the cool-ish, calm-ish players? Ones that are never fascinated by anything!”

Atsumu raises a daring brow, “Ya basically described Akaashi-kun.”

“Nah, ‘Kaashi is like…” blink, blink. “… Huh. You may be right. Crap, I’m so glad I was on the same team as Akaashi.”

“He did have a nice leash around yer neck.”

“That sounds dirty, Tsumu-Tsumu!”

He scrunches up his nose, “Ew, what’re ya thinkin’, Bokkun?” A yelp rushes from his mouth as a sudden jolt of pain courses through his tailbone. He swivels backward with a glare, “Omi, what?”

“You’re fucking noisy.” Sakusa has his sleep mask lifted to reveal his sour scowl.

Atsumu twists in his seat and wedges his face in the gap between the chairs. “Lis-ten, not all of us are grandpas who sleep in bus rides! Ya can nap in yer room when we reach the hotel anyway, Bokkun and I were havin’ a very important conversation of high intellect!”

“We were?”

“High intellect,” Sakusa smirks – he’s wearing his mask, but Atsumu knows he’s smirking, “How strange, I don’t see anything of the like.”

Bokuto pouts, “Oi, I heard that, Sakusa!”

Sakusa doesn’t bother to respond and lets the eye mask cover the upper half of his face again. Atsumu huffs and sits properly, cutting off his dialogue with Bokuto.

It’s clear that Sakusa Kiyoomi who gifted him jasmine candles was a hallucination because Atsumu does not encounter him for weeks after the incident. Other than the upgrade in nicknames, ranging from ‘Omi’ to ‘Omi-Omi’ to ‘Omi-kun,’ absolutely nothing has changed. They’re more than fifty percent through this season, and yet he has made virtually no progress with Sakusa. He believes it’s impressive, on the contrary, as they even live in the same apartment.

Of course, they don’t have to be best friends. Atsumu isn’t expecting ‘friends,’ even. But he’s been around for five months or so now – he listens to Meian’s freak-outs when his girlfriend is mad at him and he has no clue why; he is officially Sylvia Barnes’s favorite person after her parents; he knows more about Bokuto’s sex life than his little brother’s; he exchanges hip-hop tracks with Tomas; he has eaten lunch with Inuaki privately on a Sunday.

To be fair, nobody seems to be friends with Sakusa, but Atsumu likes being special. And he was persuaded that he was when Sakusa gave him that darned candle, albeit in return for coffee. He didn’t object (that much) to his new nickname either.

So why are we back to square one?

“We’re here, boys!”

The chauffeurs unload their luggage, and the hotel staff hauls them up to their rooms. “We get free lodgings when we come to Osaka, so you all get one room each. Check your keys to see which floor you’re on. You have an hour off to unpack your luggage and take a shower, eat a meal, whatever. We’ll debrief and discuss our strategy for tomorrow’s game until six – after that, the evening is yours to spend. Again, no matter what you do, don’t cause trouble. We’re reaching the peak of the season and can’t afford to waste our precious time suppressing some pointless gossip. Understood?”

“Yes, coach!”

“Good – see you all at three.”

Atsumu heads to the twenty-third floor, where his room is located. He whistles upon being met with an enrapturing view of Osaka: the stretched skyscrapers, intricate roads, glowing billboards, and tiny people. “That’s a five-star for ya,” he pounces the bed, rolling back and forth on the chilled sheets and soft pillows. They are booked for the week until the last few tournaments are over. How nice, how nice. “Oh, my stuff.”

He lazily tosses his toiletries into the sink and sets out his week-worth of teabags on the bedside table. Heeding Sakusa’s advice, he went out for grocery shopping that weekend and swept away all the brands of jasmine tea available at the market. It took him a while to find the best brand, but the headaches’ frequency was reduced significantly after consumption – a healthier alternative to sleeping pills. Osamu had frowned at him and said, ‘the hell, who are ya and what didja do to my brother? My brother doesn’t drink tea, he only drinks soda, smoothies, and boba.’ Atsumu griped, ‘I add three sugar cubes.’ ‘Oh, there he is.’

Now, now… he has forty minutes to spare until the meeting. It’s too early for dinner, and Atsumu’s not the type to snack; he used to be, until he began running in the pro-league. His mother was devastated when he stopped asking her to send her caramelized apple bites to Tokyo. “What to do?”

Miya Atsumu’s golden rule, number thirty-one: when you have nothing to do, sleep.

He sets an alarm and crawls into the thick blankets. Mm, yeah, hotel blankets.

Gradually, his consciousness fades.

(“Does it hurt?”

The man under him snorts rather sardonically, “I don’t feel anything there, milord. You might as well break my bones.” His legs are as white as a winter blizzard and thin as starved tree branches. The samurai kisses his smooth ankle, but the geisha gives him a steel-hard look. “I don’t feel that, either.”

“Ya aren’t very popular with how ya speak, aren’t ya?”

“I wouldn’t be left to rot here if I were popular to begin with, milord.”

“Lucky,” he lowers the other’s leg and looms over him on the futon. His own dark locks cascade down to the geisha’s stoic face, drained of emotion. “Yer all for me, then. Consider yerself blessed; I’m renowned amongst the women in the Central brothels.”

A sigh, “Do whatever you wish.”

Heh… he pulls at the sash of the man’s kimono, and the cloth around his shoulders slacken. “Whatever?” His skin has no blemishes, no scars, no bruises. “Who knows what I’d do with ya, hm?”

“Trust me,” Omi – was that his name? That’s what he said he was. Omi. A weird name. “I’ve had worse than you.”

Worse. He recalls how the man flinched when he was initially touched. A reflex, he explained. ‘It’s a reflex. Don’t mind it.’ “Ya don’t even know what ‘m like.”

“I’ve never seen a samurai that hadn’t been like the previous one,” Omi replies, unfazed, “and I don’t expect you to be different, milord. I’d be tremendously grateful if you could go on with your business and leave me alone.”

What a unique geisha. Atsumu can’t repress his chortles. A geisha – a male geisha – who has the audacity to urge a guest to leave? How delightful. He nips at the man’s earlobe, licking the curve of his scapha. Omi jerks up, his chest bumping against Atsumu’s. “What if I want ya for the entire night?”

“You must be short on gold and silver,” shudders Omi, “I’m the cheapest one around.”

“Oh, no, I have more than enough gold – enough to engage in this,” his fingers venture through the loose kimono, over the sensitive canvas of beige, “with fifty other lasses at Gion Koubu and Pontocho. But I’m a man of frugal habits.” He rubs his thumb around the firm pec, which has the geisha averting his gaze from Atsumu. He grabs Omi’s chin so that they’re looking at each other again. “Even if yer cheap, surely ya can keep yer attention on yer lord.”

“… What pleasure does my face provide?”

“Hmm,” the moles on his forehead are unveiled as his curls slide to the futon. “Immense pleasure. Lots of it.” He swoops south and sucks on those plump lips, the color of plum blossoms. Omi grunts and presses his mouth together, struggling against Atsumu’s ministrations. “Hey,” he rips off his haori and pants, “Hey, Omi.”

Omi glimpses at him sideways, his shoulders rising and falling unsteadily. “… Yes, milord?” He’s never heard a more malicious ‘milord’ before.

“Call me Miya.”

They have a long night ahead of them.)

Beep – beep – beep – beep –

His lids fly open as he gasps – his collar is drenched in sweat, as his unfocused vision shows layers of the lamp attached to the ceiling. His alarm rings incessantly beside his ear, but he lies there until he can sense the oxygen swishing through his vessels, refreshening his mind and nerves. “What,” he compresses his temples. Fuzzy snapshots of the dream flicker in his brain, in black-and-white images and garbled voices. Just because I didn’t drink tea, seriously? Scrambling out of bed, he squeezes into his sneakers and trudges to the meeting hall. What if I become too reliant on tea or somethin’? Doesn’t tea have caffeine? If I become addicted to caffeine, then…

“Atsumu, you’re late!”

He stifles a yawn, “’M on time, captain, don’t lie.”

“To be on time is to be late, and to be early is to be on time, quoting my elementary school homeroom teacher.”

“What kind of wrecked concept of time did yer elementary teacher have?”

Coach Foster hushes them and scribbles out their names on the gigantic whiteboard, drawing out various formations and strategies they ought to incorporate during the game, depending on how the other team plays. They’re against the Deseo Hornets for the first round. Atsumu submerges into an ocean of thoughts as his teammates interject to input their own ideas on how they should counterattack when cornered.

Dreams.

He’s never been the type to dream much. Even if he did dream, they were all hyperbolic nonsense – cue elephant-phoenix chimeras and a zombie apocalypse with an undead Scarlett Johansson, cannibalistic unicorns, man-friendly killer whales, and more. In other words, he doesn’t dream realistically.

And yet, the grainy images that he’s forgetting with each second – those were undoubtedly real. Where was I? Rouge pink lips, immaculate skin, and – curls. Atsumu nibbles on the inside of his cheek. There were curls, right? Wavy locks, at least. Really long hair – must’ve reached his back. He blinks. Wait, ‘he’?

“Hey, Miya!”

“Huh?” Tremors vibrate across his fingertips as he’s awakened from his trance. “Sorry, what?”

“If you’re gonna daydream, at least make an effort to hide it.”

He laughs sheepishly, “Sorry, I’ll listen.”

Even as he actively participates in the ongoing discussion, the shelved realization which resides in his mind sticks out like a sore thumb. A ‘he.’ He was in bed with a man. Of course, Atsumu’s slept with men before, but – wasn’t that a woman’s kimono? He’s not infatuated with crossdressing his partner, and he would’ve selected something less maniacal if he were to do it, like mini-skirts and high school uniforms. Okay, but there’s the possibility that they were transgender or somethin’. Pause. Nah, but since when did I have dreams featurin’ actual people?

“That’s all we have, then. Get plenty of rest and don’t get drunk. Dismissed!”

Atsumu ambles out on his own. There is something else that is bugging him – a distorted portion of the dialogue. I said… I mean, under the assumption that that was me, I said…

(“Hey, Omi.”)

“Omi.”

“What?”

“Holy mother of,” Atsumu screams and skids away. Sakusa is there, scowling at him as if he’s talking to a monkey. “Jesus, don’t creep up on a person like that.”

“You’re the one who called for me aloud.”

“Oh, I said that aloud?” Maybe he had. Atsumu sniffs, awkward. “Wasn’t my intention.” Sakusa sighs and continues walking, and Atsumu follows him with a few steps of distance in between. I feel like I’ve experienced this…

(“Omi, hm? That’s cute. Yer kinda cute, too.”)

He goes rigid, his feet glued to the ground. Omi. It was ‘Omi’ then, too.

“Miya.”

“Ye- wuh?” Sakusa points to a certain direction; a column stands two meters away from where he is. “Oh. Uh, thanks.” The cylindrical column is made of marble, dotted blue and brown. Atsumu stares at his reflection like that, dazed and overcome with an inexplicable something – out of the realms of his own understanding. “… Omi, where are ya goin’ now?”

“Dinner.”

“Dinner,” food. Food sounds terrific. That’s right – he must be famished. The hungry mind is bound to wander. “Hey, I know a delicious udon diner just down the street – a local’s recommendation. Ya like udon, Omi?”

Sakusa shrugs, “I eat most things.”

“They only have one menu: udon. Haven’t seen anyone who isn’t enamored upon the first bite. C’mon, I’ll show ya around. Consider yerself fortunate to have such an expert tour guide.”

“I’m not here as a tourist, Miya.”

“I know ya don’t like crowds, no worries. ‘M not borin’ – I’ll give ya a taste of Osaka.”

People bustle through the streets and crossroads, businessmen, students, mothers, and college students consuming the city as the clock hit six. “We gotta get to the diner before seven, the peak supper hour. Families and middle-aged office workers come in like crazy then.” His mouth waters as he pictures the udon, with fried tofu and spring onion garnishes. “I swear, it’s gonna be worth it. Ya ever been to Osaka?”

“Last year, for tryouts. Two days.”

“And let me guess, ya never left yer hotel?” Sakusa doesn’t answer, but the irritated twitch of his brow is all Atsumu needs. “What a waste, Omi. Every other alley of Osaka has a must-go-to restaurant, y’know? Yer not takin’ advantage of this fantastic opportunity.”

“We’re not all as obsessed with food as you are, Miya.”

“’S not me, ‘s Samu.” He’s never complained about his brother’s food trips, though – Osamu paid over half the time. “Oh, there it is.” He spots the indigo torii and beams when the aroma of bonito and rich broth ambush his olfactory bulbs. “Oba-han, ‘m here!”

A paunchy woman with an apron whips to Atsumu and claps, “Atsumu, yer ‘ere! My, my, thought ‘cha won’ e’er visit, we’ve been waitin’ since ya graduated with yer younger ‘un, goodness, look at how ya’ve grown!” Sakusa winces, most definitely at her thick dialect, practically a foreign language to a nonlocal. “A kitsune udon for ya, hm? Well, we only got one thin’, so ya don’ have a choice,” she winks, and Atsumu chuckles at the decade-long joke. He waves at Sakusa and ushers them to Atsumu’s reserved booth.

“Oh, they got pickled radish and stuff, too.” He lifts the lid of each jar, “Do ya like umeboshi?”

Sakusa peers at the jar. “Yes.”

Wow, a solid ‘yes.’ Atsumu puts the jar of pickled plums in front of Sakusa.

“’Ere ya go, two bowls of kitsune udon!” The lady serves them two steaming hot bowls, and Atsumu tosses a pair of wooden chopsticks to Sakusa. This is it, the noodles of perfect width and girth, the fried tofu skin soaked in this broth, spring onions adding a mildly sweet flavor, and the simplicity of the ingredients – man, I love home. He swallows but doesn’t eat, watching Sakusa blow on the noodles. The latter opens his mouth and chews. Atsumu grips his chopsticks.

“… How is it?”

Sakusa’s pupils dilate slightly, the permanent crease between his eyebrows gone. “Good.” Atsumu whoops and pumps his fist because he can’t get a better reaction from Sakusa. They slurp at the udon in intense silence, both determined to finish the bowl. He doesn’t miss how Sakusa empties the jar of umeboshi on his own – the jar which used to be stocked to the brim.

“Toldja, yer benefittin’ from havin’ me as yer tour guide.” Atsumu pats his belly, contented. “All those ‘Osaka Tour 101’ booklets are marketing rubbish and a ploy. Don’t trust any of ‘em.”

“I don’t buy those booklets.”

“Ten outta ten attitude.” Atsumu hands the waitress his credit card along with the receipt. When Sakusa shifts, he shakes his head, “On me, on me. ‘M the one who wanted to come, so.” A group of drunkards enters the store, and Atsumu juts his chin at Sakusa. “Let’s leave.”

They step out into the traffic once more. “Wanna digest?”

“We’re technically digesting.”

“Healthily, Omi, healthily.”

“I don’t want to go to Osaka castle.”

He snorts, “That’s too mainstream. I’m not lame like that, Omi, who do ya think I am?” Sakusa squints at him, and he is fully aware that he’s referring to Atsumu’s social media challenge posts and extremely mainstream Spotify playlist. “… Don’t look at me like that.”

They rerun through their formation and plan against the Hornets. Atsumu remembers their setter, Iizuna Tsukasa – he retired with an injury in high school, but made it to the pro-league, Division 1. He’s a pace-setter, one of the most collected setters Atsumu has ever seen, quite similar to Akaashi Keiji. Personally, he prefers setters like Kageyama, ones fast to trigger and constantly fired up, but Iizuna is a more than competent setter as well. “What was Itachiyama like?” Atsumu asks as they walk. “Like the overall mood, team atmosphere, that kinda thing.”

Inarizaki was the challenger. He was pretty fond of their motto, ‘We don’t need memories.’ It was very present-centered, with zero consideration of the past and future.

“We were coordinated.” Sakusa replies, “It was a well-balanced team.” Itachiyama was reputed to be the flawless team – flawless defense, flawless offense, flawless formation, and flawless lineup. Nobody was shocked when they won the Nationals in Sakusa’s senior year.

“Y’know in high school,” Atsumu gazes at the sky. There’s a half-moon enveloped in thin clouds. In high school. He is suddenly the sixteen-year-old Miya Atsumu, frozen in that gymnasium with tears welled in his eyes, invisible vines rooting him to the mushy court, unable to breathe. He despised that feeling, and his hatred translated into avoidance. Teenagers are as ignorant as they are complex and rather dumb as they are simple. Young Miya Atsumu was especially so.

He didn’t hate Sakusa Kiyoomi – he hated being with Sakusa Kiyoomi. There is a difference.

“Miya?”

Atsumu huffs, “In high school. We didn’t get along, yeah?” That’s not accurate. Atsumu didn’t get along with Sakusa; he’s not sure whether it was mutual.

Sakusa answers, “I suppose.”

“Didn’t think we’d be on the Jackals together then. If I knew,” if he knew, then what? What would’ve changed? He is speechless as the pixels of his imagination reorganize themselves, matching a puzzle piece of his dream. A cheap, pattern-less kimono. Bony legs. Skinny wrists. And –

Morose eyes.

He forces out a laugh. “Never mind.” It’s just a dream. Just a dream. That’s all it was.

(Is it?)

“We have arrived!”

It’s a bridge – a relatively small one, which arches over a stream that wraps around the metropolis of Osaka. “Careful, the wood is old,” cautions Atsumu, as Sakusa places his foot on a creaky plank. The bridge is one of the few traditional bridges which has not been reconstructed yet, built hundreds of years ago. Atsumu and Osamu had stumbled upon it when they were journeying through the city as toddlers, after sneaking out from family gatherings. The stream was often barren during summer, so they’d jump down and pick at the moss or find pet snails.

There is water sloshing in currents now, as Atsumu predicted. He favors the stream with water than without.

“Gorgeous, ain’t it?” He rests his arms on the rising. The water is colored with the fluorescent lights of the city, splatters of orange, yellow, red, and neon on a sketchbook of black. Atsumu likes this view – not too high, not too low, but enough to hold Osaka on its surface. The wind smells like dew and water.

“I didn’t think you were the type of person to enjoy such sights,” comments Sakusa as he admires the reflection; he doesn’t approach the dusty rising, though.

“Rude, Omi.”

(“What pleasure does my face provide?”

“Immense pleasure. Lots of it.”)

Atsumu stills.

Face.

Curls. Glossy lips. Angular shoulders. Icy skin.

Two moles.

(“Hey, Omi.”)

Ha.

No way.

No fuckin’ way.

“Miya,” he tightens his grasp around the wood, chips poking at his skin. Sakusa is looking at him bemusedly. “You’re staring.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi in a women’s kimono. Sakusa Kiyoomi with long hair. Sakusa Kiyoomi under him.

In bed, with Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“Nothin’.” Nah. No. Nope. “It’s nothin’.”

Realistic, my ass.

Chapter Text

“I like mornings. I can see yer smile better.”

“Hah, you dreamt of what?”

A cantankerous ‘thunk’ is drowned out by the background chatter and hollers of the pub. ‘One karaage for table 3!’ ‘Four Heinekens at table five!’ “Don’t make me repeat it,” Atsumu groans, burying his face in his palms. Suna Rintarou, his high school colleague and middle blocker of EJP Raijins, appears more humored than ever as he chugs down his glass of beer.

“No, it’s just, I mean…” an unsuppressed snigger leaks from Suna, “that Sakusa Kiyoomi? Aren’t you too old for wet dreams, Atsumu?”

“I didn’t actually fuck ‘im, I woke up before I- that’s not important!”

“Yeah?” Suna merely shrugs, “You’re overthinking it. Objectively speaking, Sakusa Kiyoomi is attractive. I’d be down. Most people would be down.”

“But ‘m not attracted to him.”

“Not consciously, perhaps.”

“Fuck,” he empties his third can. He doesn’t go into the details of the dream; he can imagine how Suna would react if he mentioned the crossdressing. He can’t remember fragments of the conversation, too. “I abominated his guts when I was in high school. There’s no way I can grow to like ‘im.”

Suna chews on a fried squid leg. “You don’t seem to hate him as much now, though.”

“I don’t, but, like,” he’s never been a rational debater, especially when drunk. He slumps back in his seat. “Whenever I feel like ‘m gettin’ closer, he draws a line. ‘S not about me hatin’ him, he just ain’t interested. What the fuck am I s’posed to do if he’s like that?”

“What do you mean, ‘he draws a line’?”

He retells the events at Osaka – how he showed Sakusa around the city, how they ate meals together, and, “I even managed to find out how many siblings he has!” He’s proud of that one. Sakusa shared one thing about himself when Atsumu shared twenty. “… And I thought it was fine, y’know? Didn’t really dream either, ‘cause I drank tea and didn’t take naps. And then we come back to Tokyo, and bam, he’s all distant again. The hell, is he a video game or what? A video game where I forget to save each time that it just restarts, y’know?”

“Maybe he doesn’t like you.”

“Rude.”

“You’re not the type to care, even if that is the case, no?”

“I,” that’s true. He’s never given a crap when someone disliked his attitude, his behavior, his playing style – he only did his best. You didn’t have to like one another to play volleyball and form a team. But… “I guess.” The dream has consumed his thoughts since then. During the season, he locked it into the chambers of his mind to prevent distractions. The season was over, however, and he had time – too much time, to be frank – to think. Parts of the dream were returning to him, and the more pieces he garnered, the more disturbing the picture looked.

For example, this line: “You must be short on gold and silver. I’m the cheapest one around.”

No matter how much Atsumu abhorred a person, he still reserved the most basic amount of respect for them – something any human being deserved. The implications of Sakusa’s words are a stark contrast to his beliefs, and it bothers Atsumu to no end. I don’t view him like that, do I? He throws a hand over his forehead, do I?

“You’re overreacting, Atsumu.”

His stomach twists. He wraps and unwraps his fingers around the fourth can. “Ya think?”

“If I didn’t know you better, I would’ve assumed you liked him.”

“Don’t spout shit.” He decides to switch the topic there. “By the way, what’s with that article?”

Suna frowns, addled, but then forms an understanding ‘ah’ with his mouth. “It’s an idiotic rumor. I was escorting one of the team’s sponsors to the cab, and the paparazzi snapped a misleading photo.” The spiker massages his temples at the memory. “She was so fucking drunk; she couldn’t even stand. Draped all over me.”

“Hm,” Atsumu picks at the bowl of potato salad with his chopsticks, “Samu was upset.”

“Really.”

“He doesn’t make it obvious, but, well.” He mentally replays his phone call with Osamu over the weekend. ‘What’s with Sunarin?’ ‘Dunno.’ ‘He’s yer boyfriend, what d’ya mean ya dunno?’ ‘We’re not datin’.’ ‘Then yer tellin’ me he’s datin’ her?’ ‘’S not any of my business, Tsumu, how the fuck would I know?’ “Didja explain to ‘im?”

Suna snorts, “He never asked.”

Are ya guys for real, “Samu doesn’t ask, ya should know that by now.”

“Then I guess that’s all we are.” Atsumu scowls at Suna. “It’s not as if we’re exclusive.”

“I always wanted to ask – why the heck aren’t ya guys exclusive? Literally, the whole fuckin’ graduatin’ class thought ya guys were an item, ‘m not even jokin’.” Suna and Osamu didn’t put much effort into hiding their interactions either – there were more than fifteen witnesses over the course of two years. “Don’t ‘cha like ‘im? Samu.” Suna doesn’t respond, and Atsumu shakes his head in exasperation. “Whatever.”

“About your dreams –“

“Let’s move on from that, please.”

“I heard somewhere that morning exercises alleviated sleep exhaustion. It was something about feeling lighter, more refreshed. It’s on those health channels quite frequently, right?”

“Yer advisin’ an athlete to exercise in the mornin’?”

“Not training with the team, but morning warm-ups. Jogging, jump rope, the ordinary drill. It’s worth a try if you really are that concerned.” Suna finishes his beer as well. “I still believe you’re overanalyzing this, but you had the tendency to do that sometimes in high school.”

“Overanalyzing…” it’s possible. So what if Sakusa Kiyoomi cross-dressed in his dream? So what if they were totally in that mood, half-naked? So what if Sakusa had long hair? So what? Haha, he deadpans, nah, not happenin’. “Mornin’ jog it is.”

“… You must be desperate.”

He flashes Suna a wry smile. “Ya have no idea, Sunarin.”

At home that night, he sets an earlier alarm for the morning. I haven’t woken up at six since I was sixteen. They had mandatory pre-lecture practices in high school at ungodly hours, and it was always Osamu who woke Atsumu up, though violently. He dreamt blurry snippets even with the tea; the remedy’s effect was wearing off, clearly. If this doesn’t do it, then… no, let’s not jinx it. Don’t jinx it.

He pauses before grabbing a teabag from the cupboard. If I really stop dreamin’ after the jogs, then… he lowers his hand. One last time, the kettle is removed, one last time. Just to… confirm.

This predicament was peculiar, to begin with. The dreams, the voice in his head, the mysterious images – everything. And at the core of that whirlwind is Sakusa Kiyoomi.

It’s just a coincidence. He persuades himself as brushes his teeth, glaring at the faultless mirror. Just a coincidence, of course. The headaches, the dreams – it’s stress. Doesn’t hafta do anythin’ with that scrub. ‘S not like I dream about him every day. ‘S not like even if I do, that has some deep meaning.

That’s why – this is the last.

Resolved, he crawls into bed and turns off the lights.

(“Call me Miya.”)

(“Hello, Omi.”

Omi flicks to him and lets out a sigh. “You’re here again?”

“I am indeed.” He sits cross-legged on the square cushion, placing his sword on the grass below. The courtesan is in his quarters as usual, the wooden grid-door left open for his guests. “Ain’t it dark here, Omi? The sun will never shine over this direction.”

“I can’t choose where I reside unlike you, Miya.” Omi puts his book down. “Are you finally here to spend the night?”

“It’s still noon, so no.” He fondles with the other’s tousled braid. “Unless that’s what ya desire. ‘M all yers.”

Clucking his tongue, Omi lights his pipe. “It’s a waste of silver.”

“It’s also my silver to waste.” He curls his own fingers around the pipe and takes it. “I’ll confiscate this.” A disgruntled scowl is sent towards him instantly. Miya laughs. “I want ya to pay more attention to me. I don’t waste my silver to watch ya smoke, after all.”

“Oh?” He cocks his head; his rather loose kimono slides down, revealing more of his collarbone. Miya stares momentarily but soon readjusts it for him. “How should I satisfy you, then?”

“I bought somethin’.” Rummaging through his haori, the samurai takes out a wooden box. “This was expensive, by the way.” Omi blinks but lifts the lid – his jaw descends, just a little.

Inside the box are ripe apricots, nearly impossible to find this time of the year. The skin is peeled and sprinkled on top is high-quality sugarcane powder. The geisha hurriedly shuts the lid, “What kind of ploy is this?”

“My gift.”

“Spending a single night with me costs less than half of this apricot, Miya. A quarter, even.”

He hums noncommittally and reaches for a round, juicy apricot. “Mm,” a content moan is drawn from him the next second, the saccharine flavor coating his tongue. “Who said it was for ya? It’s a gift for me.” Omi frowns; Miya tosses him the fruit. “C’mon, entertain me.”

“This is how you’re entertained?”

“Is that wrong?” Another bite, “Sweet apricots, this pleasant weather, and,” he chews into the other man’s apricot without warning, and smirks. “A beautiful companion. Anyone would be thoroughly entertained, don’t ‘cha agree?”

Omi huffs, “Perhaps you should seek for the Oiran, then. She would quite enjoy these apricots.”

“But if I go visit the Oiran, that’d mean I’d never be able to meet with ya like this again.” Once a customer of the Oiran was forever a customer of the Oiran – no exceptions.

“What’s the point in fooling around with a geisha who can’t sing, dance, or play an instrument?” Omi doesn’t eat his half-consumed apricot, merely rolling it in his hand. The sugarcane powder dusts his fingers white. “And yet, you deny me of the only service I’m of use for.”

“Deny… hm,” he wolfs away the rest of the fruit and spits out the seed onto the grass. Then, he suavely kisses the geisha’s fingers. A citric but dulcet whiff lingers on his skin. Miya licks a powdered spot in the other’s palm.

“What are you –“

“I bet even the Oiran doesn’t have fingers that taste as sweet as candied apples.” He grins at Omi. “It’s yer victory.”

Omi snorts, his lip quirking. “You cannot count that as a victory, Mi –“

“There we go.” Finally, “Ya smiled.”

The sticky, wet fingers go rigid in his hold. “I was mocking you.”

“That’s fine. Ya still smiled.” He sinks to Omi’s lap with a gratified sigh. “Was worried that the apricots wouldn’t work. I spent two gold coins on that – two gold coins!”

“I’m,” his stable tone wavers. The sentence isn’t completed, no matter how long the samurai waits.

“The price of yer smile is exorbitant, hm, Omi?” He looks up at the geisha, who is gazing down at him with muddled emotions. “I thought ya said ya were cheap.”

“I am.”

“Yeah?” Their hands intertwine in the space between them. It’s rather gross, with how dried apricot sap and white powder mix together. He would’ve snarled if this were any other geisha, any other maiko, even the exalted Oiran herself. But he doesn’t because this man isn’t any of those things. “I want a kiss, Omi.”

A dazzling smile spreads across Omi’s face.

“That, I can do.”

The kiss is bittersweet – an addictive concoction of smoke and summer fruit.)

Rrriiinnngg!

Atsumu stares at the ceiling as his alarm shrieks in the background, begging to be noticed.

His initial thought is:

The fuck, why does it end there?

Followed by, no, nope, I do not want to know how that ends.

He sits up and slaps the alarm in fury. What’s with this level of clarity, anyway? This isn’t like the previous dream – he can remember each minute detail, each quaking breath, and the vivid sensations he experienced each passing second. He typically forgot the snippets he’s been viewing while drinking tea so far, but, “This is how it gets when I don’t do anythin’ ‘bout it?” And, “They’re connected?”

His dreams had been foggy, so he hadn’t realized it. But the man in the kimono was Sakusa – the Sakusa who appeared in his last dream. Has he ever had dreams that were connected? Nah, never had one of those. However, their attire, the setting, and the implied context was communicating an undeniable truth: the dreams were related.

Atsumu pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Are ya serious…”

(“But ‘m not attracted to him.”

“Not consciously, perhaps.”)

“Bullshit,” he blurts out, unbearable heat permeating through his ears. “Bullshit, Suna, that idiot, always spoutin’ rubbish.” Grumbling under his breath, he heads to the bathroom and showers with a dissatisfied scowl plastered to his face. Me? Attracted to Sakusa Kiyoomi? He rolls his eyes, hissing as the shampoo bubbles sting them. As if. Just because his deep-seated resentment for the spiker is now more dilute, doesn’t mean he is attracted. Sakusa was still stubborn, still apathetic, still bitchy, and someone he would rather avoid. Moreover, he renders Atsumu’s hard work to approach him pointless, like a board game where the player lands on the ‘go back to Start’ box. Hey, I’ll give you a candle, to, mind your own business, Miya; sure, let’s eat udon together, to, don’t talk to me, you’re sweaty. What kind of treachery is this?

Long story short, there is no possibility of Miya Atsumu being attracted to Sakusa Kiyoomi unless it’s about some law of physics – the law of gravitation, or whatever.

Inner Atsumu whispers: Yeah, but then why do you dream about him?

“Because,” he rubs his dripping face with a towel, “because everything in my life is shit.”

That must be why.

He pulls on his sportswear and fills his water bottle. Phone, check. Keys, check. Bag, check. Towel, check. Bottle, earphones, toiletries, kneepads, deodorant, check. It’s been a few years since he’s gone for a morning jog; he’d often race to campus with Osamu when he was in middle school. That doesn’t count as a jog, though, does it? He wriggles his feet into his sneakers and then stops.

“I feel like ‘m forgettin’ somethin’…”

(“I want a kiss, Omi.”)

He squeezes his shoelaces. “Not that.”

With an unnerving question mark in his heart, he exits his house and plugs his earphones in. I turned off the lights, the air conditioner, the stove… he selects his gym playlist and presses the ‘down’ button of the elevator. “Probably nothin’ crucial.”

Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four.

‘This is the fourth floor.’

The doors slide apart.

(“The distance from my apartment to the gym is fitting for a morning jog.”)

Sakusa Kiyoomi blinks back at him in his neon T-shirt and black shorts.

I’m an idiot. Miya Atsumu, yer a colossal idiot. Morning jog for remedial purposes my ass, I should’ve slept in. Whose idea was it, the cursed morning jog? Suna. I’m slaughterin’ that douche in our next match, just wait. Just fuckin’ wait.

“Are you getting in or not?”

He goes through a plethora of altercations within himself. If I get in, I hafta deal with the awkwardness. How did we even eat dinner together in Osaka again? I was hungry. Of course, hunger wins over anythin’. ‘m such a simpleton. But if he doesn’t get in, then it seems like I’m ignorin’ him. He grinds his teeth. “… I am.”

“Make it quick, we don’t have all day.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Atsumu steps in. They’re both quiet. He glances at the display board of the lift as the numbers decrease.

“You’re not usually out this early.”

What? He turns to Sakusa, stunned. “Uh,” the hell, he broke the ice? And here I was thinkin’ I’d hafta talk about the weather. “A friend – Sunarin – advised that I should adopt a more regulated lifestyle. For my fatigue.”

Sakusa nods. “Your stress?”

Yeah, I flirt with ya when I’m asleep, and it’s drivin’ me insane. “… Somethin’ like that.”

“I see.”

“How do ya wake up at this hellish hour? I almost puked while brushin’ my teeth.”

“It’s not as taxing when you become accustomed to it.”

“I bet,” the breeze is cool, at least. He stretches his arms and calves, a dubstep rhythm pumping in his ears. Sakusa does his own stretch routine with his wrists and neck. He sure has flexible wrists, notes Atsumu, ‘s a little freaky. That unique flexibility is one of Sakusa’s assets, as well as the team’s, but regardless. “I have a question for ya, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa swivels to him, “What?”

“Later,” ‘cause I dunno whether I actually wanna ask it, “when we pass the coffee shop.”

“Can’t it be now?”

“I gotta prepare myself.” He pauses. “It’s not a proposal, just sayin’.”

“I never thought it was.” Sakusa increases the volume of his music and starts jogging ahead of Atsumu. Atsumu deliberately adjusts his pace so that they’re not running side by side.

If ya really, really, really think about it, he gazes at Sakusa’s rippling T-shirt and flawless posture. Hadn’t I always been the one puttin’ in the effort? He was the one who greeted Sakusa (as amicably as he could) first. He drove Sakusa home during a storm (though Sakusa never requested a ride). He bought Sakusa dinner at Osaka (fact check: he was the one who suggested it). He took Sakusa to the most captivating, local tourist spot of the city (again, he was the one who suggested it). Sure, I was the one who chose to join the team, but, what has Sakusa done to cooperate?

He gave ya a candle.

And it wasn’t even free.

His rage shoots up on the spectrum.

What in the damned world is his problem?

He can literally hear Osamu snigger, ‘Yer personality is kinda crap, it’s no wonder that he doesn’t like ya, Tsumu.’

Sakusa suddenly skids to a halt and points to the café with his thumb. “We’re here.”

“Already?” Shoot, I wasn’t plannin’ to say that aloud. “Let’s buy coffee.”

“I don’t want to drink coffee.”

“I don’t care about what ya want, I wanna drink coffee.” An irritated scowl supplants Sakusa’s blasé expression. “I still gotta talk to ya, so ya better not move.” At that, the male reluctantly tags along, fixing the position of his mask at the sight of a crowd in the shop.

The waitress flashes him a sun-lit smile at the counter. “How can I help you?”

“A cocoa milk smoothie with chocolate chips and chocolate sauce, as well as crushed biscuit toppings and extra whipped cream.” Hmph. “Lots of whipped cream.”

“And you, sir?” She turns to Sakusa.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Alright! That would be 980 yen.”

Even as Atsumu gives her his credit card, he’s madly reenacting every exchange he’s had with Sakusa over the past six months, verbal and nonverbal. When Sakusa criticized him for his lousy sets (they were not lousy), or when Sakusa disregarded his attempts to be social, or when Sakusa was just being an asshole in general. Ya either give people candles or give people shit, ya can’t do both. Why would you do both?

He receives his beverage at the bar. Sakusa remarks, “That’s not coffee.”

“As I’ve said, coffee is synonymous to,” inhale, “whatever.” Chill. Be chill. Don’t lose yer cool – if ya do, ya’ve already lost. The cocoa is sugary; it feels like a prelude to the dentist.

(Apricots. Sugarcane powder. Pipes. A kiss.)

Atsumu’s grip around the cup stiffens, like a bolt. A lump of smoothie flows out from the plastic straw.

“Y’know, Omi-kun,” calm. Calm. Composure. “Do ya not like me?”

Sakusa’s Adam’s apple bobs. “… Pardon?”

“I don’t really give a shit if ya do. Ya wouldn’t be the first person, so ya don’t get a trophy or a round of applause for it. What a shame, yeah?”

“Miya, where is this –“

“Make up yer fuckin’ mind.” He growls – why do I hafta be the one gettin’ all angry over this, it seems like I’m bein’ the petty one here, why does he hafta make me look like a fuckin’, “’Cause ‘m sick of it. This push and pull thing yer doin’ – it sickens me. Six months, Omi, six months. Even yesterday, ya gave me all that trash when I invited ya for a ride,” ‘Why would I go home with you?’ His response flips another switch in Atsumu. Why would I go home with you? Is that even a question? “And then just now, ya casually start a conversation in the elevator.” He even dreams about Sakusa. Why the heck do I hafta dream about him? Those annoying dreams, like he’s a totally different person, when I just wanna despise him in peace, “What song ‘m I s’posed to dance to? If ya hate me then just stick with it, I don’t wanna spend another season tryin’ to butter up to ya –“

“Miya.”

He is interrupted as Sakusa tugs at his sleeve. Atsumu’s pupils enlarge as he gapes at Sakusa’s hand, clawing into the fabric. What’s even more astonishing is Sakusa’s face, contorted with overwhelming emotion – regret? Is that regret? Desperation? – his default insouciance evaporated and nowhere to be seen. No way, Atsumu almost laughs right there in disbelief. Sakusa Kiyoomi, desperate?

“I don’t hate you.”

It’s a whisper. A raspy whisper, quavering, like the fingers wrinkling Atsumu’s sleeve.

A notch louder, “I don’t hate you, Miya.”

Who is this?

He can’t look away. Sakusa doesn’t either. “Really.” He knows it’s true. Not because he believes Sakusa is candid and honest, but because of how Sakusa acting.

As if there’s nothing more important in the world than resolving this misunderstanding.

“I… trust ya.” Sakusa doesn’t release him. “Seriously,” Atsumu sighs, “I trust ya. Let me go.” The other complies, though unobligingly.

He has thousands of queries without answers. If ya don’t hate me, then what’s the issue? Why are we always flung back to square one when we’re about to make some progress? Is it about me, or is it about ya?

What do ya want us to be?

(“What’s the point in fooling around with a geisha who can’t sing, dance, or play an instrument?”)

He swallows.

Why is it ya?

Dreams are dreams, and reality is reality. Atsumu is aware of that. Even children know the difference. He should be able to distinguish something from the figments of his imagination and reality. And yet – and yet. There was a connection between Atsumu and Sakusa in those dreams – a connection so achingly tender, so endearingly precious.

He is not attracted to Sakusa Kiyoomi. He isn’t. He just isn’t.

But he can’t help but see the overlap between the Omi in his dreams, and the Omi in front of him – the Omi who clung to him and confessed that he didn’t hate Atsumu.

If one were to label this emotion, what would it be called?

Something between a kiss and a cigarette – something between pleasure and regret.

“Omi-kun,” Sakusa jerks, “smile.”

He anticipates a flat rejection. That’s the Sakusa Kiyoomi Atsumu knows. That’s the Sakusa Kiyoomi Atsumu longs for. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to remain ignorant. It’s easier to simply deflect. Atsumu wants to live life easily, in any other aspect than volleyball. He doesn’t have to challenged by anything else.

He doesn’t have to feel so cornered by this man.

Say no.

Just say no.

Just,

Do it.

Sakusa smiles.

It’s not a wide one. It’s not natural. It has a strained edge, but it’s soft. Or maybe it’s the morning sun. Sakusa smiles at him, the dawn shining behind him, a shimmering shade of goldenrod creating a stark contrast with Sakusa’s dark curls.

Atsumu gulps, balling his fists.

He doesn’t breathe.

His mouth is inundated with a mild sweetness.

(It’s the honey of apricots.)

He tells himself it's the whipped cream.

It's the whipped cream.

Chapter Text

“Over love and life, I will choose him. Over and over – I will choose him.”

There is a shift.

They jog together to the gym in the mornings. Minimal conversation enters and departs in between, but Sakusa no longer retracts. They clash less both during and after games and practice matches. During an interview, when a reporter asked Sakusa, ‘What is the most delicious dish you’ve eaten recently?’ The athlete answered, ‘There was an udon diner in Osaka that Miya-san introduced me to. It was good.’ The interview blew up on social media, with a number of fans commenting on how Atsumu and Sakusa were finally displaying moments of their interaction off-screen.

It would be an exaggeration to say that they are closer. There are days when Sakusa is more talkative (as one can imagine), and on others, he is more withdrawn.

Sometimes, Atsumu wonders if the Sakusa he witnessed was a hallucination – the Sakusa who grabbed him and blurted, ‘I don’t hate you, Miya.’ They didn’t discuss the events of that morning afterward, but, well. Anyone would acquiesce that that Sakusa was uncharacteristic.

Almost as if he weren’t Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“One touch!”

Atsumu plasters his attention to the yellow-blue volleyball hovering above him. In the periphery of his vision, there is Sakusa, hunched over by the net.

“Omi-kun!”

The spiker unwinds and soars towards the ceiling, his spine arched. Atsumu is entranced by his impeccable form, absolutely faultless.

“Nice spike, Sakusa!”

“The game goes to MSBY Jackals!”

Wiping his sweat with the hem of his uniform, Atsumu observes Sakusa across the court. The latter is maintaining his best poker face as cameras crowd him, praising his service aces this noon. ‘Is there anything you want to say to your fans?’ ‘Is there a secret to your mastery of serves?’ ‘Do you believe you’d be able to make it to the Olympics in the next three years?’

“He’s popular as always, eh?” Tomas chuckles in his rather accented Japanese, “Everyone seems to like Sakusa.”

Meian nods, “It’s ‘cause he’s mysterious and all. People are into that.”

Mysterious and all. That’s one way to put it.

“Sakusa-san,” one reporter shoves her microphone into the player’s face. Sakusa visibly scoots backward. “What contributed most to your stellar performance today?”

Practice, obviously. Is that even a question? Atsumu rolls his eyes. He’d never come to enjoy these asinine post-game interviews.

“Practice, of course.” See? Obvious. “But it’s easier to score points when the set-ups are precise.”

He whips to Sakusa in disbelief, almost dropping the bottle of water in his grasp. Sakusa is already responding to the next question, as if nothing happened. Bokuto whistles, “Wow, did Omi-Omi just compliment someone? Wow, Tsumu-Tsumu, just wow, did you hear that?” Because he can’t come up with a coherent reply, he merely squeaks out a small, ‘yeah.’

Mysterious and all.

Really.

He’s been in conflict with his emotions ever since the last dream. He hasn’t dreamt in the past two weeks or so, most likely the effect of the morning jogs and regular consumption of therapeutic tea. It’s the wisest decision for the sake of his health. Playing volleyball is his profession, his way of living – and he’s the only person who can take care of himself.

However, once he figured out that the dreams were connected, he couldn’t help but be curious – what’s next?

Isn’t that just human instinct? People read books and they demand for sequels, watch films and wait for part twos and threes, binge TV shows and expect additional seasons; that’s just how it is, isn’t it?

He even sat down at home once, out with a mechanical pencil he hadn’t used since his high school final exams and a notebook he received at some hotel during past seasons. It was the most intellectual, logical step he could think of – write down everything he remembered about the dreams. Yes, it was stupid. Yes, it was futile. And yes, he was aware of it all. Dreams are dreams. They aren’t real.

But they felt real.

Too real.

The dreams were not set in modern Japan. Oiran… I mentioned somethin’ about the Oiran. Oiran: the most beautiful escort of the Yoshiwara, a prominent red-light district of the Edo period. Four hundred years ago, then. It’s strange, because Atsumu’s least favorite subject was history. He napped almost every single class; it wasn’t possible for him to picture all these intricate details. Sakusa was in women’s clothes, but he was not a woman. Definitely a man. Then why… and his legs. It was what befuddled Atsumu. Can he not walk?

Besides all that, though, what perturbed Atsumu was the intimacy.

There was a certain atmosphere that enclosed the samurai and geisha in his dreams. It felt as if he didn’t belong, as if he were eavesdropping on something he was never meant to hear. They never conversed about anything especially important. It was about apricots, the Oiran, the weather. While there had been implications of sexual interactions, the air weaved through the pair couldn’t simply be defined as promiscuous, inappropriate – there was more. There was undoubtedly more.

And despite them being his dreams and no one else’s, Atsumu wasn’t sure if he was allowed to watch them. That’s what it felt like.

“Whoa, it’s pouring outside.”

“Damn it, I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

Atsumu glances at Sakusa. “Wanna ride?”

Sakusa shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m meeting someone.”

“Oh,” who? The query nearly slips from him, but Atsumu presses his lips together. Perhaps he could’ve asked. But are we that close? It’s confusing. It’s confusing because Sakusa doesn’t hate him, and Atsumu, oddly enough, wants things to stay like that. If he asked, would Sakusa’s opinion of him change? He doesn’t know. It’s even more confusing when he sees the Sakusa of his dreams in the Sakusa of the present. During such instants, he repeats the mantra in his mind: dreams are dreams, dreams are dreams, dreams are dreams… “’kay, then.”

(“But it’s easier to score points when the set-ups are precise.”)

He groans onto the leather of his steering wheel as he drives in the rain.

What’s with him?

(Sakusa’s smile.)

Seriously, what’s with him?

He’s never struggled this much with people, with anyone. People either loved him or despised him. He isn’t like Osamu, who has vowed since childhood that he wasn’t going to be like his twin. He can’t be as mild. He is extreme. He comes off strong. That’s his charm.

Which one is he?

(“I don’t hate you, Miya.”)

“Ugh.”

At home, he warms Osamu’s food in the microwave. ‘Don’t eat ‘em frozen, yer gonna ruin yer stomach,’ reads the sticky note. “I don’t eat food frozen,” he mumbles, though his brother isn’t there to argue with him. It was Osamu’s weekly routine: break into Atsumu’s apartment without permission (Atsumu still doesn’t know how he obtained the spare keys), stock up his refrigerator with ziplock bags and Lock & Lock boxes of meals, do the laundry if he was feeling extremely generous, and scribble a snarky note, usually scolding Atsumu’s laziness.

‘Ya would die without Osamu, wouldn’t ya?’ Aran used to joke when they were at Inarizaki. Even then, it was Osamu who dragged Atsumu by the collar so that he wouldn’t skip dinner, immersed in practice. Atsumu would retort, ‘’course not, that scrub can’t do anythin’,’ but in truth, he never denied it. Osamu was practically in charge of his diet.

Carrying his plate of onigiri and green tea to the couch, he turns on the TV and flicks through the channels. There’s nothing intriguing on Sports Daily, so he lands on the evening news broadcast.

“Some meteorologists are predicting that next year’s spring will arrive sooner, around February, due to the warming global climate.” A photograph of cherry blossoms pops up on the screen. Atsumu chews into the round sphere of rice.

(“What’s yer favorite flower?”

“I don’t have one. Why do you ask?”

“’Cause, I wanna look like somethin’ that’s yer favorite.” )

Oh, right.

He grabs a napkin and removes grains of rice from his fingers. There was another dream – one way before the previous two. He scurries to his room and snatches the notebook from his desk, returning with the same pencil. Forsythias. Plum blossoms and forsythias.

“Forsythias…” what do they look like, again? Forsythias weren’t common in his hometown. He’s seen them at amusement parks, but he couldn’t recognize them. The flowers he knew were tulips, roses, daisies – the famous ones. Fishing out his phone, he types ‘forsythia’ into the search engine.

Golden.

The flowers are a magnificent shade of light gold, some the color of bumblebees, some the brilliance of daffodils. Native to East Asia and parts of Europe, shrub blossoms… he scrolls through the Wikipedia page blankly.

(“Forsythias? Yellow flowers, really?”

“Why?”

“I can’t be yellow! I don’t have anythin’ yellow!”)

‘Do you know what forsythias symbolize?’

Atsumu clicks on the link.

“Forsythias symbolize…”

Hope, anticipation, and – a lump catches in his throat.

Hope, anticipation, and profound emotion.

Nibbling his bottom lip, he turns off his phone. The blaring screen transforms to be pitch black. Atsumu discovers himself staring at his reflection – and his blond locks of hair.

“As if,” he laughs aloud, “as if.”

Dreams are dreams. Dreams are dreams. Dreams are – dreams.

He washes the platter and hops into the shower. He then regresses to the couch and replays their match against the Hornets.

He doesn’t look at Sakusa throughout the entire game.

(Panting.

“Hah – hah,”

Darkness. Not soundless, however. It’s discordant darkness. The thumping of his pulse, the coarseness of his breath, the snapping of tree branches, the rustling of dry leaves, the faint melody of crickets and cicadas, and distant footsteps, approaching them with each fleeting second, through the night, into deeper darkness.

Thick beads of sweat evaporate into the dampness of the forest due to the heat of his body. The saline fluids join the rivulets of crimson trickling from the cuts and gashes scattered over his cheeks, his chin, his arms, his knees, and his bare feet. The pain is now far, only a numbing sting as he runs, runs, runs.

Someone is holding his hand. The hand is tiny and smeared with ash and red dirt.

“Samu,” he coughs out; it hurts to speak. “Samu –“

“Quiet,” a voice grits back, “quiet.”

They sprint through bushes and thorns for what seems like hours. The night feels like an eternity, like a terror that won’t ever end. He’s quenched, starved, and tired, but they have to keep moving. If they stop – if they stop, then –

They stop.

Or more like, Osamu does.

“Samu?”

There are two split paths. He crumples to the soil, knocking his own chest for more oxygen. Osamu stands there, staring. Just staring.

The next minute, Osamu kneels in front of his brother and places a roughened hand on his shoulder.

“Tsumu,” he is smiling, but he isn’t. Atsumu knows that smile. It’s the smile of their mother. Their mother, who was, “We’re gonna hafta part here.”

He peers at his twin. “What?”

“If we’re together, they’re gonna get us. We won’t get outta this forest alive. Ya get what ‘m sayin’, don’t ‘cha?” He does, but he doesn’t. He does, but he doesn’t want to. “Ya hafta live, Tsumu.”

“What’s with that?” He slaps away his brother’s battered hand. “Ya ain’t doin’ that, we’re both escapin’ together, ya can’t just –“

“Then who’s gonna tell pa about what happened?!” Osamu gripes, his pupils bloodshot. The space between his brows is creased, and his lips are wobbly like he’s about to crumble. Atsumu is afraid that he will, right then, right there. With a steadying inhale, Osamu grasps Atsumu’s shoulders with both hands. “Ya hafta live, Tsumu. Yer livin’. Yer gonna get the hell outta here, scram, and live. Live to the brink of life. Till yer last breath. For me, for ma, for everyone else.” Osamu’s smile is soft. “Live, Tsumu.”

Cold – it’s cold. It’s raining.

It’s freezing to the bone.

“Why,” he wraps his fingers around his brother’s thin wrist. “Why do ya get to decide?”

Osamu snickers at that. His chubby face is drenched with blood, sweat, and rainwater. Maybe something else, too – something camouflaged by the downpour. “’Cause ‘m older than ya, ya scrub.”

“By a quarter of a sunset.”

“In our next life,” Osamu pulls Atsumu into his arms, “in our next life, ya can be the older one.”

With that, the older twin tucks their mother’s hairpin into Atsumu’s ragged shirt and shoves Atsumu into the twilight. The footsteps become louder. Atsumu steals one final glimpse at Osamu –

And runs once more.

For life.)

Atsumu gasps, floundering on the couch, his arms flailing for support.

He can’t see. Everything is black, everything is gone, everything is out of reach, his heart is beating so hard that it’s the only thing echoing in his eardrums – panic inundates his senses immediately.

Where, how, where am I, why am I –

Osamu.

Samu –

A white flash temporarily brightens the vicinity. He’s in his apartment. The lights are all off. The television isn’t playing the recorded game. It’s chilly, despite the heater being set to room temperature – no, is it off? He scrambles to the switches and flips them up and down. Nothing.

A blackout?

The realization crosses him in a brief second but doesn’t do much to calm him. My phone, where’s my phone… his mouth is arid and tastes like sandpaper. His phone is on the floor. Samu, Samu, Samu…

The scenery unfolds in his head, vivid and graphic. The forest. The storm. Osamu. Their pursuers. The blood. The ache. His thumb trembles uncontrollably as he scrolls down the list of contacts, his vision clouding at his lack of respiration, his throat overly constricted as he strangled his windpipe. When he spots the familiar ID, he hits the ‘call’ button; he has to do it several times, due to his slippery skin.

Samu.

Samu,

Samu –

Then – lightning crackles outside.

Something settles over Atsumu, like an icy blanket.

Dreams are dreams. Dreams are dreams. Dreams are dreams.

His sight clears. It’s 3:18 A.M. Osamu doesn’t pick up. He’s most likely knocked out dead after work.

Pressing ‘end call,’ Atsumu melts to the wooden floorboard. “What am I even…” how old is he? Five? He’s definitely aged too much for this, at least. Freaking out over some nightmare. He heaves a sigh and hugs his knees. He wants to cry. Hesitantly, he glances at Osamu’s ID printed on the screen.

It’s petrifying.

The darkness, the storm, the vacantness.

The void.

In a daze, he rises with his phone and pushes his feet into his sandals, and exits his house. The sky is rumbling in barely contained gray rage, thunderclouds spread over the city. The rain obstructs the view; he can’t see anything past the first road. What am I doin’, he pats the wall to walk until he arrives at the emergency staircase. The stairwell is opaque, the auto-sensor lights malfunctioning. As if he’s possessed, Atsumu hikes up the steps in silence, the images of the forest returning to him in fragments when he’s about to forget.

That’s his destination.

He gulps and brings his phone to his ear. The rings go through.

“Miya?”

What am I doin’?

“Uh,” he shivers – stray bullets of rain saturate his clothes. “Sorry, did I wake ya?”

“It’s half past three.” Sakusa’s ‘yes.’ Then, “… Are you outside?”

“Sorta.”

“What,” an inhale, “where are you?”

“Yer doorstep.”

Sakusa doesn’t reply. Atsumu detaches the phone from his ear, wondering whether the line was disconnected. Instead, the door in front of him swings open – Sakusa is standing there with his phone and a scowl etched into his face. Atsumu smiles. Or, well – he hopes he’s smiling. “Hi.”

“You’re an idiot.” Sakusa bites frustratedly and tugs at Atsumu’s shirt. Huh, he’s touchin’ me. “You’re soaked; what the hell were you thinking? We have a game next week; there’s no one to replace you if you come down with a fever, you,” the man halts mid-sentence and swallows. “Just, come in.”

“… Thanks.” Sakusa’s house is blacked out as well, but there are candles lit around the area. It smells like lavender and honey. “Do ya have clothes?”

“Wait there. Don’t sit.” Sakusa vanishes into his bedroom and comes out with a shirt and a pair of sweatpants. “Go change in the bathroom – I’ll brew some tea.” Atsumu nods rather glumly. “You’re lucky tomorrow’s a Sunday, Miya.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t waste time changing, mostly because he can’t even see himself in the bathroom. The blackness is scary. It unnerves him. In fact, everything unnerves him. The dream, Osamu, the rain – everything.

Why did I come here again?

At the dining table, Sakusa has set two cups of jasmine tea. “It’s your favorite, right?” It is. Does he just know my favorite brand? He’s mentioned it to Sakusa once in the locker room. He remembered, huh.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The tea is warm, not scalding. The frost in his bones subsides and thaws with each tentative sip. Gradually, the sounds of the forest dissolve into dust, vanishing from his mind. Atsumu lets out a sigh of relief. Sakusa doesn’t ask him anything as always. The familiarity is comforting.

“Sorry, I,” Atsumu musters a laugh, “I, uh… y’know.” I, what? What do ya even say in this kind of situation? No, that’s not even the core of the problem. Are we even close enough for this kind of proximity? It feels wrong but he can’t explain why. It just does. “Haven’t had a blackout in years.” He knows it’s a pathetic reason, but he also knows that Sakusa won’t pry. Maybe that’s why he came here – Sakusa never questioned. “Can I… er, sleep on the couch?”

Sakusa hasn’t drunk his tea.

Atsumu licks his lips. “I’ll… buy ya coffee.”

After a few seconds, Sakusa mumbles, “The couch is uncomfortable.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I sleep anywhere.”

Sakusa stands up. “I’ll get you a mattress and futon. I have a heater in my bedroom; it’ll be warmer.”

“In yer room?” Atsumu blinks, “Oh, uh. Yeah. I’d appreciate that.” Appreciate. That’s a term he hasn’t visited in years, too.

Sakusa lends him an extra toothbrush. As he brushes his teeth, Atsumu ponders whether he would’ve done the same, had Sakusa suddenly requested for a sleepover. Maybe, he gargles, maybe.

Sakusa’s bedroom is consumed with the fragrance of his candles. It’s relaxing. Atsumu crawls into the futon Sakusa has pulled out for him. The experience is surreal, now that he takes the proper time to reflect over it. He’s in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s house, about to sleep next to the man’s bed. They aren’t even friends – are they friends? No, they’re certainly not friends. They’re teammates, acquaintances, and… not friends.

“I’m blowing out the candles,” warns Sakusa, and Atsumu hums. The lightless night that swarms him isn’t as intimidating as before.

What are we?

(“It’s ‘cause he’s mysterious and all.”)

What is he?

“Omi, are you asleep?”

Sakusa sighs. “Let me sleep.”

He isn’t sure why he’s blabbering, either. He’s relented months ago befriending Sakusa. He didn’t hate Sakusa, but he didn’t prefer to be with him alone. His actions are betraying his claims, he knows. He isn’t even sure what’s true anymore. Maybe he doesn’t hate being with Sakusa.

“I dreamt of Samu dyin’.” He stares at the shadow of the window displayed on the ceiling. “I thought it was real – actually.” A snort, “Kinda dumb, ain’t it?”

There is no reply. Is he asleep? But soon, “It’s not.”

Atsumu’s lungs squeeze. “… Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Pit-pat. Pit-pat. Pit-pat.

(“What’s yer favorite flower?”

“I don’t have one. Why do you ask?”

“’Cause, I wanna look like somethin’ that’s yer favorite.”)

“Omi.”

“What?”

“What’s yer favorite flower?”

Silence.

“I don’t have one.” Atsumu’s nails dig into the futon. “Why do you ask?” He almost kicks the futon and grabs Sakusa by his ankle. He doesn’t do it, of course. But the déjà vu, the carbon copy answers, the identical inquiry – it has to be coincidence because dreams are dreams. That’s common sense and knowledge. It’s not even a worthwhile debate.

The ‘’Cause, I wanna look like somethin’ that’s yer favorite,’ lingers on the tip of his tongue, nonetheless.

“No, just…” he croaks with a whirring mind. “Just curious.”

“Mm.”

Eventually, he succumbs to the allure of sleep. The forest wanders the corner of his heart, but he chooses to disregard it, at least for the night.

(Forsythias symbolize hope, anticipation, and profound emotion.)

An inaudible whisper:

“Forget, Atsumu.”

Chapter Text

“I want to give ya wings.”

After an unusually stormy September arrives an unusually frigid October.

And naturally, speaking of October:

“Well, why aren’t ‘cha comin’ for yer birthday? Yer next season ain’t until March, I know it all! At least Samu travels back an’ forth ‘cause he has ‘ta meet Kita for the rice – do ya realize it’s been o’er a year since ya’ve been home, Atsumu?”

“Ma, like I’ve said,” his Hyogo dialect has weathered considerably compared to his mother, he notices, now that they’re conversing over the phone. “We still have trainin’ offseason. ‘S not as if we’ve won the last season, too; I gotta practice unless I wanna be kicked outta the team.”

“Yer the best setter Japan has ‘ta offer, they’d be goin’ senile to kick ya outta the team.”

He snorts at their semblance. His priding over his own skills was one thing, his mother being so confident in them as well was another. “I got tons of competition, ma. I’ll run down with Samu for New Year’s or somethin’, a’ight?”

“Ya said that last year,” his mother’s pout can be felt miles away, but she relents eventually. “How are ya? Are ya eatin’ well? ‘M sure Samu is feedin’ ya so ‘m not too worried ‘bout that. How’s yer apartment? Are ya doin’ yer laundry? Don’t forget ‘ta air the blankets; I read a news article the other day, ‘bout how these termites –“

He cuts her off at the ‘termites.’ “’M fine, ma.”

“Samu said ya’ve been drinkin’ lotsa tea; should I send ya some? My neighbor has all these herbal blends ‘cause she grows her own garden.”

“Nah, it’s gotta be a specific brand. Just been a little stressed, is all.”

“Is that so? Well, come home for New Year’s, Sanae-san livin’ across the street has a really nice girl she wants to introduce to ya –“

“Ma, gotta dash for a train, I’ll ring ya up later – love ya, bye!”

He pushes the ‘end call’ button and turns off his phone with a groan. This is why he didn’t visit his parents in Hyogo. He isn’t even twenty-five, Jesus Christ, though he does understand where they’re coming from. His mother’s obsession with setting him up flared when she witnessed Osamu and Suna kissing in the twins’ bedroom during the summer holidays their third year of high school. His parents weren’t opposed to their relationship (if that’s what it was), but his mother seemed to be uneasy about their future.

“Was that ma?”

Osamu pokes his head out from the kitchen, enormous wooden chopsticks in his right hand. “Yeah,” Atsumu tosses his phone to the heap of pillows on his brother’s makeshift bed. It’s been a while since he’s eaten at Osamu’s; he was free because all MSBY athletes were on a month-long vacation. “She wants me to meet this ‘really nice girl.’”

“Ma has high standards. She probably is really nice.” A mouthwatering sizzle bubbles from the pan as Osamu deep-fries the shrimp into tempura. “Why not meet her? Ya haven’t been datin’ this past year.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Meet her or date?”

“Both.”

“Bullshit, ya dated all the time in high school.”

“I fucked around, that ain’t datin’.”

Osamu pauses and turns to his twin in shock. “Ya haven’t been fuckin’ around?”

Oh. Oops. He ponders – when was his most recent fling? He made out with some chick at a club a week or two after joining the Jackals, but after that? Confusion settles over his thoughts. Have I not been laid for more than half a year? It’s not that startling. He hasn’t really felt like fucking around since that dream – the dream where Sakusa was on the futon as Atsumu undressed him roughly, their interaction strained and breathless. The images of Sakusa’s creased moles, chapped lips, porcelain-white collarbones, coupled with the waterfall of obsidian curls curtaining the pale canvas of skin unveiling itself with Atsumu’s coarse touches; don’t think about it. Atsumu massages his temples. Don’t think about it.

“Holy shit, what’s gotten into ya?” Osamu looks prepared to ditch the tempura with how he’s facing Atsumu from the kitchen. “What has the pro-league done to my brother?”

“Fuck off.”

Osamu sniffs and waits for the perfect timing to remove the deliciously fried shrimp from the oil. “Y’know, ya have been kinda weird. I was too busy with the store, but- give me the plate over there. One with the towels.” Atsumu hands him the plate. “Like that night when ya called me at three or some ungodly hour. Y’know how fuckin’ freaked out I was in the mornin’? Thought ya were kidnapped for ransom or whatever.”

“Toldja, it was nothin’.” He flinches as the oil splatters over the counter. “Was s’posed to call someone else.”

“At three?”

“Take it or leave.”

His twin shakes his head as if he could care less. “Get yer soba. Let’s eat.”

Atsumu opens the fridge, searching for his box of negitoro (he always kept his own at Osamu’s). His heart thumps when his eyes land on an ornately arranged velvet box of apricots out of season. “Oi, Samu,” he shouts to his brother, “where’d ya get these?”

“Huh? Oh, those – a gift from one of my customers. Their relatives have a greenhouse in Hokkaido and harvested a bunch of fruit last week. They’re leftovers. Yer negitoro is behind the stack of natto.” Atsumu pushes the styrofoam natto packages to the corner and retrieves his negitoro. “What, ya don’t even like apricots, Tsumu. They’re too sour for ya. Remember when ya chucked one into the river when we were four?”

“How do ya still remember shit that happened when we were four?” He crosses his legs as he plops to the carpet. His soba is chilled in a traditionally painted bowl; the soy sauce broth is garnished with spring onions and grated white radish. A chunk of wasabi lies beside the bowl of noodles because Atsumu is finicky about the amount of wasabi (he can’t deal with too much spice). Osamu pours him a glass of beer.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

He clears half while Osamu only sips. He has to work tomorrow. “Did I actually chuck that apricot into the river?”

“I swear ya did. It was grandma’s apricots – she’d harvest plums, apricots, and peaches throughout the year.” Oh, right. They used to play hide and seek at their grandma’s. “Grandma didn’t know ya hated sour fruits and gave ya a slightly unripe apricot. That’s how she liked ‘em. And then ya had a bite, and yer face scrunched up,” Osamu guffaws at the memory, “but ya couldn’t throw it away in front of her, so ya suddenly yelled how ya had to pee. I dunno why I went with ya, but I did. Saw ya pitchin’ that apricot into the river from the bridge.”

“Hm,” he slurps at the noodles. “I don’t remember anythin’.”

“That’s why ya ate everythin’ with condensed milk or sugar. Tomatoes, plums, even yer cucumbers. Ma fussed over how ya were gonna get cavities, but yer teeth were too damned healthy.”

“Ah.” He nods, acknowledging the fact. He did eat tomatoes with sugar until he graduated middle school.

“What?”

“Nah.” Apricots with powdered sugar. He’s thinking about him again. He’s past the stage of denial at this point. What’s so odd about thinking about a person who keeps on appearing in your dreams? It’s a natural, typical reaction. It’s not about how he regards Sakusa; he’s come to terms that they were beginning to get along. They bickered over morning coffee after their jog. He occasionally sent Sakusa cat videos when he couldn’t sleep. Sakusa dropped by once a week with teabags and a candle – “It’s an extra product from a promotional event. You can have it.” Little by little, the cogs between them were twisting – to the degree where Atsumu couldn’t recall the emotions he experienced when they initially met at the gym during that first-year high school youth camp. Was it abhorrence? Was it apprehension? Was it hollowness?

Was it something more, or less?

Or worse?

“Are ya still rackety with Sakusa?” Noodles spurt out of his lips and Osamu shrieks, “Fuckin’ yuck, Tsumu!”

“It’s ‘cause ya mentioned him outta nowhere!” He wipes his mouth and the dirtied table with tissues. Osamu scowls at him, indicating the hidden spots of half-chewed noodles and spilled soy sauce with his chin. “We’re fine.” Why’d he hafta ask about him then, Samu, this bastard.

“Fine? That’s an upgrade, ain’t it?”

“It’s,” ‘Call me before you barge in next time. I’ll leave the door open. You’ll catch a cold in the rain.’ Sakusa’s words the morning after that blackout, “whatever.” He lets the fizz of beer die on his taste buds. Albeit for a second, the tangy bitterness of the alcoholic beverage reminds him of the tea that early night. “He’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad,” parrots Osamu, fascinated. “See, toldja. Ya were overreactin’.”

“I wasn’t.” He perhaps was, but he doesn’t admit it for the sake of his argument. “We live in the same apartment.”

“Huh, really.”

“I told Sunarin, didn’t he tell ya?”

“Ah…” Osamu fiddles with his soba, swirling the noodles in the sauce with his chopsticks. “Yeah, maybe he did.”

Atsumu is yanked back to his reunion with Suna at the pub. “Are ya guys still fightin’?” The gossip pages proliferated over social media platforms, Sports Daily, and even foreign news articles. The EJP Raijins made an official announcement that the woman was merely a sponsor who was maintaining a strictly professional relationship with the team as well as its members. “Sunarin ain’t the type to cheat; we’ve known him for years, Samu. Have some faith.”

“We’re just fuck buddies, Tsumu. There’s no cheatin’ or crap.”

He snorts in exasperation. “Well, ma assumes yer gettin’ married to him once Japan’s laws are amended. Better do somethin’ about that.”

“We ain’t that into each other.” Atsumu knows when his brother lies; he’s a terrible liar. He rubs his neck, then scratches his pinky, and avoids looking at Atsumu. Most importantly, he doesn’t eat his food. That’s critical when it comes to Miya Osamu.

Well, it’s their business, not mine. “What do ya want for yer birthday?”

“Since when did we get anythin’ for each other’s birthdays?”

Atsumu puffs his cheeks. “I was tryna be a good brother.”

“Too late for that.” Osamu glances at his phone. “Yer not goin’ to visit ma for yer birthday, then?”

“Don’t wanna meet the girl.”

“So yer gonna spend yer birthday alone.” He beams hopefully at his brother. “Don’t be stupid, I have tons of deliveries scheduled on the fifth. Unlike ya, I hafta break a leg all three hundred and sixty-five days of the year.” Osamu devours the rest of his soba. “And who spends their birthday with their sibling? Invite a friend or somethin’.” At Atsumu’s telltale silence, Osamu scowls, “… Do ya not have friends?”

“Who celebrates birthdays when they’re over twenty, anyway?” He lashes back defensively. “It’s an antiquated trend. ‘M just fine on my own.”

Osamu rises with his dishes. “Message Sakusa. I bet he has no friends too, with that kinda personality.”

“Ya met him?”

“Watched his interviews. He ain’t the most positive guy.”

Ain’t positive, definitely. Sakusa steered clear from interviews as much as he could. Omi-kun, huh… they ate together in Osaka. They even slept together (literally). They are teammates. They aren’t as rocky as before.

Why not?

On the fifth, he purchases coffee for Sakusa at the local café. They technically don’t have to train at the gym until December, but the jogs have been curing him of his migraines and muscle aches. He doesn’t forget the three napkins either, as he carries their drinks to the table (which has been sanitized by Sakusa upon their arrival). “What’s with the coffee?” Questions Sakusa, stirring the espresso with his straw.

“For lettin’ me crash durin’ the blackout.” Sakusa ‘ah’s in understanding. “Are ya free tonight?”

“Probably. Why?”

“I’ll buy ya dinner.” He prods at his creativity for a reason. “… The blackout, y’know.”

Sakusa glimpses bemusedly at the coffee. “This will suffice.”

“Just let me treat ya.” It’s quite comical, considering that today is his birthday, not Sakusa’s. Am I that desperate? No, right? I shouldn’t be. I can’t be. “Ya’ve been bringin’ all those free candles, too. Must be a hassle.” The other shrugs. “What do ya like? Japanese? Italian? French? Actually, I don’t really like French.” He once suffered from food poisoning after eating foie gras. “Chinese? Thai? Korean?”

“Not exactly a connoisseur when it comes to food. You can choose.”

“There’s a terrific Thai eatery down the street.” Sakusa mumbles, ‘let’s go with that, then.’ “The lobby at seven cool?”

“Alright.”

Ten hours later, he’s in the middle of an excavation project through his wardrobe, on a more epic archeological expedition for his fossilized casual attire buried beneath his valley of uniforms, tuxedos, jerseys, and socks. He hasn’t had to wear anything else in months because he was either practicing or playing during the season, and even off-season, he was in running wear or pajamas. He wore his high school jersey when he slept at Osamu’s every now and then because it still fit.

He’s on the verge of pulling on his Black Jackals uniform because he can’t find clothes that are 1) not wrinkled, 2) not stained, 3) not yellowed or browned, 4) his size, and 5) not his style. Why the hell is ma’s skirt in my closet? He grimaces at the flower-print frill skirt and stuffs it into another bag. “Jesus, I should go shoppin’.” It’s five minutes before seven when he selects a pair of gray dress pants, a white undershirt, and a faded blue blazer. Not his best fashion choice, but it’s what he can manage with the given time and occasion.

“Sorry, I,” he trips out of the elevator and, “are ya goin’ to a funeral?”

Sakusa is in black jeans, a black turtleneck, and a black coat. Even his mask is black. His earbuds are black. “It’s cold,” is Sakusa’s response.

“Ya don’t bode well with the cold?”

“Not really.”

“Huh. Interestin’.” Judging from his appearance, Sakusa seems to be more of a winter person. “They said it’s gonna be a colder winter this year. Lots of blizzards, negative twenty degrees Celsius.”

“I’ve heard.” He doesn’t sound too happy about that.

“’M lookin’ forward to it, though,” Atsumu grins, “it might be a White Christmas.” Hyogo was warmer in climate than Tokyo overall. His hometown’s winters were short, and snowfall was a rarity in itself. There was a White Christmas in his second year of elementary, but none after. He is fond of Christmas. It’s his favorite holiday of the year.

“White Christmas,” Sakusa drones, “what about it?”

“There’s a mystic quality about it, don’t ‘cha think? It’s White Christmas!” The spiker obviously does not relate. “Yer so unromantic, Omi-kun. It’s one of those nonscientific, cultish beliefs. Like the red strings of fate, or…” he holds up his pinky, “miracles on White Christmas.”

Sakusa blinks – and huffs. “Childish.”

“Excuse ya, ya just lack imagination, Omi!”

“If that’s the case, we’d have records of people coming back from the dead on White Christmas.”

“Doesn’t hafta be so drastic.”

“What are the standards of a miracle, then?”

“I dunno, never seen one.” Atsumu clucks his tongue and points at the Thai restaurant. “Over there. But it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s about the mood more than the miracle.” Sakusa ends up dropping the topic. They enter the restaurant and are greeted by a Thai waitress who guides them to an unoccupied booth. The customers don’t recognize them. “The green curry is the real fuckin’ shit here. Oh, but their stir-fried pork dish is tasty too. Pick whatever, ‘cause I’m payin’.”

Sakusa orders the green curry as Atsumu recommends, and the blond goes for the pork. “Y’know, I went to Samu’s house the other day, and there were these – expensive, high-quality apricots. Apparently, I hated ‘em when I was a brat.” Sakusa answers with a noncommittal hum. “I tried ‘em again with sugar, though.” It was an idea from the dream: the ripe apricots with sugarcane powder. “They were better than I remembered. Ya’d like ‘em; ya like plums, yeah? They’re kinda like plums in terms of flavor.”

“I like them.”

“Knew it.” He pumps his fist triumphantly. “Aren’t I improvin’? Guessin’ yer preferences.”

Sakusa had a penchant for sour and bitter foods, like pickled plums and espresso with extra shots. He never added sugar to his tea. He had sweet-scented candles at home, but Atsumu realized that he only ever took them out when Atsumu was over. Sakusa leaned towards citric fragrances, like lemon and lime, tangerines, and other aromas along that line. He was minimalistic. He deemed modern art to be a joke, at least the ones that were sold at auctions for billions of dollars when it was simply a square of red and blue acrylic paint. Atsumu discovered this when he inquired Sakusa as to why he never had any pictures or artwork on his walls.

“What’s the merit in improving, anyway?”

“No one on the team has a clue on what yer likes and dislikes are.” Atsumu grins with overflowing pride. “Ya wouldn’t comprehend what this means.”

Sakusa concedes. “You’re right, I don’t.”

As Atsumu observes Sakusa disinfect his hands, a question whizzes through his mind.

How much does Omi know about me?

It’s a valid question. Why is he so curious? Partly because of the dreams, but – Sakusa never asked, since Atsumu told him first. This is normal, yeah? His nails graze the fabric inside his pockets. This is normal. It’s normal to be curious. It’s normal to have Sakusa pacing back and forth in his head. It’s normal – all because of the dreams. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, nothing preternatural. If it weren’t for the dreams, he wouldn’t be so inquisitive either. Therefore, perhaps it’s normal for Sakusa to not be as intrigued as he is. Sakusa wasn’t dreaming about Atsumu.

The food is served soon. Atsumu transitions from topic to topic to distract himself from contemplating about Sakusa… in front of Sakusa. The logic is skewed, but it doesn’t matter. They discuss what they could’ve done during certain moments of the game against the Adlers last season. “It’d be awesome to have another player,” Atsumu sighs, “They’re doin’ tryouts in December, right? Maybe we’d get someone new.”

“Maybe.”

He asks about Sakusa’s siblings. “They’re alright,” Sakusa replies laconically – his siblings were older than him by more than seven years. Their interaction always felt more parental, describes Sakusa, “My sister is a prosecutor, and my brother is a resident at Tokyo Central Hospital.”

“The hell, that’s another level.”

Sakusa outperformed most of his peers in academics, but he chose volleyball over medical school. “There are enough doctors in the family,” he swallows a spoonful of curry. Atsumu reflects on his own family, where no relative, no cousin had the same occupation. There was a barber, an actress (the media blew up once someone traced up to their family tree and posted online that they were related by blood), a salesman, a chemist, and the twins.

That’s the flow of their dinner. Atsumu does eighty percent of the nattering, while Sakusa nods and hums in between, sometimes joining for his input. It’s an enormous step-up from their meal together at Osaka, where the dialogue was choppy and quite awkward.

“Restroom,” Sakusa grunts when their plates are eaten clean.

“’kay.”

He gazes at the view outside the window. Impulsively, he blows on the glass – condensation forms an irregular circle on the surface. He debates on what he should draw, what he should write. He would write cusses when he was a teenager, just to see the wet outlines of the alphabets when the patch of moisture disappeared. The girls would sketch hearts and stars with their polished fingers, giggling in the back of the bus on winter field trips.

“Miya.”

He jumps – the circle is gone.

“Let’s leave.”

“Oh, yeah.” Should’ve written somethin’. He rummages for his wallet.

Sakusa gestures at the exit; the waitress smiles at them amiably from the cashier. “I paid.”

“What? Why?”

The bells attached to the door jingle as Sakusa shoves it. “It’s your birthday; I can do that much.”

Atsumu stomps on his mental brakes. “… Ya knew?”

“Our information is on our profiles, it shouldn’t be so surprising.”

Oh. Profiles. He effaced the existence of his profile from his memories. That’s why his fans were insanely congratulating his birthday on social media. It would be harder for Sakusa to not know. His face heats as he regrets how he believed his invitation was discreet. “I, uh.” He can’t think of how to evade this embarrassing moment. “… I have friends.”

Sakusa continues walking. “I know you do, Miya.”

What does that make us?

Friends?

He catches up to Sakusa briskly. He parts his lips, clamps them – parts them, clamps them. “Thanks for the… the meal.”

“Sure.”

Their easygoing, lax atmosphere transpires in an instant. Atsumu just wants to delete his past, like a porn video you’re frantic to hide from your parents on their desktop. They regress to the lobby in less than ten minutes and board the lift. God, I hope my face ain’t pink. It isn’t, right? It better not be, fuckin’ damn it.

‘This is the fourth floor.’

“Uh, g’night, then.”

“Wait,” Sakusa places his hand on one of the elevator doors. “I wasn’t able to buy a proper present because I was busy.” He puts a bag of frosted cookies on Atsumu’s hands. “You can eat them with your sugary tea.”

Atsumu gawks (out of his control) at the cookies. “Thanks, Omi.”

“Happy birthday.”

The doors shut.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

He marches into his house, the keys jangling on his side as he moves. He swings open his refrigerator in a daze, belatedly notices that he has opened it for no reason, and glares at the packet of cookies. They’re dark chocolate cookies with colorful frosting and sprinkles. It’s overly simplistic in design and packaging; no ‘happy birthday’ note, no ribbon, just cookies. Atsumu’s mouth quirks at how the gift screams ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi,’ and then, “Shit, why am I smilin’?”

Pulling at the edge of his lips with his fingers, he rips the bag with his other hand.

Cookies.

It’s rather challenging to picture Sakusa choosing cookies for him.

They’re sweet.

I mean, they must be sweet, they’re cookies.

Atsumu groans.

(That night, he stands in the kitchen with his kettle and teabags. The cookies are in a jar beside his other condiments. He stands there for at least five minutes, absolutely motionless.

He tucks himself into bed without drinking tea.)

(He ambles into the brothel, unimpacted by the lascivious scenery that is displayed in all directions, combined with the suffocating amount of smoke and perfume clinging to the dust particles in the air. “The usual,” he tosses a silver coin to the lady who flits to him, wordlessly dropping the silver into her cherished container of gold.

“You might have to wait. He currently has guests.”

“Guests?”

The lady’s sneer has a sinister tilt. “You aren’t the only man infatuated with his bawdy charm, milord.” His palm strokes the scabbard of his katana. It’s then when a crowd of samurais pass him, reeking foul cigar and barking aloud in laughter. Miya scrutinizes their exterior: their disoriented clothes, the crooked angle of their swords, and their tangled strands of greasy hair. “He should be free now.”

Something akin to trepidation consumes him from the tip of his thumb. He trudges through the hallway packed with samurai and geishas, towards the quarters of the cheapest courtesans. The giggles and chortles of the girls and their customers drown in his eardrums as he practically sprints to the end, the very end of the narrow corridor, where no sunlight shone.

“Omi.”

He is numbed from head to toe. Utterly paralyzed. That lasts for only a quarter of a minute, however, as the samurai scrambles to embrace the geisha in his arms.

“Omi, listen to me. Omi.”

The man’s eyes are open, but they are unblinking. His kimono is torn at the sleeves, his obi sliced neatly with a sharp blade. He winces when he is touched. There are splotches of dreadfully pretty roses blooming on his chest, his shoulders, his wrist, his hips. They’re only pretty because they’re on Omi. They are pretty as much as they are despicable. He can’t breathe at the sight of blood, which trickles from the geisha’s underside.

Without wasting more breaths, he swivels around, his fist on the hilt of his katana. The world is sweltering. His world is sweltering. He sees white in the lightless room, the room where even the brightest sun does not pierce through. The white splashes across his sanity, his senses, his very soul.

“Don’t.”

His ankle is tugged weakly. He inhales. Exhales.

“Miya,” Omi croaks out, his voice barely above the volume of a whisper. “Please.”

He doesn’t want to. He achingly wants to, but he doesn’t. The faces of those men are imprinted in his veins, rushing through his blood. It wasn’t too late. If he ran out now, he could locate them. He really could. He’d just have to dash back within an hour.

But he grits his teeth and releases his grip.

Because he’s told to do so.

Because he’s begged to do so.

He fumes with rage. The rage has a transparent recipient, but the rage is lost, directionless. He snaps to the man collapsed on the tatami floorboard. It hurts. He knew – he knew. They never mentioned it, but they knew. He knew. It was this kind of life. This kind of job. This kind of – fate. He balls his fists, sucks in a breath full of tremors. “Why didn’t ya,” Omi’s eyes dart to him, emotionless. Miya struggles to fight his anger. This wasn’t the right person. He couldn’t wound this man more than he was already.

“Why didn’t I, what?” Omi mumbles. Miya’s knees buckle; his sword detaches and clatters as he falls. The geisha quakes as he raises himself – he then clutches Atsumu’s hakama. “Say it, Miya.” He stares into Omi’s irises. They are dark. They are black. They are, “Why didn’t I run away? Why didn’t I resist? Why didn’t I, what?”

Oh, he realizes – he’s already hurt him.

He’s already hurt him.

“What can I do with these cursed legs?” Omi’s grasp is fragile, despite it being all his strength. “Tell me, samurai. What can I do?” Samurai. Samurai and geisha. There are unshed tears. “I’m just,” Miya wraps his arms around the man. “I’m just living with what I have left.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Omi’s ear, “I’m sorry. That’s not what I, that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t pity me,” slender, bruised hands push him away. “Don’t take a detour. You paid for me. This is what I do. This is what I am. This is all I am. Don’t,” Omi lowers his head. “Just don’t.”

He leans in and plants a kiss on his moles. “I love ya.”

The geisha shivers. “Don’t.”

“I love ya.”

What else would you call this searing burn, this desolate agony, this flavor of irony, other than love?)

Chapter Text

“I wonder when ya will tell me that ya love me.”

Love.

Atsumu remembers the first person he fell in love with.

He was fourteen. Her name was Kugimiya Kaya. She wasn’t garrulous or chipper like the typical girls starved for his attention. She had short, jet-black hair that tickled her shoulders, and a red hair clip that kept a strand of locks pinned above her left ear. She said it was because they became a bother when she was studying; her posture was quite disastrous, back hunched and all. He found her extreme degree of concentration cute. While some might’ve labeled her nerdy or a teacher’s pet, Atsumu was fond of her. She understood his passion for volleyball. She knew the name of each position, the rules, professional teams, and even unpopular tactics. Not that he wouldn’t have fallen for her had she been completely clueless; it was merely a bonus.

Kaya was attentive. She listened. As in, she actually listened. She was not pretentious. She did not assume her boundaries; she did not offer amateur advice; she did not pity; she did not act. She was just there, always listening, always open. Atsumu thought she was fascinating. He could care less about other people and their problems. And yet, Kaya was there for everyone – for teachers, for peers, for underclassmen.

He loved her quietly. It sounds like a contradiction, because Atsumu is not quiet, but it is true. Atsumu loved her in a muted manner, from one step behind. Nobody would’ve guessed that the Miya Atsumu’s heart pointed toward Kugimiya Kaya. Osamu couldn’t even recall who she was, despite being in the same homeroom. She was the student librarian, organizing the newly delivered books that week. Atsumu liked to watch her slide in the books between empty spaces on the shelves in alphabetical order.

“Give those to me,” he would assist her with the heavier boxes, usually packed with encyclopedias and English classics. He’d help her and return to his seat by the window, where he’d be pretending to skim through an algebra textbook he couldn’t read.

“Thank you, Miya-kun.” Sometimes, he wondered whether she knew that he was Miya Atsumu, not Osamu. She probably did, but their hair colors were identical then.

He didn’t confess to Kaya, not even after graduation. She didn’t like him the way he liked her. This wasn’t a self-deprecative judgment; it was a fact. He was not in her world, and understandably so. It wasn’t as if Atsumu was obvious about his feelings, either. He didn’t blame her. He’d never be able to blame her. She is now but a youthful fragment of his adolescent years, but she is a fragment he holds dear.

His love was traceless. It resembled a submarine under the ocean. Irrefutably existent but guarded and hidden. He had only experienced that kind of love. What was love, anyway? Was it passionate? Was it lonesome? Was it hot? Was it cold? It was a query he never had to answer. He liked to think there was an “ideal” form of love. Not the explosive love portrayed in soap operas or melodrama films, but a love more mellow, more uncomplicated. That kind of love.

(“I love ya.”

“Don’t.”)

What kind of love is that?

Destruction? Rejection?

It’s definitely not saccharine. It’s sour. It’s sour, like unripe apricots. Not a sourness that makes you spit the fruit out, but a sourness that makes you salivate for more, with a sliver of hope that the next bite will be sweeter. A sourness that ultimately leaves your tongue with rough spikes and your stomach with an unpleasant fullness. A love of apricots.

Was that why, the plush apricots in the box with powdered sugar, was that why?

If so, it was futile. The addition of sugar didn’t alter the innate flavor of the fruit. It did superficially – superficially. Isn’t that the role of sugar? Sugar to tea, sugar to coffee – it melts with the heat of its subject, its shape invisible, the only evidence of its existence being its strong flavor. That doesn’t mean coffee isn’t bitter.

A love of apricots. A love of sugar.

What kind of love was it?

Atsumu breaks the frosted cookie into halves. He dips one piece into his glass of low-fat milk. It’s the last cookie in the jar. “Should ask him where he bought ‘em,” he mumbles to himself and plods back to his favorite corner on the couch. He’s had an early start to an already early morning. It was because of the dream. They’re connected. It’s confirmed by last night. The question is, “… are they really dreams?”

He pauses – and laughs.

“What am I talkin’ about, of course they are.”

Dreams. Just dreams.

They must be.

What else?

His phone rings from its charger on the kitchen bar. Ugh, he groans and munches on the soggy cookie. Upon noticing the caller, he chokes on the cookie crumbs and answers at the speed of light. “Yes, coach?” It’s Coach Foster.

“Ah, hello, Atsumu. I’m sorry to contact you in the morning; how’s your vacation going?”

“Good, very good.”

“That’s nice to hear. It’s not a big deal, no worries. We received an offer to participate in the Japanese V-ball promotional video produced by the Volleyball Association’s Promotion Division. They’re desiring to showcase two key members per team in Division 1, a couple from Division 2.” Atsumu hums and sips the milk. “And, well. Since it is a promotional video, they want the teams to send in players with the most leverage. As you know, in the most recent popularity poll of the Black Jackals…”

“I was first place.” He finishes, and then belatedly adds, “… Omi- uh, Sakusa was second.”

“Precisely. I wanted to notify you beforehand – and while you’re at it, if you could mention this to Sakusa, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“Yer sayin’ that ‘cause ya think Sakusa will deny it flat, right, coach?”

“Well, he’s… who he is.”

“And ya believe me bein’ the one to deliver the message will miraculously change his mind?”

“An overwhelming majority appointed you to be our spokesperson.”

“What overwhelmin’ majority?”

“You know how votes are, Atsumu. They’re anonymous.”

“Where was my vote in this?”

“You’re the last one I’m calling, so. Your vote is essentially pointless.”

He snorts. “Traitors.”

“He is quite friendly with you, though. I find it remarkable. I wonder if it’s because you’re the same age.” No, age certainly wasn’t a factor. Whether Sakusa was younger or older than him, they wouldn’t have started off the right foot. Is he friendlier with me? They jog in the morning together. They’ve been arriving at the gym together. They go home in Atsumu’s car together. They spent Atsumu’s birthday together a week ago. Now – write a list of people who’ve been able to do the same with Sakusa on the Jackals.

Atsumu sniffs. “I guess.”

“Ah, if he accepts, please contact the address I send you directly. It’s the contact of the employee from the Promotion Division responsible for this project.”

“Understood, coach.”

They hang up, and his phone pings as Foster forwards him the email address and the number of the employee. Kuroo Tetsurou of the Promotion Division… huh. The name does ring a bell, but he can’t identify which. Was it someone at his high school? No, probably not. Tetsurou is a male’s name. Not a high school fan, then – he didn’t have many guy fans. A player from another high school? That must be it. Maybe Omi-kun knows.

“Oh, the jog.” He downs the milk in two gulps and scampers to his drawers. If there’s something Sakusa resents other than germs, it’s tardiness. They usually met at the lobby around seven-thirty since they didn’t have training for a while. Is it my turn to buy coffee or his? Their last jog was five days ago, as Atsumu had to help out Osamu’s shop for a rush period. Mid-October was when families suddenly decided to go on random picnics, with the trees being dyed in shades of vibrant oranges and reds. ‘Why are the Japanese so obsessed with rice balls?’ Whined Osamu, though Atsumu could see the delight of his brother as the profits hit an all-year high.

He rushes to the lobby, only to be met with the security guard dozing off in his office. It’s seven twenty-two. I’m ahead of him for once. Atsumu muses and shuffles to the benches under the electric fan. He watches a group of kids race one another to the school bus parked at the entrance of the apartment. In Hyogo, there weren’t school buses, at least not his town. “Lucky,” the kids tangle and tumble onto the bus; the chidings of the teacher can be heard from a distance. It’s seven twenty-five.

To waste some time, he peruses his feed and the Jackals’ social media pages. There’s nothing new as the season is over. Then, oh. He nibbles on the side of his tongue, staring at the screen dotted with emojis and exclamation marks under a video titled, ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi service aces.’ After seconds of contemplation, he exits the page and presses the search bar in a fresh tab.

Dreams… no. Memories? No…

‘Dreams that feel too real.’

There are over ten thousand results. He winces at how many of them are Quora questions, posted by people who seem to have read too many fantasy fiction novels. ‘I had a dream where I was a faerie…’ ‘What does it mean when a butterfly appears in your dream?’ ‘I think I was a dragon in my nightmare, is there some deeper significance I’m missing out on…’ ‘I dreamt of the world ending in 2026, how can I report this to a government agency or some world protection center…’ He’s on the verge of quitting until he lands on a blog.

‘How much do you know about Reincarnation?’

He doesn’t click on it. Those blogs tend to be religious scams or whatever, fishing for the visitor’s money. He doesn’t click on it, but an idea does spring to mind. Reincarnation. It’s a common theme, isn’t it? Historical lovers, born again, falling – “Hah,” he slaps his palm over his eyes. “Man, man, man…” Nonsense. Stop speakin’ of nonsense, Miya Atsumu, ya haven’t gotten enough sleep. Clearly. “’M in no place to mock these people; I sound like a damned psycho, what the fuck.”

Reality.

They live in reality.

There’s just – no way.

What’s the time?

He flits to his watch. It’s twelve minutes past seven-thirty. Twelve? He snaps to the elevator, which sits on the first floor. Sakusa Kiyoomi, late? That’s a convincing sign that the world is ending, if anything. Atsumu sucks on his bottom lip and dials Sakusa’s number. The connection goes through, but nobody answers. Weird, he should be awake. He’s the most mornin’ person I’ve ever met. “Hey, mister?” The security guard jumps when he knocks on his windowpane. “D’ya happen to know if the occupant of 910 – ah, the… the one with the curly hair. Really tall. Mask, and, hm…”

The guard lights up, “The volleyball player!”

“Yeah, yeah, that one!”

“What about him?”

“Have ya seen him around?”

“He returned yesterday night as always. Didn’t see him leave this morning as I have the second shift. Why, is something the matter?”

“No, no, that’s all I need. Thanks, mister.” Means he should be home, then. Atsumu presses the button for the lift and chooses the ninth floor. Just to be safe, yeah? I mean, what if he’s slipped in the shower or somethin’ and cracked his head? Or I dunno, he might’ve fell on a puddle of rainwater because it rained yesterday. That happens. Just to be safe. He glances at his phone and wonders whether he should have the 911 typed in.

At 910, he pounds on the door. “Omi?” No response. “Omi!” He can’t be too loud as it would disturb the neighbors, but he does raise his voice. “Omi, ya there?” His imagination goes wild and grows a tree as he senses nothing from beyond the door. He taught me where the spare key was, didn’t he? When he told me to crash at his in case of another blackout… under the potted plant by the doorstep is the key. Atsumu hurriedly unlocks the door and dashes into the house. “Omi? Omi!” His sneakers are here. He hasn’t left.

“Jesus,” a groggy cuss echoes from the bedroom. “Keep it down, you’re splitting my skull into dust.”

“Says the person who values punctuality,” Atsumu studies Sakusa, who is literally a standing sushi roll, wrapped in layers of three blankets, his feet poking out from the bottom. He’s not wearing a mask, his cheeks are flushed, and he appears to be severely dehydrated. Even a kindergartner would be able to announce the verdict: “Yer sick, Omi.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious, Sherlock.”

“Ya could’ve left me a message.”

“I didn’t?”

Oh, god. He’s totally out. Atsumu takes a step, and then opts for a U-turn towards the restroom. “Gimme a sec, I’ll wash my hands. Lie down on the sofa over there.”

“Just let me –“ He doesn’t let Sakusa continue and flips the faucet. His skin turns pink after he rubs them hard with soap, but they should be ninety-nine percent bacteria-free now. In the living room, Sakusa is perched on the edge of the cushions, his head lowered into the creases between the blankets. Atsumu gets to one knee and puts his palm over Sakusa’s forehead. “Miya,” hisses Sakusa in retaliation, but his sushi roll condition isn’t really suited for it. He ain’t burnin’ but is warm enough to be unhealthy. No runny nose, so that’s better.

“How’s yer throat? Does it hurt anywhere?”

Sakusa squints at him, as if that’d cause him to disappear. “… It’s a little sore. I have a fever, but it’s fine.”

“Do ya have medicine?”

“What do you think?”

It’s Sakusa Kiyoomi, most likely readied for a global environmental disaster. He has medicine without a doubt. Atsumu won’t be surprised if he has the cure for cancer in his first aid kit somewhere. “What about food? Didja eat anythin’?”

“No. I woke up ten minutes ago.”

“What about yer alarm?”

“Slept through it.”

Atsumu sighs. “Yer the strictest person I know when it comes to maintain’ yer health – what happened?” Sakusa was the individual who reminded the whole team to get vaccinated prior to tournaments. He was their medical check person.

“There was a grandma.” Sakusa grunts, “She didn’t have an umbrella. I only had one.”

He blinks. A grandma. Sakusa lending his umbrella to a grandma in need. The image tickles Atsumu, and he can’t repress the chuckle that spills from his lips. “Ya have a thing for lettin’ people use yer umbrellas, Omi-kun.” Sakusa doesn’t even shrug. He’s nicer than he judges himself to be, Atsumu realizes. “I’ll cook ya some porridge if ya have rice. Do ya have rice?”

“You – cook?” Even with his fever, Sakusa exudes an extreme degree of suspicion.

“I can cook, yes, Omi, a fat shocker.” He rolls up his sleeves. “I’m pretty much the sous chef of my brother.” A sous chef who only chops the ingredients and boils the eggs, but a sous chef regardless. Also, there were only two people in the kitchen. Minor details. “Egg porridge? How ‘bout that? It’s my specialty. Like, actually my specialty.” It really is – Osamu’s complimented him as well. It’s a recipe he memorized because his mother liked egg porridge, whether she was ill or not.

“Whatever.” Sakusa descends sideways on the outstretched couch. “Don’t make a mess.”

“Yeah, sure. Promise.”

He examines the cupboards one by one – the pans are here, the pots are here, and the knives… well, I won’t need knives. Does he have eggs? Thank god, he has two eggs. They aren’t past the expiration date, are they? Omi ain’t the type to let food expire. Spring onions… fantastic. Salt. Maybe pepper? Nah, too spicy for his throat. Didn’t ma brew us that ginger tea whenever we were sick? Might hafta look for that. As he cracks the eggs and swirls the yolk and whites with wooden chopsticks, he swivels to see how Sakusa is doing. He seems to be asleep, with how the blankets rise and fall at an even rhythm.

A grandma, he snickers, he looks all brash and crude, but he doesn’t leave ‘em alone, does he? Nice guy. The raw egg is poured into the boiling porridge on the stove. The eggs sink between the grains, and then gradually elevate and bubble to the surface, coating the broth in a luscious manner. He sprinkles a pinch of salt and turns off the gas. Wait until it cools for eating…

He tiptoes over to Sakusa. “Omi,” the man stirs, “got the porridge. How much do ya want?”

“Just,” Sakusa wheezes on dry air. “Just a bowl.”

“’kay. Come to the table – the floor’s chilly.” He briskly returns to the kitchen and tries a spoonful to measure the temperature. Should be alright. Setting a bowl and a spoon on the table, he asks, “Ya want umeboshi with that? Umeboshi might enliven yer appetite.”

“Two.”

“Sure.”

As he opens the lid of the plastic Lock & Lock box, he hears Sakusa mumble, “It’s decent.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu beams; Sakusa nods. “Have more if ya’d like, I made plenty. Or ya can have it for lunch.” Sakusa eats in silence, chewing on an umeboshi in between mouthfuls of porridge. Atsumu makes three observations. One, Sakusa chews a lot with his left. Two, he has a unique way of gripping his chopsticks. And three, he isn’t a fast eater, like the twins. It’s rather entertaining to view, more so as it’s like watching someone very well-educated eat; people who debone a fish flawlessly or peel a tangerine with its skin being the shape of a flower.

“You’re staring, Miya.”

Atsumu sputters, “I, uh. Was daydreamin’.”

“Thought so.” Sakusa drops his spoon. “Thanks for the meal.”

He drags out his chair, “Where’s yer medicine.”

“In that basket. The blue pills and the white pills.”

“Blue and white, blue and white…” Atsumu grabs the packets, and then proceeds to read the labels of the bottles lined next to the basket. They’re pills for insomnia. Atsumu eyes Sakusa warily. “Is yer insomnia bad?” Sakusa shrugs. “Ya mentioned it some time ago when I moved in. Thought ya said it was better now.”

The other tosses the pills into his mouth and consumes them without water. “It’s not something that can be fully healed,” replies Sakusa, “I’ve had it for eight years or so. It’s improved, but it acts up every now and then.”

Atsumu hums and doesn’t pry. He doesn’t feel comfortable pestering Sakusa about the topic. “Go to sleep, I’ll wake ya up around noon again.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Trust me, I have nothin’ else to do at home. Might as well feel like ‘m doin’ charity service.”

Sakusa doesn’t commence another altercation with him; he must not have the energy to argue. “Don’t do the dishes. I’ll do them later.” Well, if ya tell me not to do it, that just makes me wanna do it. Has the opposite effect, Omi. “Watch TV if you’d like. The remote is on the second shelf.”

“Gotcha.”

He has a music channel on as background noise while he washes the bowls and silverware at the sink. Sakusa’s cutlery and plates are all patternless and spotless, a creamy white color. Atsumu smirks at how Sakusa that is, too. From his selection of cookies to his tableware, everything about Sakusa was… Sakusa. It’s difficult to describe, but that’s how it is. He’d be able to recognize Sakusa’s objects and Sakusa’s clothes from miles away.

His birthday’s in March, ain’t it? Is there anything he’d want?

An assortment of candles, perhaps. Ah, but stuff like perfume and candles all depend on the person’s preference. Too risky, then. Tea? Sakusa had three sections of his cupboard dedicated to tea, so no. Or cups. What about mugs? All this white is incredibly blasé, ain’t it? Something colorful but simplistic – Le Creuset? Hm, or comfy pillows, he might like that. He has three blankets at home, so why not more pillows? I think Oomimi-san’s cousin owned a furniture store, so he might be able to guide me- or a bonsai tree? He seems to be into that. This house is preposterously, over-the-top minimalistic, it is in dire need of an interior makeover. How about, “March is fuckin’ five months away, Miya Atsumu,” he grumbles, scrubbing the bowl with a sponge. “The hell are ya goin’ on about…”

(“Happy birthday.”)

“Don’t think about it, for heaven’s sake.”

He wipes the moisture from his hands with a towel and peers into Sakusa’s bedroom through the agape door. The room feels a little wet and lukewarm. Atsumu switches on the air conditioner in the living room and parts the door farther.

His feet are planted to the tiles beneath as he gazes at Sakusa’s back, as he’s curled into a fetal position on his mattress. There’s an invisible force preventing Atsumu from departing the room as he stands there awkwardly. An internal debate fires away in his heart – stay, or leave? Stay, or leave? Stay, or – just a peep can’t hurt. Gotta recheck his temperature, and, yeah. Positive intentions. No harm.

He goes around the bed and holds his breath when he crouches to face Sakusa. His ribcage shrinks inward as he observes Sakusa.

His brows are knitted towards the middle. He’s barely respiring, his fists clenching onto the hem of the sheets damp with his sweat. His curls are matted to his forehead, not fluffy as they normally are. He’s shivering, his lips gray despite the smoldering heat. Something about him crushes Atsumu’s spirits. It’s strange, because even the sight of his sick brother didn’t make him feel so.

A wet towel, he stumbles into the bathroom for a towel and soaks it with icy water. After giving it a twist, he reenters Sakusa’s room and wipes away the trickling droplets of sweat from Sakusa’s face. Some tracks are crusted with salt. He’s not accustomed to seeing this Sakusa Kiyoomi, and he’s not accustomed to doing this for someone else other than his family. Everything is a first. And it’s odd that Sakusa Kiyoomi is the first of this everything.

Out of all people, Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“… Ru.”

Atsumu freezes. Sakusa is murmuring in his slumber. “Ru…”

Ru.

Who’s Ru?

Sakusa’s breathing becomes labored. He curls in further. Atsumu listens as Sakusa repeats that monosyllabic name, ‘Ru.’ Ru. Who’s Ru?

(“Wanna ride?”

“It’s fine. I’m meeting someone.”)

His jaw tightens at the memory. Meeting who? Perhaps he should’ve asked. Ru. A woman, probably. What woman? Who was there? Who did he meet that evening? Sakusa had a sister, but her name wasn’t Ru. Ru… Ru. Atsumu presses the towel into Sakusa’s temple and then throws it to the floor. He feels annoyed. Who was it? A friend? A colleague? An acquaintance? A foreigner? Why’d he be related to a foreigner?

An inhale. An exhale.

Why does any of that shit matter, anyway?

It’s none of my business.

He combs Sakusa’s hair with his fingers. It was what his mother did for him when he had nightmares. She’d run her gentle fingers through his tousled locks, singing him a lullaby he never recognized from preschool rhymes or melodies. He’d melt into her touches, forgetting the content of his dreams as she sang to him.

Atsumu’s eyelids grow heavier with the repetitive act.

Ru, huh.

(An aghast, timorous scream tears the sandy air. Fabric rips as it rides along the soil littered with shards of clay and sharpened pebbles. A geta shoe lies far off to the west, abandoned by its fearful, terrorized owner, grasping onto his precious life which dangled from a rotten rope. The man was a samurai. His bun was loose as he crawled on the ground, lying on his back, his state hideous and miserable. There was no honor in how he shuddered upon the shadow of another samurai.

The samurai merely marched in the direction of his target. He did not unsheathe his sword. He did not blink. His steely gaze was fixated on the man sprawled below him. He did not halt. He did not hesitate. There was no reluctance in his behavior.

“Please,” the deranged samurai beseeches, “if we knew he was yours, then we wouldn’t have laid a fingernail on his hairs! There were no rumors of anyone claiming ownership of him, the hostess didn’t –“ A yelp escapes the man as his assailant brandishes his katana. The blade rests on his Adam’s apple. “C-come on, hear me out, Miya. We can talk this out.”

“Yer the last one.”

The man seems to be lost.

“I sliced off both hands of one. Both ears of another. All toes and fingers of the third. Yer the last one.” Miya’s tone does not inflect; it’s composed. “Don’t be so scared. I didn’t kill any. They’ll all survive, ‘cause I ordered ‘em to be taken to the most skilled, most dexterous medic in town. And so will ya.”

“Miya, wait, please –“

“I don’t think I immobilized legs yet,” he shifts his katana to the man’s ankles. “That’s an option.”

The daunted haze in the quaking man’s pupils transpires at that. He seems to have sensed the other samurai’s morbid honesty. There is no running away from this. This is Miya Atsumu he’s against – the most ruthless of the daimyo’s army of men. Miya of the crimson blade.

The man laughs uncontrollably, maniacally. “What, Miya, are you in love with that fag?”

Miya’s brow twitches.

“He’s the cheapest of them all. Can’t dance, refuses to sing, doesn’t even touch a damned string of the koto. He sucks a man’s underside because that’s all he can do, Miya. He spreads those paralyzed legs for anyone who has a silver to pay. Not even a woman, with how daintily he’s dressed. And you’re in love with that? What, you think he might love you back someday, Miya? Is that what it is? Miya of the crimson blade, yearning for a sullied heart of some back street courtesan, not even the Oiran?”

He doesn’t utter a word. The man rambles on, going mad.

“You’re being disillusioned. He tells everyone and nobody that he loves them, Miya. He does what you wish at the drop of silver. That’s all he is. That’s all you are to him. That’s all you’ll ever be to him. You think you’re special? You think he’ll treat you differently because you’re softer? Because you aren’t like us? In the end, he’s just a fag. One thirsty for your wealth, Miya.”

His blade does not move.

“Remember the one before him – Ru. Fuck, he was a dashing one. Could dance, could sing, could play the koto. The only reason he was in that melancholy quarters was because he was a man. See what happened to him – he was greedy for gold, and when his time for retirement arrived, he jumped into the river and killed himself. There’s no love to those pieces of rubbish, Miya, you’re just under the spell of their wicked, dirty charms. That’s how they all are.”

“Are ya done?”

“He won’t love –“

“And?”

“He won’t –“

“And?”

“Miya –“

“And?”

The man finally clamps his lips together.

“Listen.” He seethes through his teeth. “I will drink the venom of a snake if he wants me to. I will lick this very earth if he so desires. I will find every single one of his assailants and bring their necks to his bedside if that’s what he wishes. Because I can. Simple.” He glides the blade along the bumps of the man’s ankle bones. “Yer fortunate that he doesn’t.”

“You’re out of your mind, Miya.” The man shakes his head, “Completely out of it. You don’t even have a clue who he is. You don’t even know his name.”

“I’ll tell ya what I do know.” A smile spreads over his face, but it’s unsettling. Absolutely terrifying. “He does not belong there. He deserves more. Something grand, like the heavens and the seas. But just because he has been stripped of his freedom to walk, he has been stripped of everything else. To run. To travel. To be human. And yet, he lives.” There’s a tense pause. “It’s a struggle. A battle fiercer and more desperate than a bloodbath. Than what we are in right now. As much as I long to share his pain, I cannot. I hafta show him everything, as he deserves. The heavens. The seas. And another spring.” His blade lowers. “I envy ya, in that aspect. Ya’ll know how he feels. That’s a realm even I cannot approach.”

“You’re squandering your life.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of yer business. It’s my life to squander.”

He raises his katana –

And severs the man’s pair of ankles.)

“… ya.”

“Miya.”

“Wuh?”

Sakusa is tapping his shoulder. “It’s one o’clock.”

“Oh.” He swipes the corner of his mouth. “How’re ya feelin’?”

“Better.” The raven tongues his cheek. “You’re pale, Miya. You haven’t caught it from me, have you?”

“No, I,” a lump in his throat obstructs his speech. The events of the dream inundate him in rapid motion, as he sees the samurai praying to Atsumu for his life.

(“He’s the cheapest of them all. Can’t dance, refuses to sing, doesn’t even touch a damned string of the koto. He sucks a man’s underside because that’s all he can do, Miya. He spreads those paralyzed legs for anyone who has a silver to pay. Not even a woman, with how daintily he’s dressed. And you’re in love with that? What, you think he might love you back someday, Miya? Is that what it is? Miya of the crimson blade, yearning for a sullied heart of some back street courtesan, not even the Oiran?”)

“… I just feel a bit, a bit queasy. Maybe it’s how I slept. Don’t fuss over it.”

“Are you sure?”

He can experience the emotions of Atsumu in his dreams like his own. The untamed fury. The frigid anger. A resigned acceptance that lay beneath that glacier. The blurry pictures of Sakusa sleeping with those men, bent over. The broken Sakusa. It wasn’t denial that he felt when he heard that samurai’s words.

(“That’s all you are to him.”)

“Yeah.”

Oh.

(“Who’s Ru?”)

It’s jealousy.

Chapter Text

“I used to loathe winter, until I realized that after winter followed spring.”

“God, Miya-san, you’re a lifesaver. Our hero.”

“Ah, really, it’s nothin’. I didn’t do crap.”

“That’s not true,” Kuroo Tetsurou, an employee of the Japanese Volleyball Association and organizer of the promotional video (the Christmas edition), stifles a yawn. Purple bruises dye the crescents beneath his eyes with weariness; judging from his crumpled button-down and the necktie flung over his shoulder, Atsumu assumes the guy’s been pulling at least three all-nighters. The pain of a salaryman, he’s thankful for his career decisions during these times. “Sakusa-san has rejected our offer last year and the season before that, when he was fresh on the Jackals. Bokuto and Meian-san have supplanted him, but the magnitude of difference shows when we’re discussing Sakusa-san’s popularity. He’s had a solid fan base since high school, and the number only multiplied in the past years. I was assuming Inuaki-san would have to take his place for this Christmas season video, but…” Kuroo grins at him. “Coach Foster was correct. You were the trick.”

“But I,” really didn’t do shit, lies on the tip of his tongue. He brought the topic up to Sakusa during breakfast the morning after Sakusa recovered from his fever, and the man agreed without a fight. He didn’t seem too willing, but he said ‘yes.’ Not that Kuroo probably cared. “… Well, ‘m glad that I helped.”

“I should’ve introduced myself earlier. I’m Kuroo Tetsurou from the Volleyball Association, the Promotional Division.” They shake hands. “You might recognize me from the Nationals in your second year, but we never met.”

“Aha, thought I saw ya somewhere!” He shuffles through the schools from high school, “Nekoma, was it?” Inarizaki prepared to play against any school after their defeat to Karasuno. If Atsumu remembered accurately, Nekoma was a defense-focused school with refined receivers and a ridiculously high degree of connectivity.

“That’s us. Or was.”

“Yaku Morisuke on one of the Russian teams is yer colleague, yeah?”

“Ah, yes. He’s one of our guys who went pro along with Yamamoto in VC Kanagawa.”

“I remember yer games from the recordings. Ya were one of the best middle blockers of that year.” It’s not a buttered compliment; Atsumu doesn’t do any sort of buttering. Nekoma was not a memorable team, but their defense was remarkable – the receivers wouldn’t have been able to flourish without the practiced read blocking of the captain. It’s rather refreshing to meet the man in flesh like this, after nearly seven years.

“Thanks, I appreciate your words. I taught Tsukishima Kei of the Frogs myself.” Oh, Tsukishima. A staff member shouts Kuroo’s name from the stage. “What, Hanae?” Hanae screeches that one of the cameras is malfunctioning. “Jesus, who let her touch the cameras? Miya-san, it was nice talking to you, that’s my cue to- I get it, Hanae, stop screaming!”

Miya shoots him a sympathetic smile as the tired employee rushes to his subordinate’s side. “Did something happen?” Hoshiumi Kourai of the Adlers chirps, dribbling a volleyball with his foot.

“Seems like they messed up a camera.”

“Damn, do we have to refilm everything, then?”

Iizuna Tsukasa of the Hornets squints at Kuroo, “Nah, I don’t think so. He’d be panicking a lot more than that if that were the case.” It’s true; Kuroo is conversing with the pale woman – Hanae – quite calmly.

“Isn’t that just because Kuroo-san doesn’t panic?” Kageyama Tobio, also of the Adlers, quips. “I’ve seen Kuroo-san for years and he’s not the type to lose his cool over anything.”

“That’s Kuroo from Nekoma, right?” Suna walks up to Atsumu, a bottle of water in hand. In the corner, Atsumu spots Sakusa chatting with his cousin, Komori Motoya, the libero of the Raijins. “I honestly thought that guy was going to enter the pro-league. He had the sense for it.”

“So did Samu but look at him now.”

“Fair.”

They’re in the third week of December. Today is the last shooting for the Christmas promotional video; they’ve been meeting every Sunday since the fourth. Another week, and it’s Christmas.

He went back to drinking tea after his most recent dream. It’s not that he wasn’t curious about the dreams to come. However, he also had to resist the urge to puke into the toilet bowl of his bathroom when he replayed the events of the dream in his head – the blood, the howling, the metallic stench. It felt too real. And with the season beginning in a few months, he couldn’t be distracted by such images once more.

That didn’t mean he distanced himself from Sakusa. They jogged in the mornings, and they even ate dinner together at Sakusa’s house every other day or so. It was usually because Atsumu wanted to share Osamu’s food with Sakusa instead of hoarding it for himself; luckily, Sakusa liked Osamu’s cooking. “Your brother was wise about his job,” he commented, “no offense.” Atsumu grudgingly acquiesced. He was long over his brother departing the court.

It would’ve been weird to become intentionally awkward with Sakusa. No matter how realistic his dreams were, they couldn’t affect his life. Whatever he was in his dreams, he was Miya Atsumu, the setter of the MSBY Jackals in reality, and Sakusa was his teammate. He couldn’t destroy the dynamic they built up in the past couple of months.

“I guess you’re friends with him now, then?”

Atsumu frowns at Suna. “What?”

Suna flicks towards Sakusa. “He accepted the shooting because of you, didn’t he?” The middle blocker purses his lips, “That sounds pretty over the top for even friends, to be candid.”

“I didn’t do anythin’.” He rolls his eyes, “We’re close enough.”

“That’s extremely rare, coming from you. You know that don’t you?”

“I have friends, Sunarin, fuck ya.”

“Not many.”

“When are we cancelin’ this friendship?”

“Whenever. Now’s fine for me.”

“Yer such a,” Kuroo waves at them from the stage, gesturing at Suna. “Oi, Sunarin, he’s pointin’ at ya.” Suna turns to Kuroo – another staff member sprints down from the stairwell. He relays the message that most of the footage is safe, but that the Raijins and Red Falcons will have to refilm some deleted portions. Suna shrugs with a, ‘See you at the afterparty,’ and briskly marches off with Komori.

Atsumu seizes that opportunity to observe Komori. He doesn’t resemble Omi at all, is what he notes. Defined, almost circular brows, all toothy smiles, and obviously more amiable and laidback than his thorny cousin. He’s the type of guy who’d hit off a friendly rhythm with just about the entire human population unless you’re an unredeemable asshole. Are they blood-related kin? Really? Him being Bokkun’s relative would be a more persuasive argument. His thoughts jitter as he feels a presence beside him. “Omi.”

“I want to go home,” Sakusa mumbles under his mask, scowling. Atsumu is secretly proud that he can tell what kind of expressions Sakusa makes even with a mask on now. Secretly, of course. “Why have an afterparty?”

“’Cause a month-long project is almost over, Omi-kun. Have ya seen the bags under Kuroo-san’s eyes? It’s somethin’ to celebrate; the guy can finally sleep.”

“That’s an even better reason to just ditch the afterparty. Help the guy sleep faster.”

“I betcha that the afterparty wasn’t his idea. His superior, most likely. Y’know how the geezers are.”

Sakusa slouches back to the corner. Atsumu crouches next to him. “At least they’d have someone else as the model for the next video.”

“Speakin’ of that, I heard that we’re definitely havin’ another spiker for the next season. Some dude got in on the first round of tryouts last week, accordin’ to Coach Foster.”

“And you don’t know who he is yet?”

“Nah, only that he used to play beach volley.”

“Beach volley,” Sakusa muses, “huh. Not Japanese, then – I haven’t heard of any Japanese players in beach volleyball.”

“No, they’re Japanese; I know that much.” Atsumu’s been dying to meet the player himself. It was typical to see retired volleyball players switch over to beach; some even preferred beach over regular in-court volley. But beach volleyball was regarded as a recreational, hobby-ish activity rather than an actual sport in Japan, and therefore not many players were active. Especially those aiming for the pro-league. “They’d be trained jumpers. Sand is tougher than the court’s surface.”

“As long as he scores points.”

“There’s no way he won’t score points with my set-ups.”

“Your consistent arrogance is comforting.”

They watch Suna and Komori reposition themselves in front of the cameras. “Yer cousin’s also an Itachiyama alum, ain’t he? Best libero or somethin’.”

“Yeah.”

“And that Iizuna dude, he’s yer captain.”

“Yes.”

“The one who stepped out ‘cause he got injured in the middle of the set.”

“Don’t say that to his face.” Sakusa flits over to Suna, who’s posing for a spike motion. “And he’s from Inarizaki, isn’t he? The middle blocker.”

“Yeah, a best friend. His personality is shitty.”

“No wonder.”

“I sensed the ‘yer friends’ that was heavily implied, Omi, don’t act innocent.” Atsumu pauses, “Actually, hear me out for a sec.”

“Do I have to?”

“I can’t consult anyone else about this,” Sakusa appears reluctant but doesn’t cut him off. “So, no matter how I look at it, Sunarin is heads over heels in love for Samu – my brother.”

“Never mind, I don’t want to listen to this.”

“’M serious! I can’t even talk to Samu ‘cause it’s about him!” He knocks his skull against the wall behind them. “And it’s mutual. Neither of them says so, but ya hafta be an idiot to not notice that it’s mutual. They’ve been tap dancin’ around each other for nearly a decade and there’s been absolutely zero progress. I might as well strangle ‘em both at this point; it’s incredulous.”

“Why not leave them alone? They’re adults.”

I wish. He’s lost count of the nights Osamu slept over at this apartment after a particularly scathing altercation with Suna, when, directly quoting both of them, ‘they were not exclusive.’ What kind of friends with benefits dragged out their arrangement for a decade, even through the risk of being caught by the paparazzi? Atsumu isn’t even sure what the problem is. “I’ve been watchin’ ‘em forever. It’s transparent that they’re fuckin’ into each other, and that it’s not even about the fuckin’ anymore.”

“I really don’t want to listen to this.” Atsumu doesn’t care about what Sakusa wants, at least not now, and Sakusa is more than aware. “Who knows, there might be something else between them. And if they do, that’s their knot to untangle, not yours.”

Sakusa’s logic is so sound that it’s reversely irking. He was the dumbass for hoping Sakusa to provide some beneficial, romantic advice. Sakusa Kiyoomi, of all people. “Oh, the additional shootings are completed.” Suna and Motoya are bowing to the staff as they jump off. “Don’t be too concerned, Omi-kun, I heard that the restaurant where the party is held has partitions. Only four people will fit into one table.”

“Thank god.”

Kuroo gathers them at the center. His tie is back to normal – someone must’ve fixed it for him. “Thank you for your cooperation, everyone. It’s been an eventful month, but we can move into the editing stage at last. The video will be released on Christmas Eve, so look forward to that, even if you’re not.” Some people chuckle from the crowd. “There is an afterparty, but it’s more like supper. You can hang around for drinks if you’d like, but otherwise, just eat your free meal and fly home. I’m sure that’s what half of you desire.”

The crew packs their belongings, and the athletes are driven to a pricey restaurant at Ginza. Sakusa and Atsumu naturally join Suna and Komori at their private table, the checkered bamboo partitions creating an enclosed room. Sakusa squirts hand sanitizer over his palms; Komori imitates him. It’s the first time that day that he seems like Sakusa’s kin. They order a platter of sashimi and ochazuke for a light dinner.

“I believe we haven’t talked in this kind of setting before, Miya-san.” Komori beams in greeting. Suna cringes at the ‘Miya.’

“Ah, don’t address me like that. It’s strange ‘cause I have a twin. Atsumu’s fine.”

“Oh, right. What does he do now?”

“He owns an onigiri diner branch, Onigiri Miya. There’s one in Tokyo and another in our hometown. He travels back and forth.”

“Heh, onigiri – that’s cool. I should try them out sometime.”

“Please do.”

Their oolong tea arrives in a jug filled to the brim with ice cubes. Komori pours them their glasses with a smile. “I heard from Kiyoomi that you guys live at the same flat. He’s picky, isn’t he? Has he invited you to his place yet?”

“Oh, we watched the last season’s second-round match-ups yesterday in his livin’ room – the Raijins and VC Hiroshima’s game. That was some superb receive ya flaunted halfway through the third set, Komori-kun, I dunno if anyone would’ve been able to dig for that spike. I was so sure it was gonna be a perfect wipe-out.” Atsumu regretted not being able to watch that game in person; the Jackals were against the Railway Warriors then, allocated to another block. The Raijins-VC Hiroshima game was even nominated as the best game of that season.

“That was on purpose,” Komori laughs – the waitress serves their ochazuke and fancy sashimi platter decorated with golden flakes. “Suna led the spikers of VC Hiroshima to aim for a wipe-out. I moved ahead of time, anticipating the course accordingly.”

“Are ya for real?” He gapes at Suna, who nonchalantly chews on a yellowtail slice.

“It was only possible because of Komori’s skill set and foundation. I wouldn’t have suggested such a risky strategy otherwise.”

“This is why I don’t wanna play against the Raijins.”

The libero waves his hand dismissively, “Nah, the Jackals are just as formidable an opponent. Besides, I’m more astounded that Kiyoomi had someone over at his apartment, with the exception of his family. Based on everything that happened, I thought he wouldn’t- ow, Kiyoomi, don’t kick me under the table!”

Sakusa ignores his cousin and nibbles on a chunk of pink pickled radish. His mask is folded in what he claims is his ‘mask case,’ a container specially bought to shield his mask from germs. Maybe I should buy him one of those for his birthday. Somethin’ actually useful. “Yeah, Omi-kun, let the guy finish. It’s rude to cut someone off when they’re talkin’.”

“Shut it, Miya.”

“Oh, he addresses you as Miya, then?”

Atsumu groans. “’Cause Omi doesn’t wanna call me Atsumu!”

“I don’t call anyone by their given name, don’t be a brat.”

“’M not a brat, don’t be disrespectful.”

“I’m relieved to see that you two seem to be such amazing friends,” Suna interjects with a cunning smirk, and Atsumu dreads what’s about to slither out of his lips. “I was worried as in high school, Atsumu was so sensitive when it came to,” He stomps his foot over Suna’s under the table. Suna tilts his head as if he has no fault in this circumstance. Don’t ya fuckin’ dare, Atsumu emits the message through his glare. The soles of his shoes rub against Suna’s loafers. “… To volleyball, being the ace, you know. It was his competitiveness.”

Atsumu’s abhorrence towards Sakusa was not subtle in high school, at least for those who were close to him. He was all Atsumu complained and growled about after each year’s youth camps and nationals, through wins and losses, practices and official tournaments. It was either, ‘I dunno, I just don’t like him,’ or, ‘His freaky wrists, they’re such a fuckin’ pain in the ass,’ or, ‘Whoever said he was one of the top three aces in the nation, anyway? Karasuno’s Kageyama might be a better pick.’ That was after the third years graduated.

He doesn’t feel like that anymore.

That prickle he experienced in Sakusa’s bedroom – that was jealousy.

Jealousy isn’t synonymous with hatred.

The question is…

“Hey, is Sakusa-san in this booth?”

“Oh, Kuroo-san! He’s here, do you need him?”

Kuroo flashes Sakusa an apologetic smile. “The editing team wants your opinion on your individual shots. I told them to send you an email, but they ran all the way here because we have a tight deadline. Would you mind, Sakusa-san? They’re at the entrance.”

Sakusa pulls on his mask. “Don’t touch my chopsticks, Miya.”

“Do ya even have an ounce of faith in me, Omi?”

“No.”

Once Sakusa slips out, Komori drums the table with his spoon, “Hey, join us for a second, Kuroo-san! You look like you could use a minute or two to slack off.”

Kuroo combs his disheveled hair with his fingers, his chortle droopy with fatigue. “If it wouldn’t be a bother, I’d love to.”

“It’s fine,” Suna affirms, wincing, “are you okay?”

The man borderline collapses onto the empty cushion on the floor, resting his arm on his knee as he crossed his other leg. “I’ve had better days,” Kuroo yawns, “pardon me. I’ve gotten five hours of sleep total this week.”

“Shouldn’t that be illegal?”

“It’s not a normal thing, no worries. We’ve had some… well, confidential stuff, but we’ve had issues. Ironed them out all right, but it’s been a train wreck of sorts.” Suna excuses himself to the restroom and it’s the three of them. “How’re the Jackals, Miya-san?”

“Ah, Atsumu will do, forgot to correct ya earlier. Yer older than me, aren’t ya?”

“By a year. Atsumu-kun, then.”

“It’s a promising team,” he declares triumphantly, “we have a rematch with the Adlers next April or so. Lookin’ forward to crushin’ ‘em.”

“The Adlers, yes.” Kuroo nods, “They’re quite the team – royalty-like, I think. It’s a stark contrast to the atmosphere of the Jackals.” He glimpses at Atsumu, “I wasn’t expecting that you’d be able to cooperate with Sakusa-kun, though.” The blond blinks at the man’s statement. There’s something in the edge of Kuroo’s lopsided smile: something he can’t describe. As if he knows. Or is that how he is? Atsumu clucks his tongue. He’s not too good at handling these kinds of people. “Oh, that wasn’t meant to be an insult or anything, I hope I didn’t offend you. Your personalities seemed to be polar opposites, is all.”

“Right?” Komori concedes with much enthusiasm, “I was pretty alarmed when I heard that Atsumu-kun was scouted to the Jackals, especially after what occurred in middle… school…” Suddenly, the male’s voice trails off, his pupils dilating, and breath trapped in his throat. Middle school? That has Atsumu confused. He met Sakusa in high school, not middle school. Or did we? We weren’t from the same prefecture so there’s no chance of us meeting elsewhere. “Uh, restroom. Will be back in a sec.” The libero stumbles out of the booth after wiping his mouth with a napkin rather fiercely.

Middle school?

Kuroo eyes his wristwatch. “I should return to the office in three.”

“Oh, yeah, okay.”

“Enjoy the rest of your meal, Atsumu-kun.”

Atsumu mumbles, “Likewise,” too preoccupied filtering through his middle school memories.

Outside the restaurant, Kuroo inhales and gazes up at the city’s bright dusk.

“Only four months until spring, huh…”

As aforementioned, Atsumu’s favorite holiday is Christmas.

He wouldn’t say there’s a reason for it. Don’t all toddlers adore Christmas? As a child, he saved up coins in his piggy bank with Osamu to purchase a mini-Christmas tree as there were none in Hyogo, at least none that were affordable. They didn’t have sufficient cash for the ornaments, however, so they hooked threads through cereal and worm jellies and hung them to the tree, which was as tiny as their chubby faces. Their parents were as serious as elementary children when it came to Christmas as well, so they’d pretend as if Santa Claus visited their house every year, drawing reindeer footprints on the floorboard and doorstep. It’s a heartwarming childhood memory he treasures.

He admires the mid-low view of Tokyo’s Christmas Eve from his fourth-floor balcony, a canned beer balanced on the rising. The sky is gray, tinged with a haze that is probably a concoction of traffic exhaust and polluted air. No White Christmas for me, huh… he sips his beer. It’s bitter and fizzy as it should be.

Christmas in Hyogo was rowdy. Although it never snowed, everyone would bring a large plastic bag of cotton and throw it around. Kita said that it was a waste of cotton, but it was an Inarizaki tradition, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Kita might’ve been right, as Kita’s never wrong. It indeed was a waste of cotton; at least they all had fun.

“That was excitin’…” He mulls. Here he is now, spending Christmas Eve alone on his balcony, watching the Volleyball Association’s Christmas promotion video. He’s watched it six times already, and this is his seventh. Their fans have been going crazy on social media as the video featured Sakusa – who never shows up on anything. Atsumu can relate, both with their fans and the editing team who insisted on discussing with Sakusa over which shots to utilize. Sakusa’s back arches gracefully in the video, the camera zooming into his side profile. His shirt floats from his shoulders as he leaps into the air, and his lips are pressed together, tightening his jawline. The fluorescent rays illuminate his irises, which appear a deep shade of garnet rather than obsidian. Atsumu drags his finger over the bar and replays Sakusa’s part with a perturbed pout.

He’s actually kinda fuckin’ hot, damn it.

It’s unfair, nobody’s supposed to look hot under that angle. Nobody.

And then there’s Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Atsumu shivers and snivels, “I should go back in,” he feels as if he’s about to get frostbitten. He closes the glass doors of his balcony and ricochets towards the couch, screaming into the pillows. Someone tell me this ain’t true. Someone’s gotta tell me that ‘m not doin’ this. Jesus. Who’s hot? What am I thinkin’? Finally lost it, I finally lost it, Jesus Christ. I should’ve known the moment I got jealous when he started blubberin’ in his sleep. Doesn’t mean shit, it doesn’t mean shit, I don’t, “Ughhhhhhh.”

He breathes in and picks up his phone.

You

Samu

Samu listen to me

Omi is objectively hot rite

Dumbass

Congratulations

Ur finally over that idiotic phase

He huffs and drops his phone to the sheets. He’s a fuckin’ hindrance.

He’s twenty-three, definitely too old to do this, ‘figure-out-your-feelings,’ nonsense. It’s not as if he’s never been in a relationship before, and albeit unrequited, he’s been in love too. His history with romance can be summarized as a tragedy, but he has experience (his inner Osamu remarks, “Experience with proper relationships, Tsumu, not sex.”). The majority blindly surmise that he’s dense because he’s obsessed with volleyball, but Atsumu is plenty aware of his own emotions. His only dilemma with Sakusa was that he couldn’t understand his feelings towards the guy since the beginning of their encounter.

Really, why did I cry when I saw him, anyway?

(“I was pretty alarmed when I heard that Atsumu-kun was scouted to the Jackals, especially after what occurred in middle… school…”)

He clenches his fist.

Was there somethin’ else?

With Sakusa, there always seemed to be a perpetual cycle of questions. Why did he cry? Why didn’t he like Sakusa in high school? Why did Sakusa avoid him? And the dreams. The dreams. What were the dreams about? What was their trigger? The dreams, they only commenced when he joined the Jackals. Could that have somethin’ to do with… he swallows. It’s irrational. But with Sakusa, everything is irrational. He longs to know the finale of his dreams, how everything concludes. He feels as if he’d be able to organize his thoughts once he does.

If it’s now, if it’s now, he may be ready to cope with another.

Another dream.

It can’t get any gorier than chopping off another ankle, can it?

Determined, he disposes his can of beer and turns off the lights. This method is more straightforward and efficient than rewatching the fifty-second footage of Sakusa playing volleyball for some Christmas PV. It’s not even going to be a White Christmas, so there’s no point in staying up. He snuggles into the mattress of his bed, lulling himself to sleep.

The last detail that lingers in his mind is the image of Sakusa turning towards the camera, expressionless.

(He licks the nape of the other’s neck, his hands fondling the man’s torso in languid, affectionate strokes. The geisha’s kimono is unbound, the velvet sash crumpled beneath Miya’s scabbard. He has the man wedged between his thighs as they perch on the end of the bridge, their legs dangling above the serene waters, his toes causing ripples to form whenever the geisha squirmed in his embrace. Omi clutches onto Miya’s elbow as the latter’s nails scrape over his nub; his cream shoulders become bare under the moonlight as he trembles.

“Miya,” he kisses the corner of the samurai’s mouth, “Miya, I’m going to fall.”

Miya laughs as he bites into Omi’s earlobe once. “I got ya. And I can swim.”

“If someone sees us –“

“Let ‘em be,” he marvels at the man’s slender hip and how his curls spill over his flawless skin. “They can’t have ya. Everyone should envy me.”

Omi snorts, “You’re stupid.”

“’M placated with that.”

“Mm,” tremors crawl through their veins as they touch each other. Omi’s hands cup Miya’s cheek as he leans back on his broad shoulder. “Kiss me, Miya.” He obeys, eradicating the distance between their lips. Their bodies shift so that Sakusa is lying beneath him. He can see the moon in his crystal orbs.

“I like the moon in yer eyes.”

“It’s just the moon.”

“It’s special when it’s in ya, I guess.”

The courtesan shakes his head but doesn’t retort. Instead, he laces his arms around the swordsman and draws him in closer, burying his nose into his chest. Miya doesn’t push him away. He flops over the bridge as well, allowing Omi to touch him freely. It was something the man did frequently. He inhaled Miya’s scent until he believed there was nothing remaining to be smelled.

“Hey, Miya.”

He ruffles Omi’s locks. “Yeah, Omi?”

“What’s the ocean like?”

“The ocean?” One blink, two blinks. “Where’s this comin’ from?”

“I’ve never been to the ocean.”

“The ocean, huh. The ocean is…” He ponders, struggling to select the most fitting words. “There’s a grassland of blue. Or- no. It’s like a river, just that the river’s width spans over this whole Yoshiwara. It’s huge. I can’t even fathom how gigantic it is. The water shines like a brilliant jewel. Y’know, like turquoise gems. And then by the horizon, it’s bluer, darker. It’s gorgeous.”

Omi slumps over his frame. “Is the water really salty?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s a bit odd.”

“And there’s fish?”

“A ton. And shells – seashells. Not like the ones we eat, but white ones. I’ll bring ya one next year.”

“You have lamentable memory, Miya.”

He pecks the man’s round head. “I remember everythin’ about ya, Omi. No worries. I’ll even take ya someday. It takes about six days. Ya can’t ride a horse, but I’ll rent a carriage or somethin’. We can choose a day. I’ll pay the bitchy lady a bunch of gold so that ya can be with me for two weeks. Ya can do whatever ya like.”

The geisha smiles. It’s one of his gentler smiles. “That sounds pleasant.”

Neither of them shatters the illusion with harsh words of reality. They don’t discuss how the samurai has an abundance of gold but not enough to borrow the geisha for more than a week. They disregard the geisha’s unmoving, rock-hard legs, paralyzed at the joints. It’s fine like this. Paying for this man included all of that – unattainable dreams, false hope, a spring night’s ephemeral pleasure.

“When I’m with you, Miya,” Omi murmurs, “the sky is blue.”

He flutters at Omi, puzzled. “The sky is blue as it is.”

The geisha kisses his chin.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to understand.”)

A shrill shriek echoes throughout his room.

It’s his ringtone.

Grunting, Atsumu fumbles for his phone. His digital clock reads three-fifteen in the morning. Who the heck contacted people at this hour on Christmas Eve?

[Sakusa Kiyoomi]

“Holy,” he scrambles up and answers the phone in a hurry. “Omi?” Even an infant will be able to infer that he’s been awakened, with his groggy tone and slur. He’s too frazzled to care. “What is it?”

“Have you looked outside the window?”

His curtains are shut. “Um, no.”

“You should.”

Half of him expects something outrageous, like a humongous Hello Kitty statue. The other half of him… well. He peeks through the gap of his curtains and can’t suppress his gasp. “Holy shit,” his heart beats and thumps against his ribs, all drowsiness that previously weighed him down evaporating instantaneously. “Omi, are ya seein’ this? God, the hell, Tokyo’s fuckin’ terrific!”

It’s snowing.

“I’m the one who informed you, so yes, I guess I’m seeing this.”

Snowflakes coat the buildings and concrete roads like cake icing. “Ya actually called me at three in the mornin’ for this? ‘M touched, Omi-kun, didn’t know ya thought of me so much.”

Sakusa’s snort buzzes through the line. “You seemed thrilled about it on your birthday.”

(“’M lookin’ forward to it, though, it might be a White Christmas.”

“White Christmas,” Sakusa drones, “what about it?”

“There’s a mystic quality about it, don’t ‘cha think? It’s White Christmas!” The spiker obviously does not relate. “Yer so unromantic, Omi-kun. It’s one of those nonscientific, cultish beliefs. Like the red strings of fate, or…” he holds up his pinky, “miracles on White Christmas.”)

Miracles on White Christmas.

Atsumu’s pulse decelerates. Snow descends over the ground like feathery stones. “Hey, Omi.” He hears Sakusa hum in acknowledgment. “Wanna go to the ocean with me?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

It’s completely, totally extemporaneous. He hasn’t considered this thoroughly at all. It’s nothing new because Atsumu’s not a planner either. It’s weird, because in any other situation, he’d be convinced that Sakusa would deny the invitation. Right this moment, though, he doesn’t think he will.

Sakusa doesn’t respond for an extended period of time. Then, he finally sighs into the speaker and replies, “I’ll be at the parking lot.”

“Yeah, meet ya there.”

He doesn’t bother to pack, doesn’t even change into casual clothing. He’s in his silk pajama pants and Osamu’s T-shirt; he simply grabs a coat tossed over the counter and his car keys. It reminds him of the night he crashed at Sakusa’s when there was a blackout in the apartment. Everything was rapid-fire then as well, abrupt and inexplicable. This morning is slightly disparate, as he’s not panicking or apprehensive; he’s sane, just a little dazed. Maybe it’s because it’s Christmas. It must be the Christmas high.

Sakusa is waiting by Atsumu’s car at the parking lot, also in a fluffy coat and slippers. He has a thermos in his grasp, “In case we get thirsty.”

“Yer the only one I can trust, Omi.”

“I’m also your only companion, so you don’t have an alternative.”

“Don’t be so hung up over the minor details.”

They’re the only ones on the road. The GPS indicates that the nearest shore is forty minutes away. Sakusa doesn’t pry as to why he asked him to travel to the ocean with him out of nowhere. Atsumu cranks up the volume of the midnight radio. The DJ is rambling on about how it’s a White Christmas this year. The melody of a familiar Christmas carol flows out from the speakers. Atsumu knows the song but doesn’t recall the title. At a red light, he drinks the piping hot tea from Sakusa’s thermos. It’s his favorite herbal tea.

“Does this count?”

Atsumu snaps to Sakusa, who’s staring out the window. “What counts?”

“Miracles on White Christmas,” Sakusa says, “snowing.”

His windshield wipers squeak as they shove the piled snow sideways. “That’s a bit of a paradox, ain’t it? For snow to be a miracle on White Christmas.”

“I’m still uncertain as to what your standards of a miracle are.”

“I dunno.” He feels light as a feather. Maybe he’s still dreaming. “This seems like a miracle to me.” Sakusa blinks in his direction, opens his mouth, and then shuts it. “Hey, we’re here. It’s the ocean.”

The ocean is ashen. There is no blue, no aquamarine, no fish. All that is visible is the petite full moon glowing through the translucent masses of clouds in the sky, its perfectly spherical shape becoming distorted over the surface of the waters. They halt by the side of the road and step onto the pavement constructed as a walkway for the civilians passing through. It’s like a scenery splat out of a black-and-white film. White sand, black sky, gray ocean. The breeze tastes briny; it’s cold. Well, I s’pose that’s what ya get from an ocean at night.

“It’s freezing,” Sakusa states bluntly. A truck zooms past on the road. “Who comes to the ocean on Christmas?”

“Us, duh.”

“Is this what you wanted to see?”

Atsumu views the silent ocean. The currents clap and wash over the sand. The lack of color is conversely invigorating. He’s never witnessed the ocean during this hour. “Yeah.” He grins at Sakusa, “I mean, I dunno. Ain’t it kinda inspirational? Drivin’ to the ocean with no particular purpose. It’s somethin’ I wanted to do when I was a brat. Teenagers can’t even dream of it, y’know? My hometown was too far from the shores. And motorbikes weren’t permitted at my school.”

“They usually aren’t.”

“I guess.” He sniffs, “What do ya think?”

“About motorbikes?”

“About the ocean, ya dumb-dumb.”

Sakusa doesn’t answer immediately. His attention is plastered to the shore. A lone seagull cries somewhere near the dock. It feels surreal, to be here with Sakusa. They were both at their apartment less than an hour ago. Sakusa had notified him that it was snowing outside. He woke up from a dream, where Sakusa said he’d never been to the ocean. Atsumu said that the ocean was gorgeous. The samurai also simultaneously thought that no matter how gorgeous, it couldn’t rival Sakusa’s exquisite, delicate beauty. It was stupidly romantic. It was a dream.

“It’s quiet,” Sakusa mutters under his breath. “It’s very quiet.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice.”

“Yeah. Sure is.”

Sakusa offers him the thermos. He accepts and gulps down the tea. It warms him up from the inside. “Omi.” Sakusa doesn’t speak, but he knows that the man is listening. Steam ventures towards the clouds from the lidless thermos. “The sky’s blue, ain’t it?”

(“When I’m with you, Miya, the sky is blue.”)

“Depends on where you are,” says Sakusa, “it’s not blue right now, is it?”

Atsumu nods at the misty, onyx sky. “Yeah. Yer right.”

As he stands there with Sakusa, the realization and admittance settle in his gut. It’s the aftertaste of the sugared tea perhaps, tailored to satisfy Atsumu’s palate. It might be the weather, so frigid and icy that it’s clearing his mind. Or the trite tune of the Christmas carol playing from the speakers in his car. No – it’s since the phone call. Sakusa’s phone call, where he rang Atsumu three in the morning just to tell him that it was White Christmas this year.

It’s about how he remembered what Atsumu mentioned shortly on his birthday. That’s all it essentially is, but that’s all he needs. It’s all he requires to embrace this long-due truth. There isn’t much else to contemplate over. It was never that convoluted or complicated, to begin with. He’s not a complex person, and he comprehends how his brain and heart functions better than anyone, even Osamu. This is about him, after all. Right – it’s that simple. Just that simple.

He likes Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Chapter Text

“I dunno how to love ya just right. If I get too warm, ya might turn into ashes, but if I get too cold, I fear that yer gonna wilt. Say, Omi – how am I s’posed to love ya?”

He thought he’d freak out more.

Atsumu isn’t the type to fuss over having a crush on someone or being in love. In fact, he tends to always see it coming. He’s an emotional person, and he may not be attentive to other people’s emotions, but he is when it’s about his own. It’s not an analytical process, like, ‘this is when I found them attractive, this is when I developed feelings, and therefore this is when I fell for them.’ Rather, it’s like toppling off a cliff that you know is about to crumble. You see the cracks in the barren soil, you feel the imbalance of the ground – all the signs – and then you’re descending towards the surface.

He remembers how he loved Kaya. One morning, he was noticing how she trimmed her fringe by a couple of centimeters. The next, he found himself borrowing and skimming books at the library, though he never ended up reading past the first paragraph of each. He woke up an hour earlier when she was on cleaning duty for the classroom so that he could assist her (with a flimsy excuse: “Ah, y’know, set the alarm incorrectly. D’ya need a broom? I’ll get one from the supplies closet.”), and he watched when the teacher requested her to carry stacks of textbooks or papers so that he could deliver them instead (“I hafta visit the admin office, anyway. I’ll do it.”). And then during his fourth-period English class, while listening to her read a section of a Shakespearean sonnet, he thought: “Oh. I love her.”

Nothing changed between them. They never shared conversations that lasted more than five minutes. She was quiet, and he was the most popular student in the entire grade. Just because he could see her didn’t mean others could see what he saw in her. He loved her discreetly, from the shadows. It wasn’t a huge deal.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, however, is an exception.

He should be, at least.

He wasn’t supposed to develop any sort of attraction, and certainly not anything bordering romantic. Wouldn’t that be the obvious expectation? He’s spent years hating Sakusa (for no justifiable reason, really). They weren’t compatible. When? When did everything begin to shift? Was it that dinner at Osaka? Or perhaps even before that, when Sakusa gave him that candle?

The first dream?

He’s aware that the dreams themselves are an oddity. It’s weird watching yourself love another person so passionately, so tenderly – someone you don’t in real life. And it’s not as if he can tell Sakusa about their contents, because what was he to say? The Sakusa Kiyoomi in his dreams was Omi, a lowly male prostitute of Yoshiwara. He’d be disconcerted if he were in Sakusa’s shoes.

But independent of the dreams, he was gradually smearing into Sakusa, allowing his life to become increasingly entwined with the latter’s. He ate breakfast with Sakusa, went to work with Sakusa, and returned home with Sakusa. He caught how Sakusa bought a new pair of gloves. He could identify Sakusa’s favorite tea when he was shopping for his groceries at the mall. He was curious about what Sakusa did in his free time, who he met, who his friends were. And then there was Christmas.

It’s a recognizable pattern.

And – Atsumu’s coming to terms with it.

“Huh, so?”

“What d’ya mean, ‘so’?!” Atsumu bangs the tabletop. Osamu doesn’t even flinch, his attention glued to the rice cooker and plethora of ingredients piled on the kitchen counter. He’s in the middle of developing a new monthly special – he’s been debating between salmon and green tea rice and tako wasabi. “Yer the first person I told; I thought ya’d be more surprised!”

Osamu picks up a stick of wasabi and a packet of smoked salmon. “I didn’t understand why ya didn’t like ‘im anyway, ya never said why. I saw him in passing a couple of times during the Nationals and yer games – seemed like an average lad to me, sans the fact that he’s more extreme in terms of personal hygiene than others. Which, y’know, ain’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“I,” Atsumu’s at loss for words upon seeing his twin’s blasé attitude. “I mean… yeah, but- ain’t there anythin’ ya want to say? Argue?”

“Not really.” Osamu frowns at him, “Do ya want me to be against yer feelings or what?”

“Nah, that’s not,” he groans, agitated. “I just dunno when or- or why.”

“Is it really that important? Answering those questions.” He glances at Osamu, who’s molding another onigiri. Atsumu’s tried at least fifteen so far – he might burst at this rate. “I don’t think there’s always an elaborate reason for likin’ someone. Ya just do before y’know it.”

“… Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Atsumu rests his head on his arms. “What if he doesn’t like me, Samu?”

“Ya can’t force someone to like ya, Tsumu. That’s how life is.” As if I dunno that. He’s been in an unrequited love before. He knows what it feels like – the burn, the yearning, the ache. It still hurt for Kaya, even when he was aware that he had no chance with her. He can’t imagine how worse it’d be when the chances are unknown, unverified.

He never had to wrack his brain over these kinds of issues since Kaya. The flame flickered away on its own until he was engaging in activities that were for pleasure and entertainment. He didn’t have healthy relationships, and he was okay with that. Healthiness implied that he had to sustain those emotions, that lifestyle, and Atsumu never cared much about the person he was sleeping with to put in such effort. In essence, the cycle he’d been stuck in till he met Sakusa was no different from those of the samurais in his dreams: a give-and-take business, mutually beneficial. The girls got gold and silver in exchange for their services. His past partners relieved his sexual urges, and they had their own pluses in fucking him.

But to think that out of all people, Sakusa of his dreams – the person he liked – was in the same position as those girls, as his endless list of partners – something about that bothers Atsumu.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Ya’ll be fine.”

He blinks at Osamu’s abrupt words of reassurance. “Ya dunno that.”

“Ya can be an ass, but yer generally nice to people ya like.” Osamu goes on, “He’ll understand. Just don’t creep ‘im out.” The faucet twists and the water drumming into the sink ceases. “Besides, who even rings up a casual friend outta nowhere on Christmas mornin’ just ‘cause it’s snowin’? I don’t.”

“Omi-kun’s more considerate than he appears to be.”

Osamu snorts. “Don’t be in denial, Tsumu, ‘m tryin’ to help ya out here. Also,” An onigiri wrapped in a sheet of seaweed is placed on his platter. Atsumu pats his stomach. “It’s smoked salmon and wasabi. Might add avocado cubes but tell me how it is.”

He takes a hefty bite and savors the food, “I like the teriyaki chicken and wasabi mayonnaise one better.”

“Yeah? I’ll keep that in mind.”

The salty smoked salmon complements the grains of rice on his tongue. The mist in his head clears slightly, and he decides to fold away his problems for the time being. As he licks his fingers, he observes Osamu, who’s jotting down notes with a hunched back. They haven’t been able to meet as frequently, with Osamu rushing to Hyogo to check on Kita’s rice fields and Atsumu back in the gym, training with the team. His brother looks thinner; he’s lost at least a few kilos. Ever since their careers split into disparate pathways, their appearances became more distinguishable. Atsumu was more built due to his rigorous training menu, and Osamu retained much of his high school muscle but lost weight.

“Oi, Samu, are ya eatin’ properly?”

The rhythmic ‘ton-ton’ of Osamu’s knife halts. Atsumu doesn’t miss how Osamu scratches his pinky, his shoulders stiff. “The store’s been packed recently. I guess I skipped some.”

“Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot – what are ya gonna do if ya collapse on the job? C’mere,” Osamu frowns at him, but Atsumu is insistent, gesturing and hissing at his brother threateningly. Without any precaution, he stuffs the other half of the smoked salmon onigiri into his twin’s mouth. Osamu hacks and chugs down Atsumu’s cup of water.

“Tsumu, ya piece of –“

“Ya gonna tell me what’s wrong or what?”

Osamu discards his plastic gloves in the bin and averts his eyes. “It’s nothin’. Just tired.”

They’re twins – factually, genetically. What the majority doesn’t understand is how different they are. People only note their similarities (their competitiveness, obstinacy, simpleton logic, and candor) and ignore their blatant disparities. This is one of them. Whereas Atsumu never, never caged his thoughts or feelings, Osamu added layers and layers until his heart was round. It used to be Atsumu who peeled off those layers one by one, coaxing his younger brother by irritating him and triggering an altercation. Now that they’re adults, though, the problem is showing again. The worst part seems to be that Osamu doesn’t consider it to be a big deal or a deal at all.

Atsumu scans the clock. It’s past ten, and he should be going home. It’d be counterproductive to probe ‘im, anyway. I guess I’ll give in. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and flicks Osamu’s forehead. “I’ll leave. Tell me when yer in trouble, Samu.” He wouldn’t have been able to muster the courage (or maturity) to say that if he were a teenager. It’s good that he has finally grown up to be an older brother. “Seriously. Ma’s gonna worry. Y’know how ma is when she worries.”

Osamu rubs the sore spot on his forehead but nods pliantly. “… A’ight.” The blond grins in farewell and steps towards the exit. “Tsumu.”

“Hm?”

“Ya guys will work out. Really.”

He chuckles. “I appreciate the support.”

Once Atsumu is gone, Osamu crouches to the floor and buries his nose between his knees. A stuttered exhale reverberates as he wraps his head with both hands, curling into a ball. He stays like that for minutes until his thighs vibrate in protest, causing him to plop onto the tiles sullied with dried patches of soy sauce he spilled earlier.

The red string.

He recalls the fleeting shot of the bright velvet-colored thread knotted around his brother’s pinky. His pulse pounds in his vessels, blood rushing to his ears, his own heartbeat a cacophonous ‘thump, thump’ in the background. He blinks at his outstretched palm and his fingers – and re-clenches them into a fist. Swallowing a deep breath, he lets his arm drop to his side.

Atsumu was the luckier one.

Always – always.

“A team outing to the temple?”

“Yeah!” Bokuto exclaims in glee amidst performing a wild overhead serve. The ball collides into the opposite wall with a thunderous ‘slam.’ “Just an idea. We haven’t done anything like, y’know, team building? I know we do drink-outs, but that’s super common. I thought we could meet on New Year’s and visit the temple or something. Or even a few days after New Year’s, if you guys plan to travel back home for the week off.”

“I’d like that,” Meian ties his shoelaces on the bench, “I enjoy that kind of thing. Praying at temples for New Year’s and watching the sunrise. I’m not traveling back home this year, so I should be free.”

“Ah, yeah, if it’s the morning I’m okay, too. I have to drive to Hokkaido that evening, so.”

“Me too.”

“Same here.”

Others chime in, and Atsumu darts to Sakusa. The spiker seems to be pondering. “What about you, Sakusa?” Tomas inquires (his Japanese has progressed with impressive strides this past year). Most of them anticipate an immediate dismissal because – because it’s Sakusa.

“Ah,” Sakusa draws out the syllable, “I’m okay as well.”

“Wow, really?”

“Dude, Sakusa’s going?”

“Damn it, I feel pressured to join.”

“Tsumu-Tsumu, you’re coming too, right?”

“Huh? Yeah,” his answer bounces out without any filter, and the question only processes belatedly. “I mean, yeah. I’ll go.” Thankfully, Bokuto doesn’t comment on his lousy response and moves over to the others. Atsumu fiddles with the volleyball in his grasp, struggling to not approach Sakusa. He refines his determination and hones the sharpness and course of his serves. His floaters were lacking accuracy the previous tournament; he can’t have the reporters writing articles about his devastating “downfall” just because he serves a floater out of bounds.

“Miya.”

He yelps and flounders in the air. Someone tugs on the back of his shirt to steady him, and Atsumu flushes red in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to startle you – apologies.” Sakusa lets the fabric loose. “You’re not injured, are you?”

“No, ‘m, uh. Good. I was daydreamin’ a little.” He brushes off invisible dust from his shorts. “What’s the matter?”

“We’re driving to the temple with your car, yes?” Sakusa juts his chin at the rowdy bunch, “They’re discussing their options. The least crowded temple will be the one in another district, apparently.”

“Sure, I don’t mind.” He grabs a bottle of Pocari from the benches. “Do ya like temples, Omi?”

“When they aren’t densely populated.” Sakusa drinks from his personal bottle, “They calm my nerves. I sleep better after I visit temples.”

“We had a ton of ‘em back in Hyogo.” Atsumu chortles at the memory. Their town was more spiritual than the neighboring villages, and they had three temples for the guardian deities. There was a grandma who would offer mochi and tea to the monks and stone statues every day. Atsumu later learned that she was Kita’s grandmother. “Makes me nostalgic.”

“Are you not joining your family for New Year’s?”

“I wanna, but my ma…” he scratches his neck with thinned lips. “She pesters me about meetin’ these girls. Everyone in my family knows that I play around with my flings, so she’s been tryin’ to set me up with someone for ages – for stability, or whatever. It’s a pain in the ass.” He only regrets everything once he understands the weight of his own confession. Shit. I said too much. He turns to Sakusa, who – doesn’t react.

“I see. That must be a dilemma.

A pang buzzes in his chest. Atsumu disregards the sensation. “Yeah, sure is. What ‘bout ya, Omi?”

“They reside in an apartment nearby, so there’s not much to do. I eat New Year’s supper with them and that’s it.” Right, since Sakusa is from Tokyo. “My brother and sister don’t receive holidays.”

“I’d never wanna be involved in law or med stuff. Sounds horrible.”

“They regret their decisions, but they like the paycheck. It balances out.”

Atsumu hums. They resume training after the conversation, Sakusa testing new twists to his spikes, and Atsumu with his floater serves. Meian announces that they’ll be gathering at the temple before dawn on New Year’s. “According to the weather forecast, we’ll be teetering on the border of negative fifteen degrees Celsius. Wear something warm and eat breakfast!”

On their journey home, Atsumu and Sakusa compromise on a meeting time. Their apartment, unfortunately, was the farthest from the temple, and they had to wake up an hour faster than their teammates. “Since you’re driving, I’ll be in charge of breakfast and coffee. You won’t drink coffee, right, Miya?”

“Sugared tea, cavity-inducin’ sweetness, please.”

Sakusa shakes his head, and they separate at Atsumu’s floor.

Once he’s alone, Atsumu ruminates on Sakusa’s nonchalant response to his news. He has flashbacks to when he loved Kaya when he had to acknowledge the truth that she’d never reciprocate his feelings, and that he’d have to move on sooner or later. He could’ve at least pretended to be curious. But then again, why feign curiosity if you aren’t interested in the person?

It’s facile for him to accept his feelings.

This, however, is the most exhausting part of the procedure, both physically and mentally.

Calculating and gauging his chances.

(“You’re being disillusioned. He tells everyone and nobody that he loves them, Miya. He does what you wish at the drop of a silver. That’s all he is. That’s all you are to him. That’s all you’ll ever be to him. You think you’re special? You think he’ll treat you differently because you’re softer? Because you aren’t like us? In the end, he’s just a fag. One thirsty for your wealth, Miya.”)

Atsumu clutches his collar.

Just a dream.

“What’s for breakfast?”

“I ordered from your brother’s place last night. The New Year’s seasonal special.” Sakusa’s plastic bag rustles, the logo of Onigiri Miya in the periphery of Atsumu’s vision. “I like his umeboshi onigiri. It has the ideal harmony of sourness and saltiness.” The seasonal menu is onigiri stuffed with ikura and raw salmon cubes soaked in Osamu’s secret soy sauce mix.

Atsumu smirks, “Are ya gonna feed me, Omi-kun?”

“Don’t be childish, you can eat on your own.”

“But I’ll be drivin’! Unless ya want us to get into a traffic accident on New Year’s.” Sakusa squints at him but eventually agrees. Atsumu pats himself ceremoniously in his mind. Very smooth, me, very smooth. They turn on the radio – the DJ is talking about his New Year’s wishes and goals. He wants to climb Mount Everest and get a girlfriend, not that Atsumu is intrigued. Atsumu doesn’t write New Year’s wish lists. More specifically, he’s quit after fourth grade, when he realized that he’d forget about them and never achieve a single bullet point on the list (and that becomes quite demoralizing after a few years). He turns to Sakusa with a crooked grin, “Anythin’ yer lookin’ forward to this year, Omi?”

Sakusa hums. “The new spiker that’s joining us in March.”

“Ah, me too. I wanna know who he is.”

“I tend to not picture much about my future.”

“Same here, but we gotta make a wish at the temple. We’re payin’ for that crap.” He found it comical, to offer a coin to the gods and praying – would the gods even have use for their money? “Ya believe in gods and stuff, Omi?”

Sakusa doesn’t reply; Atsumu wonders if he hasn’t heard the query, but the man parts his mouth. “I believe that there can be nonhuman beings out there, somewhere in this universe, perhaps right next to us.” Huh, I thought he’d say ‘no.’ “It doesn’t have to be something massive, but… spirits, ghosts. They can exist.”

“That’d be traumatic. I don’t like ghosts.”

“It’s hypothetical.”

Their banter continues throughout the ride. Sakusa feeds Atsumu his rice balls at every other red light. Nothing about it is romantic in particular, but Atsumu’s heart flutters nervously whenever Sakusa’s fingers graze his chin. Don’t overreact, he chants the sacred mantra, don’t overreact, yer already a blasphemous actor as is. It’s a trial of patience, of course, when Sakusa faces him upfront, ensuring that the onigiri won’t self-destruct as it touched Atsumu’s mouth. He plays his own game of, ‘don’t look at Sakusa’ – and he likes to win, so the game is in his favor.

They reach the temple when the sky is violet, the barest hue of twilight blue at the horizon. Meian, Inuaki, and Barnes are waiting for them at the crimson torii. The libero hollers, “Happy New Year, guys,” rather exuberantly.

Barnes laughs, “New Year’s is Inu’s favorite holiday.”

“Happy New Year,” Sakusa and Atsumu chime in sync, their accents clashing as they spoke. Atsumu leans into Inuaki with a teasing leer, “Wan-san, y’know New Year’s means yer just gettin’ older, right? Have ya thought about yer marriage plans yet?”

Inuaki lands a flawless uppercut on him. Atsumu has no clue as to why the man chose volleyball; he could’ve been a UFC fighter, if anything. And he’d flourish. “I’m meeting someone.” Atsumu gawks at Inuaki. “We aren’t dating, but, you know,” the libero rubs the underside of his nose, blushing. “It’s something like that.”

“Then why’d ya hit me?!”

“Because you’re infuriating, Atsumu.”

“Wan-san, yer bein’ mean to me too!”

Bokuto and Tomas arrive together in their respective vehicles – Bokuto in his flamboyant sports car, and Tomas in his motorbike. “We have around forty minutes until dawn. Want to pray first?” Their captain cranes his neck towards the temple, and they murmur in concession. There is a staircase made of rocks leading up to it and a statue of two foxes guarding the entrance.

“That one looks like you, Atsumu!”

“I’m cuter than that, Wan-san!”

“No, the cunning smile, it’s definitely you.”

“Yer so rude.”

He ambles alongside Sakusa. The other is wordless, completely silent. What’s he thinkin’ about? Sakusa Kiyoomi is a conundrum. Atsumu can never presume what’s in his mind, not even what he wants to eat for lunch. It’s a little disappointing; Atsumu’s like an open book, the font size of the alphabets forty-eight.

There are couples and families standing in a zig-zag formation in front of the temple. Everyone’s pink and chattering off blithely in the cold, blowing hot air onto their hands. There is a toddler holding onto a 500-yen coin for dear life to Atsumu’s left, her scarf so thick and huge that it wrapped around half of her pudgy face. Atsumu stifles a chortle at the sight. She must be desperate. “What’re ya gonna wish for, Omi?” He questions softly so that their teammates can’t overhear them.

“I don’t know,” Sakusa shakes his wallet, and a silver coin tumbles out from the gap. “Global hygiene and longevity.”

“Ya sound like a grandpa. Longevity, really?”

“My wish, my choices. You?”

To be honest, Atsumu hasn’t thought much about it, either. When his grandparents and relatives dragged him to these New Year’s events, he acted all provocative and dared the gods to make his wish come true – ‘ya can’t, yeah? It’s not like yer almighty powers can do shit.’ He doesn’t blame the heavens if they have long decided to exclude him from their ‘humans to care about’ chart. He was the brattiest teenager. “It’s a secret,” he lies.

Sakusa grunts, “I shouldn’t have bothered.”

Atsumu laughs at his deadpan expression, extremely characteristic and typical of Sakusa. The laughter dies in his throat when he sincerely cranks his brain for a wish. What do I need? He could pray for his parents’ wellbeing, but they were healthier than an average twenty-year-old. Or his brother’s store; he’s doing well, though. Atsumu doesn’t want the heavens to mistake Osamu for him and eliminate him from their chart, too. Longevity, huh. There’s only one group remaining in the queue. Atsumu heeds the hushed whispers of that girl: ‘I want a Hello Kitty lego set, I want a Hello Kitty lego set, I want a Hello Kitty lego set. Dear God, I got a forty-six on my math quiz. I failed, but it’s the highest score I got yet. If you’re proud of me, please send a Hello Kitty lego set.’

Atsumu’s lips wobble into a smile. Man, that’s kinda cute. He’d purchase her a Hello Kitty lego set this instant, no God necessary in the equation. She just wasted 500 yen.

“Miya,” Sakusa nudges him, “it’s us.”

“Oh, yeah. What’s the order again?”

“Bow twice, clap twice, bow once.”

“Right.” The coins jangle as they’re added onto the stack inside the box. Atsumu mimics Sakusa’s actions, claps twice (the only part he remembers how to do), and shuts his eyes.

I know ya probably don’t like me, after all these years. ‘M sorry. I hope my meager 500-yen is some kind of compensation. I actually haven’t thought of a wish yet, so ya gotta gimme some time. Let’s see…

It’s that moment, that nanosecond.

When footages – no, voices? – both, blurred, rushed, like a strip of disconnected photographs and snapshots – ambush him.

(“… reconsider this carefully. You can’t withdraw from this, mortal.”

The samurai is engulfed in darkness. He can only see a hazy oval, its margins smudged. In the center of the oval is the silhouette of the man he loves. He can’t feel anything. He can’t move a muscle, not even the tip of his fingers. He can’t breathe. He’s gazing up at the geisha from below. He was conversing with someone – who? He longs to ask, but his body doesn’t listen to his commands.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Omi’s voice is garbled and distant as if he’s drowned out by ocean tides. What, Omi? He gathers his divided attention and battles with himself to concentrate on the man. Speak louder, I can’t hear ya.

Omi raises his pinky. There is a red string tied around it. Was that there before? Atsumu doesn’t recall the man owning one.

“That string connects you – to him. You will be disposing of that destiny with your own hands. Do you know what that means?”

He stares at Omi. The red string. It’s the red string of fate, the string between lovers of life. A bond of the heavens. Their string. Theirs.

“I don’t need it. I don’t need this kind of destiny.” Omi mumbles – and he goes on, but he can’t hear him. Dread trickles into Atsumu as he replays Omi’s firm, unwavering statement within himself. I don’t need it. I don’t need it. I don’t need it.

I don’t need –

Him.

The geisha brings his finger to his canine tooth and hooks the thread underneath. No. Wait – Omi. He is helpless. He is absolutely helpless as he can only view his fated one rip their destiny apart. He has to scream, he has to strangle the man he so fervently, excruciatingly loved, because their destiny is the only thing Atsumu has. Omi never told him that he returned his feelings. There was nothing for Atsumu to trust, to rely on. Nothing else but their red string of fate, the red chains that bound them together for eternity.

The string thins and breaks into invisible strands as Sakusa bites and pulls.

It was a love he didn’t mind sacrificing his final breath for.

It was a love he didn’t mind crushing his ribcage and bones for.

He was a love he never loved like any other.

And he was –

A love he didn’t think he could repeat in his next life.

Because Kiyoomi hurt.)

“… iya. Miya!”

Someone’s rattling his shoulders. He gasps for oxygen, his lungs beseeching him for air as they shrunk painfully in his guts. He’s wheezing on another person’s broad torso, his gums so dry that they itch and his cheeks – are wet. He cried. He’s crying, rivulets streaming down his face. What? His thoughts whir. What’s goin’ on? He’s in agony, like his whole soul has been hollowed out, punctured, and trashed in an abyss. He remembers this feeling, these raw emotions, these tears.

“Miya, listen to me. Please.”

He snaps towards the source of the voice. His heart squeezes when he verifies that it’s Sakusa. Sakusa, who’s holding Atsumu close. His knitted brows flatten in transparent relief when he notices that he has Atsumu again. They’re not at the temple but behind a tree – a gigantic, leafless tree that towers over both of them. “Omi?” He whispers, trying to recover.

“You broke down when we were praying.” Sakusa doesn’t free him. “I brought you here. Nobody’s around. You’re okay.” The unusually gentle yet warm, ‘you’re okay,’ has his eyes brimming involuntarily. He stays frozen like that against Sakusa’s chest, and the man lets him. He doesn’t really deem it abnormal; Sakusa’s nice. He’s a nice guy. And he –

(Omi never told him that he returned his feelings.)

That wasn’t a dream. You couldn’t experience dreams while you were wide awake. He had experiences that resembled this situation in the past. At the bridge, at the café – months ago, but there were instances. What does that imply?

He peers at Sakusa hesitantly. Sakusa scrutinizes him anxiously, as if he’s anticipating another meltdown. “’M okay now,” he backtracks, lightly pushing the spiker away. “Thanks.” Sakusa nods.

An awkward, tense quiet settles over them.

“… The others said they’d head over to the observatory lounge for the sunrise,” Sakusa says, “do you want to go?”

“Er,” he instinctively flits to another direction, avoiding Sakusa. “Not… not now. Don’t wanna let ‘em see, y’know,” his eyes are most likely puffy and swollen, as well as his nose. “Let’s pick our omikuji and then follow ‘em, yeah?” Again, Sakusa nods. Atsumu can’t suppress the urge to study Sakusa’s pinky. There is no red string. Of course. There are no red strings of fate in reality. Such superstitions, as the term suggested, are superstitions, myths, and fictional.

Despite being so conscious of that fact, he is overwhelmed with a wave of inexplicable despondency.

Sakusa guides them to where the omikuji are. The papers are hanging onto ropes in the shapes of ribbons. Sakusa plucks at one, and Atsumu glumly chooses his as well. After unfolding the crumpled sheet, he snorts in misery.

Worst luck.

He must’ve pissed off the gods real bad.

‘Watch out for spring,’ his fortune reads, ‘danger is near when spring’s enchanted beauty is at the apex of its heights.’

Spring.

Fucking spring.

He’s about to dunk his omikuji in the rubbish bin when Sakusa speaks up, “We can switch.” Atsumu whips to Sakusa, who has his omikuji extended towards Atsumu.

Best luck.

“I don’t need yers, Omi.” He almost spits out venom, but he reminds himself that none of this is Sakusa’s fault. He doesn’t have anyone to blame. “I don’t need it.”

“You’ll need it more than I do.” Sakusa pries open Atsumu’s balled right hand and snatches away his fortune paper. The ‘worst luck’ in black ink flaps between Sakusa’s fingers. Atsumu peruses Sakusa’s omikuji. ‘You’ll be salvaged from the deathliest curse of your life. May the heavens be with you.’

“Says ya’ll be salvaged from the deathliest curse, Omi.”

“It’s fine.” Sakusa shrugs – and then softens when he observes Atsumu’s expression. Although Atsumu has no idea what kind of expression he’s wearing. “Really, Miya. It’s fine. Have it.”

Atsumu swallows.

(“I don’t need it. I don’t need this kind of destiny.”)

Chapter Text

“If I told him that my words were priceless though my actions were worth a cheap bar of silver, would he have believed me? Say – would he have believed me?”

He locks himself up in his bedroom during the week off. No morning walks, no lunches, no impromptu visits – he orders takeout from his brother and actively ignores his mother’s adamant calls and text messages. He’s not in the mood to tolerate her yapping about meeting another ‘nice girl.’

Scrolling through his browser history, he snorts at the sheer incredulity of it. ‘Reincarnation,’ ‘Reincarnation experience,’ ‘Red string of fate,’ ‘Symptoms of mental illness,’ ‘Supernatural incidents in reality,’ etc. – the list goes on. Anyone would assume that he’s a lunatic, even himself. There were films about the theme, of course, and the red string of fate was a popular superstition when he was in elementary and middle school, especially amongst the girls. The concept of star-crossed lovers bound by fate being reborn to conclude their tragic love story – he used to believe that it was the tritest plot an author could come up with.

Well, I guess not, he corrects himself. If his so-called vision was a fragment of his past life, that meant he and Sakusa were no longer meant to be. How do you describe that? Soulmates? Brrr, Atsumu shudders at the term. He’s just not that kind of person.

He had considered the possibility that his breakdown was merely a product of his accumulated stress. That would be the most realistic explanation: a new season was about to begin in less than two months, he had to practice his serves and prove his worth as the regular setter on the team, and there was another spiker he’d have to adjust to. For the Jackals, this season was key.

But at the same time, the vision was clearly a continuation of his dreams. He couldn’t have dreamt during a breakdown. Even if one tried to argue that it was a figment of his imagination, Atsumu wasn’t an imaginative individual. He enjoyed watching hero movies and Marvel, but he wasn’t capable of reproducing a story packed with such creativity, not to mention Sakusa with long hair and a women’s kimono. And that logically meant that the dreams weren’t dreams; they were memories. He has never reached such an illogical statement from a logical pathway of thought.

What if this were all true, anyway? Who would believe him? There is no physical evidence to support his claims, only personal experience. He cannot see his own red string of fate, and he doubts that there are historical records about some trivial homosexual relationship between a samurai and a male geisha from the Edo period. It definitely was not rare then, after all.

Isn’t it bullshit either way?

An overly realistic dream versus a creepily fantastical reality – which is more plausible?

Neither.

“Oi, Tsumu-Tsumu, you listening?”

“What?”

Bokuto pouts at him. They’re standing on a foreign court. The uniform of the players across them… the Raijins. He remembers why they’re here; they were in the middle of a practice match after the holidays, invited to EJP Raijins. Although momentarily, Atsumu’s astounded that he was so absorbed in his thoughts to actually forget. “Sorry, I wasn’t. What were ya sayin’?”

“Suna Rintarou’s performance has been markedly low today,” Meian butts in. They’re in a timeout. “He lost seven serves, committed several block errors, and his spikes have been lacking in power. It’s likely that they’ll sub him out after this set. We’re at an advantage.”

Has he? Atsumu glances at Suna, who’s hunched over a bench on the opposite side, a towel curtaining his face. Atsumu’s been acting on autopilot for the past half an hour, after all.

“I don’t think I’ve seen Suna miss an overhand in years,” Inuaki wipes his sweat with his shirt. “Atsumu, is he sick?”

“Why are ya askin’ me?”

“Who else would we ask? He’s your buddy.”

“We ain’t, I mean,” he can’t deny it; Sports Daily published an article about how they were high school colleagues when they debuted as pro athletes. “He ain’t the type to participate when feelin’ ill. He’s probably just… outta his game.”

“I hope so. Injuries,” Tomas crinkles his nose in disapproval, “scary.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

The shrill whistle signaling the end of the timeout echoes throughout the gym. Suna, as they predicted, is subbed out with a reserve player after the first rotation. The Jackals seize victory on the fourth set with a five-point gap. Atsumu watches Suna intently, as the latter swings his towel over his shoulder and briskly marches out of the court, straight towards the showers. Should I follow him, he clucks his tongue. Nah. Bad timing. He’s known Suna long enough.

“Hey, Atsumu-san.”

He swivels around at his name and almost bumps into Komori. “Whoa, hi.” The libero hands him a bottle of iced Pocari and Atsumu thanks him. “’S been a while. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.” Komori pauses, “Wanna stretch?”

“Ah, yeah, should do that.”

Both players plop onto the floor and outstretch their legs. “You were on top of your game today. That jump floater you pulled off halfway through the third set – that absolutely freaked me out. And I haven’t been freaked out by floaters since the game against VC Kanagawa two years ago.”

“Been workin’ on ‘em. Yer double receive was insane too – haven’t seen that move since Karasuno’s Nishinoya.”

“Right, that was his specialty. It’s a shame he didn’t go pro, though I’m content that I don’t have more competition.”

Atsumu grunts as he flexes his biceps. “What’s the matter with Sunarin?”

Komori shrugs, “Thought you would know. He’s been in a mood these past couple of days. Nobody’s seen him like that, so the coach and the team are hoping it’s a phase. I’m sure he’ll bounce back eventually; he’s got a strong mentality.” Suna indeed does. Atsumu’s not too concerned about him either; the person he’s getting uneasy over is, “By the way, you really are impressive.”

“Yer flingin’ me over an airplane, Komori-kun, I see what yer doin’.”

“No, really,” laughs Komori, “I haven’t seen Kiyoomi trust a setter so much, more so with a setter of the same age. Iizuna-san – our high school captain – he was an upperclassman and our captain, so Kiyoomi respected him enough, but the following year was a disaster for Itachiyama.”

Scowling, Atsumu grumbles, “Ya dunno how fussy he used to be. Said my tosses were too high, too low, too close to the net, too far from the net, yada, yada. Got sick of ‘im later on; I got the hang of it after half a season, but hell, he’s the pickiest spiker I’ve ever worked with.”

“That’s just how he is; he’s a perfectionist. What I meant was – he doesn’t look at you when he jumps into spike motion, did you notice?” Atsumu blinks. He’s always looking at his spikers, so. “He wasn’t like that in Itachiyama. First tempo attacks were a struggle for him, at least when the setters were new to the team, and dozens of first-year setters quit because of his demands. Not that they would’ve lasted, but you know.” Komori grins at him. “When you’re tossing, he doesn’t look at the ball, doesn’t look at you. He waits for the ball to come.”

Atsumu isn’t certain as to how he’s ought to respond. He never noticed.

“It’s like Karasuno’s legendary pair. The debut of the Little Giant and Kageyama Tobio – you remember, don’t you?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do. They were sensational.”

“Though Hinata-kun isn’t as famous now, he was also known for trusting Kageyama one hundred percent. Kiyoomi’s not like that. I didn’t think he could ever be like that.”

Atsumu steals a glimpse at Sakusa, who’s conversing with Coach Foster at the benches. “Omi-kun is… he would’ve flourished anywhere.”

Komori hums in acknowledgment. “It’s great that you seem to be a good guy.”

“What, didja think I was awful before?”

“I mean, well…” The libero flits to his cousin warily. The volume of his voice decreases by a notch. “Didn’t you guys meet in middle school?”

“Middle school?” An affirmative ‘no’ is on the tip of his tongue, but Atsumu gulps it back down. He knows that they’ve never met in middle school, but this piece of information may be critical. “I, er, don’t remember much. We probably have.”

“You went to Yako Junior High, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“There was a junior high finalist game that was nationally broadcasted on a few sports channels then.” Oh, that game. It was a tournament they ended up losing, but it was a crucial game that got the Miya twins accepted to Inarizaki. “Kiyoomi and I were watching that game. Not from the beginning – from the twenty-point mark. Then the camera zoomed into you, and, uh.” Komori tongues his cheek uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. They aren’t stretching anymore. “Kiyoomi cried.”

Atsumu freezes.

(It wasn’t as if he perceived Sakusa as strikingly attractive, given his horrible posture and obtrusive mask. It wasn’t as if Sakusa said or did anything unnatural – in fact, he didn’t utter a single syllable. Sakusa simply marched past Atsumu, his back hunched and skin wan.

Right then, crystal tears rolled down Atsumu’s cheeks.)

(I wanna die.)

(“Don’t tell me yer wrackin’ yer head over this because Sakusa Kiyoomi is on the team?”)

“Gah, I don’t know if I should be telling you this. Kiyoomi’s going to kill me if he finds out.” Komori lets out an extended groan. “I never, I never saw him behave like that before, so I, I assumed you guys weren’t on the best terms or something. Kiyoomi’s family often traveled to Hyogo during the winter because of the warmer climate. I was wary when I heard you were scouted to the Jackals; you guys were super tense at youth camp, too.”

Atsumu is struggling to process all this information at once.

If Sakusa knows, then –

“I guess you guys managed to reconcile – Kiyoomi wouldn’t cooperate otherwise.” Komori snaps towards the Raijins’ coach as the man calls for him. “Going, coach! Nice talk, Atsumu-kun – see you this season! Oh, and keep it a secret that I blabbered all that to you, please – I like breathing.”

“… Yeah, sure.”

As Komori dashes to the benches, Atsumu stares at Sakusa.

(“Then the camera zoomed into you, and – Kiyoomi cried.”)

Clack.

Clack.

“Tch.”

“Don’t smoke indoors,” Atsumu sways his hand at Suna, who’s glowering at his lighter in exasperation. It’s pretty much out of gas. Then, “Ya smoke?” His friend doesn’t answer him as he drags his feet over to the balcony. “Hey, I don’t have an ashtray.”

“I know.”

A shimmering glow licks the tip of Suna’s cigarette as he brings it to his lips. Atsumu studies how he relaxes onto the rising fence, blowing out a puff of smoke into the chilly night sky. His movements are automatic and habitual. He’s been smokin’ for a while, Atsumu frowns, since when?

Suna offered to pay for a drink after the practice match. Atsumu went along and waited for Suna to talk about whatever was on his mind. However, Suna silently chugged down seven glasses of beer with tiny bites of tempura, tight-lipped and resistant. It’s fortunate that Suna has a limitless tolerance for alcohol – Atsumu hates conversing with drunkards.

They’re now at Atsumu’s apartment, with Atsumu in the living room and Suna outside. A faint trail of smoke climbs to the clouds from the cigarette’s tip. Heaving a sigh, Atsumu joins Suna at the balcony – a shiver crawls under his skin as the early spring breeze proceeds to glaciate his bones. “Suna,” he drops his usual nickname. ‘M gettin’ sick of this crap. Not like I have much patience to begin with. “Ya either spill or piss off, y’know how I am.” He snatches the burning cigarette from Suna and squashes it against the surface of the rising. “And stop smokin’, are ya tryin’ to destroy yer own fuckin’ career?”

“I still had over half left,” misery paints Suna’s tone, although his expression doesn’t reflect that at all. “It’s not an addiction, I just do it every now and then to soothe my nerves.”

“I wouldn’t give a shit if ya weren’t an athlete, too. Since when?”

Suna shrugs, “High school.”

“The hell, Suna.”

“I didn’t smoke on campus – only at home. I didn’t live with my parents, remember?”

“How didja even –“

“Snuck a couple of boxes from my father when I visited their house once a month,” Suna smirks; there is a wry tinge to its tilt. “He never noticed. At least I’m legal now.”

He would’ve lashed out if it weren’t for how bland Suna’s explanation was – monotonous, undramatized. He feels like he should’ve realized this years ago. Atsumu pushes back every single one of his reprimands to the depth of his lungs and massages his temples instead. “Just, quit.”

“I’m trying.”

“Yer not.”

Suna clucks his tongue. He’s quiet for another minute or two. Atsumu senses the pressure build on between them, myriads of unvocalized questions floating above their heads. Finally, Suna caves.

“… How’s Osamu?”

Atsumu swivels to Suna in disbelief. “Seriously? That’s what ya wanted to ask this whole damned evenin’? For Pete’s sake, ya can go ahead and check for yerself, don’t joke around with me.” Suna’s fists clench – they were already clenched, but he clenches them further, so hard that there are blue veins protruding from them. Atsumu’s breath clogs in his windpipe at the sight. “Suna –“

“How’s Osamu?”

Atsumu’s jaw clicks. How many years has he been friends with Suna? And out of those years, how many has he seen Suna with Osamu? The answer is ‘all.’ All of them. He has no idea what their problem is. His brother is an idiot, but he’s not an idiot. “He’s not okay.” Suna whips to him, his eyes widening. “If I say that, what are ya gonna do?”

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu snorts at the transparent irritation that dyes Suna’s face. It’s uncommon for Suna to be so openly agitated. “He’s lost a lotta weight,” Atsumu mumbles lowly, “I don’t think he’s eatin’ much. I’d help him out, but y’know how the upcomin’ season is just around the corner. We got a new member soon so I gotta sync with ‘em too. I ain’t got the time to hang around his shadow.” The once-present anger of Suna dissipates as he processes the update. “I dunno what’s goin’ on but figure it out. Both of ya. Get yer shits together already.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you, of all people. You were zoning out for more than twenty minutes in that game. That dump was a fluke, wasn’t it? Your ridiculous, animalistic instinct.”

“… I did a dump?”

Suna shoots him a pointed stare. “I played with you for three years, don’t underestimate me.”

“Well,” Atsumu performs an embarrassing fake cough. He thought he had deceived everyone. “I was thinkin’ about some things.”

“Is that a sort of euphemism?”

“No, I think like an average human bein’. Like, uh…” what to say, what to say, what to say… “dreamin’ when yer awake, and stuff.”

The other huffs in exasperation. “You can’t dream when you’re awake.”

“But what if ya just, just… see, or, or hear stuff outta nowhere,” wait, I sound mentally ill. I definitely sound mentally ill. “… Never mind. Forget it.”

Suna blinks at him, his brows narrowing. “Are you sleeping well nowadays?”

“Probably not.”

“I thought the effects of the tea and morning walks were kicking in. You haven’t been complaining about migraines and nightmares as of late.” Suna isn’t the best person to confide in. For one, Suna isn’t the slightest bit spiritual, and he doesn’t believe in existences that he hasn’t witnessed or experienced. Basically, he’d disregard Atsumu’s story as gibberish and usher him to bed – or a psychiatrist. It really depends. “Or is this about Sakusa-san?”

“No,” he knows he is anything but convincing, and that Suna is more than capable of capturing him in this flimsy lie. But he also trusts Suna to not meddle. “It’s not.”

Suna hums. “Okay.”

He maintains a fair distance from Sakusa for another week, until the months almost change. His behavior is intentional as much as it is unintentional. It’s not only because of the vision; he has his mountain of reasons. There are his unresolved feelings towards Sakusa, the fact that he actually wept in front of Sakusa this time (and the natural shame and awkwardness that followed), Sakusa’s mixed attitude – everything. He doesn’t want Sakusa to piece the puzzle together before he’s fully prepared to let the man know. And Atsumu’s an abysmal liar.

Like the socially apt person he is, he chooses to avoid his subject.

Their strain isn’t objectively obvious to others, such as their teammates or fans. Atsumu and Sakusa didn’t interact much on the court anyway, and practice was conducted in groups rather than pairs. Not many of them were even aware that Atsumu and Sakusa shared an identical address (despite them arriving together at the temple on New Year’s) and drove home in Atsumu’s car. He’s been rambling random excuses to Sakusa: ‘I hafta eat with my brother today at this diner by the station,’ ‘my ma’s at Tokyo and she wants me to show her around the city,’ ‘I got a high school friend who’s invited me to a reunion,’ ‘I got a middle school friend who’s invited me to a reunion,’ and so on. He’s rapidly running out of repertoires and isn’t sure if he’d able to continue for another week. He can’t have kindergarten reunions; he doesn’t even remember having friends in kindergarten.

Sakusa simply replies with a standard, ‘Okay, Miya,’ each time. Atsumu’s always the one who stands there alone in the corridor, stationary as he repeatedly opens and closes his mouth like a guppy. He’s been through more emotional turmoil and internal debate this past week compared to this past year.

An icky wave of déjà vu washes over him as he ties his perfectly knotted shoelace beside Sakusa on the bench once again, wetting his upper lip anxiously. Sakusa is packing his belongings, his curls damp from the warm shower. Barnes and Bokuto are animatedly nattering on about a movie released on the fourteenth that Atsumu hasn’t watched yet. God, they’re spoilin’ the entire plot. There goes my suspense. Atsumu exhales gruffly and flits to Sakusa. “Uh,” Sakusa pauses, “Omi-kun, I –“

“Yeah. Okay.” Sakusa’s locker is shut with a ‘clank.’ Atsumu sucks on his teeth. It’s not ‘Okay, Miya.’ He wasn’t even finished. “Go ahead.”

Something weighty sinks into Atsumu’s chest. “Wait, Omi,” his foot nearly slips out of his half-tied sneaker as he rises in a hurry. “Until this week, yeah? Just got a ton goin’ on, it’s not that I’m,” avoidin’ ya, he is speechless. Sakusa waits for him. Say somethin’. Say somethin’, Miya Atsumu, Jesus, are ya mute? He can’t, though. That’s how hopeless of a liar he is.

Or maybe his ability worsens when it’s about Sakusa. He doesn’t know. He’s never lied to Sakusa in this manner. He’s never lied to Sakusa for the purpose of lying.

When he doesn’t go on, Sakusa murmurs, “It’s alright. I’ll walk.” And he vanishes down the corridor, becoming a small dot.

“Fuck,” not this again, ya rehearsed this at home, why can’t ya just, “fuck it all.”

He lounges around the vacant gym for another hour and a half until he’s absolutely confident that Sakusa must have reached his house. What am I doin’, he sulks, pedaling the gas and driving home.

Everything’s been too long. He hasn’t been in love since middle school, and that love was undoubtedly unrequited. He hasn’t cried in front of someone since his second year of high school when Inarizaki was defeated by Karasuno. He sobbed in bed, punching his pillows as Osamu reassured him that they’d win next year. He hasn’t actively dodged someone since his childhood, and that was because he shattered his mother’s favorite vase.

He has forgotten how to come up with solutions.

I mean, the most urgent issue is… “The dreams.” He has to find out to advance. He must discover the ending of his dreams. The dreams, if his hypothesis is accurate, are a disordered amalgamation of memories – memories of who used to be ‘Miya Atsumu,’ the crimson blade. ‘Miya’ met a male geisha named ‘Omi’ at a brothel situated within the Yoshiwara and fell in love. The memories were accounts of their relationship, their tales.

And they were bound by fate – a red fate.

A bond that was torn apart by Omi himself.

‘Miya’ of his dreams clearly felt betrayed and crestfallen. His emotions were transmitted to Atsumu with such vigor that it broke him down. That was the vision, and most likely one of the last fragments amongst this series of dreams. There can’t be many remaining, if at all.

But even if I see it through the end, why would any of that matter?

If they are memories, that’ll only mean that Sakusa and Atsumu aren’t destined to be.

“Destiny,” Atsumu laughs, albeit humorlessly. He didn’t imagine that he’d ever be nervous over something fictitious and grandiose, like destiny. Osamu would mock him for sure.

He fills his stomach with a microwaved bento from the local convenience store and brushes his teeth. That’s right. The end is by his doorstep. Yes, he can be overanalyzing this. He really may need more sleep. But Atsumu has to ensure that whatever this phenomenon is, it’ll be over. He’s never been a quitter.

It’s only nine, but he clambers onto the mattress and tucks himself under his futon.

Almost there.

We’re almost there.

(“Well, Atsumu?”

He is rigid, his geta heels rooted to the ground. He can’t move an inch, not even a hair’s width. The preying, suspicious orbs of his comrades are plastered to him, inaudibly demanding his response. Any response. A positive or a negative, really. His daimyo is smiling at him from behind his ornate fan. A vibrant forsythia blossom dangles from the metal hoop piercing his left earlobe.

Omi kneels on the floor a few steps away from the crowd, dressed in a freshly tailored kimono. It’s an enrapturing shade of plum blossoms, the color of his flushed cheeks. The geisha sits with his head lowered, wordless.

“Saionji-sama,” he chokes out, “I,” his fingertips are stiff. “He’s,” he can’t look at Omi. He can’t. Not with where they are.

“Even the stray dogs of Edo know that Miya Atsumu, the crimson blade, unseduced and uncharmed by the Oiran herself, has been entranced by none other than the infamous courtesan who’s only half a human being,” he grits his teeth at the vile description, “and a man.”

“With all due respect, Saionji-sama,” Atsumu battles with his smoldering fury to compose himself. It’s not his life at risk. “He and I haven’t been doing anything out of the ordinary.”

“Oh, I’m not criticizing you, Atsumu.” Saionji chortles, clapping his fan against his uncalloused palm, clean of injuries and scars. “You’re a man – a man with power and authority. You have the liberty to pursue your desires. I was, well, curious, nonetheless…” he taps Sakusa’s head with his fan in a derogatory fashion. “About the courtesan who captivated the crimson blade.”

Omi doesn’t budge. He is passive and docile, something Atsumu hasn’t seen from him since their initial encounter.

“His name is Omi, yes? Not a very dignified name.”

Atsumu nods. “Yes, Saionji-sama.”

“He is a pretty one – for a man.” The daimyo uses his fan to lift Omi’s chin. “No, upon closer inspection… ah, yes, indeed. You have refined taste, Atsumu. He’d pass for an expensive one if it weren’t for the cheap fabric of his kimono.” Atsumu sucks in a sharp breath. He can’t. He has to – hold in. “Well, can you speak?”

Omi’s rejoinder is succinct. “Yes, milord.”

“Good. Now you tell me – are you Atsumu’s?” The daimyo taunts, “Even I don’t touch a fellow man’s plaything. That wouldn’t be quite fair, considering who I am, no?”

His hand clutches the hilt of his sword. Someone hisses at him. “Atsumu. Stay down.”

The geisha gazes directly at Saionji. “No, milord. I’m not his.”

“The rumors proclaim otherwise.”

“You must realize that I’m the cheapest one here – not just this brothel, but the entire Yoshiwara, milord.” Omi smiles coldly. “Lord Miya has paid three hundred bars of silver over the past decade. Three hundred and one silver bars, and then I’m yours.”

Atsumu lunges towards them, “Omi,” dozens of katana blades tickle his neck immediately. The pair don’t spare him even a cursory glance.

Saionji chuckles in delight. “Is that so, is that so! Aren’t you a cheap one, as they all say!” His hand wraps around Omi’s shoulder, journeying up to his jawline, to his ears, his thumb caressing his moles. “So, you’d warm my bed for three hundred and one silver bars?”

It’s for a split second, shorter than the flight of a hawk – but the geisha flickers to the restrained samurai.

He recognizes that look.

‘When I’m with you, Miya,’ Atsumu mouths in his heart, ‘the sky is blue.’

“Gladly, milord.”

What did you mean?

Omi –

What did you mean?)

His doorbell is buzzing incessantly.

Atsumu mutters a cuss under his breath and checks the clock – it’s a quarter past midnight. He shouldn’t be having any guests at this hour. Osamu? Nah, but he has the keys… “”M comin’, ‘m comin’!” He shouts, annoyed by the ache pounding in his skull. “Who’s there?” His Hyogo dialect combined with his drowsiness slurs the syllables in between. “Who’s fuckin’ there?” Nothing.

The instant he peeks through the peephole, he shrieks – and fumbles to unlock the door.

“Omi?”

It really is Sakusa. The man is wearing the same attire as this morning: his black sweater and gray ironed jeans. Atsumu inhales his scent; he reeks of alcohol. “Let me in,” Sakusa says with a drawl. He’s drunk. No need for Sherlock Holmes, he is drunk.

“Uh,” Atsumu attempts to keep his poker face intact. “Yeah, come in.” Sakusa removes his shoes. It’s comical how he lines them up at the doorstep rather robotically, although he’s drunk. “I haven’t, er, tidied up the house in a while. I swear I’m neater than this usually,” he isn’t, “it’s just, y’know. I’ve been busy.” He hasn’t been.

“I’m sure,” Sakusa stumbles onto a chair and sits. He’s practically transforming into goo on the table.

“Do ya… never mind, I’ll brew ya some tea. I have yer favorite stocked in the cabinets.” Drunk Sakusa Kiyoomi in my house, drunk Sakusa Kiyoomi in my house, drunk Sakusa Kiyoomi in my house – headquarters, please report back to my brain. He boils the water and scrambles to find Sakusa’s tea. When he glimpses towards Sakusa every five seconds to see whether he’s asleep, Sakusa’s zoning out. Awake, but in a daze. As if he’s contemplating over the philosophy of life and death, something deep and meaningful like that.

He pours hot water into the mugs and halts when his hand hovers over the jar of sugar cubes. No sugar. He shoves the jar aside and places the mugs on the table. “Omi, ya alright?”

Sakusa doesn’t reply but sips his tea.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Even his high school entrance exam was less traumatic than this.

“… Miya.”

He jumps, “Yeah?”

Sakusa nibbles on his lip. “Did I,” his voice is scratchier, deeper. Maybe that’s how he is when he’s intoxicated. “Did I do something?”

Atsumu blanks out. “What?”

“I’ve been reflecting,” Sakusa rubs his forehead with his wrist. “Self-evaluating, whatever. I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what I’m supposed to apologize for.” Apologize? “I was wondering if you would’ve preferred if I just, I don’t know, left you there. Or not switch our omikuji papers. Or if I shouldn’t have said anything. And,” Sakusa sounds upset. Atsumu’s never conversed with an upset Sakusa. “And so I played along. You seemed like you wanted to avoid me, so I – I played along.”

His gut churns.

“But I just,” should I be allowed to listen? With what right – when I’ve been avoidin’ him, with what right? “I just have to hear it from you. What did I do wrong?”

Why are ya apologizin’?

His eyes sting.

Why are ya so,

So,

“Nothin’.” Atsumu whispers. “Ya’ve done nothin’ wrong.”

Sakusa looks skeptical. “Then why –“

“It was me.”

Right.

It was him.

He was the guilty one. The faulty one.

What if the dreams were real? So what? What if they were memories? So what?

What if they weren’t destined?

So what?

He was the one who fell for Sakusa.

He – Miya Atsumu, volleyball player, twenty-three years old – is the one. What else matters? If there’s a reality he doesn’t question, it’s this. This reality, where Sakusa is sitting at his dining table.

“Ya don’t hafta worry about a thing,” he smiles at Sakusa, “we’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Really. Promise.”

“Okay,” with that, Sakusa drops to the table, onto the comfort and warmth of his arms. He’s out within seconds. The fragrance of Atsumu’s tea embraces them. Under the dim lights, Atsumu admires Sakusa, the latter’s shoulders rising and falling at a steady, slow rhythm, the soft resonance of his inhales and exhales permeating the atmosphere.

(“What’s with yer reluctance when it comes to Sakusa, anyway? Yer not that kinda person, and I know what kinda person ya are better than anyone on this planet.”)

“Love or hate,” Atsumu reaches out to Sakusa but doesn’t touch him. His mouth curves helplessly. “Love or hate, ya make me reluctant.”

Reluctant? No, that isn’t the word. It’s not something so apprehensive, so timorous. It’s not that he’s scared to touch Sakusa. The twist of his stomach, the squeeze beneath his ribs, the heat in his palms, the affection in his heart –

Love or hate –

Ya make me care.

Ya make me care about ya.

Chapter Text

“We’ll have the heavens watch ya fly in our next life together. Trust me.”

As he promised, he reverts to normal the following dawn. Sakusa wakes up with a hangover in Atsumu’s bed, and Atsumu comforts him by saying that he’ll cook some soup. “You’re cooking the soup?” Sakusa queries rather skeptically, to which Atsumu isn’t even offended. “Nah, it’s an instant cup.”

They don’t talk about their conversation from last night. Sakusa does apologize for hoarding the bed, and Atsumu reassures him that he sleeps on the couch more often. As he pours water into the cup of seaweed-tofu soup, he reminisces the day he crashed at Sakusa’s house. He wondered whether he’d be able to do the same, had their positions been reversed. Well, now that question has been answered. “There’s medicine in the cupboards over there- nah, the blue ones. Yeah, that side.” Sakusa chugs from the bottle and practically throws himself back on the cushions. “How much didja drink, anyway?”

“Like,” the man’s voice is groggy and hoarse, “Thirteen bottles.”

“Thirteen,” Atsumu gawks, “of what?”

“Sake.”

“Yer outta yer mind, Omi.”

“I can usually handle more; I didn’t bother to pace them out yesterday.” Sakusa rises at the ‘ding’ of the three-minute timer. “I suppose you can’t hold your liquor.”

“I don’t wanna hear that from someone who was piss-drunk a couple of hours ago.” Atsumu’s limit is two bottles of sake, max. Osamu’s is three and a half, Suna’s is six. Thirteen – thirteen. “Here ya go. Don’t scald yer tongue.”

Sakusa mumbles a thanks for the meal and digs in. Atsumu helps himself to a slice of toast and unsalted butter. “By the way, Coach Foster sent a text to the whole team.”

“Yeah? My phone wasn’t finished chargin’.”

“It’s about the new spiker,” Sakusa blows on his spoonful of soup. “It’s him.”

“Gotta be more specific than that, Omi, ‘m not clairvoyant.”

“You know, the…” Sakusa squints – Atsumu can’t tell whether it’s because of his headache or because he can’t remember. “The one from Karasuno. Replaced because of –“

“Shoyo-kun!” He slams the table with both hands in excitement, the other grimaces at the vibrations. “Really? That’s legit? Shoyo-kun’s comin’ to our team?” He rushes to check his messages, and there it is – a confirmation from Coach Foster that Hinata Shoyo passed the Jackals’ tryouts.

“That one,” Sakusa grunts. “Is he any good?”

Atsumu wears a pout, “Yer sayin’ that ‘cause ya never played against him officially, Omi! He’s the kind of spiker that entices a setter. Any setter, really. Tobio-kun got damn lucky with him.”

“Well, I’m not a setter.”

“Believe me, he’ll spice up the team dynamic. Man, ‘m pumped – when do ya think he’ll come to practice? February, right? We have the season kickin’ in March, he’s gotta join us pretty soon.”

“I don’t know, I’m not personally acquainted to him. Contact Kageyama if you’re curious.”

“Hmm, maybe.”

Sakusa offers to wash the dishes, although Atsumu replies that it isn’t necessary. “Your kitchen is grossing me out, I’m literally begging you to let me clean it, Miya.” At that, he snorts and tells him to go ahead. No matter how many times he examines his kitchen, he thinks it’s fine, but Sakusa has a rag soaked in soap and a mask over his mouth. Ain’t he s’posed to be hungover? What happened?

In the end, they eat lunch together at a nearby Italian restaurant and return to their apartment. Before the lift reaches his floor, Atsumu casually asks, “Usual time? For the jog.” And Sakusa nods as if Atsumu hadn’t ignored him for two weeks. It’s a warm feeling, to be so certain that nobody else is aware of how genuinely nice Sakusa Kiyoomi can be. A lot nicer than his neutral expressions imply. Accurate lessons in life: do not judge a book by its cover, unless they’re dictionaries.

Weeks fleet by and they’re halfway through February. Hinata Shoyo becomes a secret addition to MSBY Jackals, a complete rookie with no reputation in the Japanese volleyball league. As Atsumu anticipated, Hinata is a spiker that makes him hungry and skittish – a mistimed blink, and the boy is already dashing ahead towards the next level. Not that being a setter of the Jackals was easy prior to Hinata, but the challenge has definitely grown.

Hinata, a distinguished social butterfly even in their high school years, is quick to befriend everyone. And of course, everyone adores him, perhaps with the exception of Sakusa. “It’s okay, Hinata, Sakusa doesn’t like anyone,” Meian commiserates with Hinata, “and I’m the captain.”

“He’s just pretendin’,” Atsumu pats the boy’s bright orange head, “it takes patience to figure out what’s under his mask.”

“Miya, don’t spout nonsense.”

“See, he’s listenin’ to us anyway. He does care.”

“I mean,” Bokuto interrupts, “among all of us, Tsumu-Tsumu’s the closest to Omi-Omi, so his words aren’t a fair measure. It’s true that he generally doesn’t like most people.”

“That’s slander, Bokkun.”

Hinata chortles, “It’s alright, I have a friend like that. Nothing new.”

“Kageyama?”

“No, Kageyama’s just plain dumb.”

“I can’t believe you just called Kageyama Tobio dumb.”

“It’s not false,” Hinata tightens his shoelaces, “Tsukishima’s a lot like Omi-san, but he’s really smart.”

“Ooh, Tsukki!” Bokuto claps, “Man, yeah, he’s a brat. Bumped into him the other day at the mall and you know what he said? He told me that my khaki shorts were ugly! Those were my favorite shorts!” A sniff, “But Akaashi agreed, so I trashed them.”

“Rest in peace, Bokkun’s shorts.”

Meian ushers them to the gym, and they resume training. Atsumu is paired with Hinata for the most part in order to synchronize their tempos and match Hinata’s preference for tosses. Hinata is one the most flexible spikers Atsumu’s ever worked with, second and first division combined. “Your set-ups are pin-point, Atsumu-san!” And unlike Sakusa, he’s loaded with compliments. It takes him a while to get used to the bombardment of joy and sunshine.

They conduct a few mock matches amongst the team, and Atsumu finishes with a winning streak of five sets. Foster dismisses them and they’re left to train independently. He regroups with Hinata at the net and tosses him some more balls; Sakusa proceeds to assist Inuaki with his libero-specialized sets.

After two hours or so, they’re at the vending machine in the corridor for a temporary water break. “Oh, Atsumu-san,” Hinata pipes up, and Atsumu turns to him with his cheeks full of Pocari. “Is your ace Omi-san?”

He processes the sudden inquiry. His ace? The ace of the Jackals has recently been established as Sakusa, along with Barnes. In that sense, Sakusa was one of the aces; specifically, an ace of the team. But his ace? “Not… necessarily.” He hasn’t even understood the question, but he doesn’t request Hinata to clarify. “Why?”

“Oh, never mind, then. I was just wondering.” Hinata excuses himself to the restroom, and Atsumu stands there, stiff and confuddled. Yer ace? Yer ace? What the hell is ‘yer’ ace?

Clunk!

He jumps at the noise. “Oh, ‘s just Omi. Ya freaked me out.” Sakusa disinfects the lid of bottled water and eyes him with a look of exasperation.

“Don’t zone out, it’s dangerous.”

“I wasn’t zonin’ out, I was thinkin’.”

“Same difference.”

Atsumu huffs. Hinata’s comment lingers in his mind; on instinct, he parts his mouth, “Hey, Omi,” and then stomps on his mental brakes. Ain’t it a little weird to ask him whether he’s my ace or not? No, what does ‘my’ ace even mean? Considerin’ Shoyo-kun’s personality, it probably wasn’t somethin’ romantic. He doesn’t seem interested in those kinds of stuff anyway.

“What?”

He sports an awkward smile. “Nah, nothin’. Just, uh. Wanna eat dinner together?”

“Ah… yeah. At your place?”

“Whatever’s more convenient for ya.”

“I’m not done organizing your wardrobe.”

“Y’know, even my ma didn’t organize my damned wardrobe.”

“You don’t even divide the drawers for your shirts and pants, Miya. It’s a grave predicament.”

Atsumu bursts into familiar laughter. Ever since cleaning his kitchen, Sakusa has been advancing with a project of literally recreating Atsumu’s home, from vacuuming the floors, airing the sheets, scrubbing the shower, and other delayed housework the home’s actual inhabitant has refused to do for the past year in exchange for free meals. The meals were technically free for Atsumu too, as all the dishes were Osamu’s delivery cooking, but Sakusa seemed to find an odd sense of peace when holding a mop and a broom. “Do what ya want, Omi.”

“You two live together?”

Both men jerk upward, startled. Hinata’s peering at them with his sparkly, inquisitive orbs. “Uh, same apartment. Fourth floor, ninth floor.” Atsumu sputters – most of their teammates didn’t know, after all. “We don’t, we don’t live together.”

Hinata, innocent and pure, beams. “Makes sense that you’re so close, then! Must be cool to live in the same apartment – might feel a little like a university dorm!”

“We- I mean, we, uh,” he whips to Sakusa, “are we close?” Regret floods him the instant the words catapult out of his mouth. If he says ‘yes,’ ‘m gonna be lost in a thousand hopeless fantasies, but if he says ‘no,’ ‘m probably gonna be scarred for the rest of the week.

Sakusa frowns. “You should know better.”

What kind of answer is that? Atsumu is swirling in another whirlpool of emotions, but Hinata has already moved on to another topic, chattering on with Sakusa about training with Inuaki. Sakusa, though visibly tired by Hinata’s persistence and million-watt persona, responds diligently to the boy’s enthusiasm. Atsumu stares at them blankly, Sakusa's rather befuddling, 'You should know better,' bouncing back and forth in his head.

Are we close?

His lips taste sandy.

He wishes they are.

“Hear me out, c’mon! I’m havin’ the biggest crisis of my life in decades, Samu!”

“Ya haven’t even lived three decades, don’t be dramatic.”

“Hyperboles, what have ya learned in literature- is not my point, I’m askin’ ya about a birthday present! What do ya get people on birthdays? We don’t get each other gifts and I’ve bought Sunarin a dozen boxes of fruit jellies since high school. I haven’t purchased a proper gift for anyone on their birthday in ages, no joke.”

“Good for ya, yer an asshole.”

“Samuuu.”

“Just go to the person and ask ‘em what they want for their birthday, simple as that. What else is there to fuss over?”

“Ya think I haven’t tried that?” Atsumu massages his forehead, “He doesn’t know what he wants – in fact, he told me that I don’t need to get ‘im anythin’.”

“Then don’t get him shit.”

“Are ya tryin’ to help me or blast me? Choose a route.”

“Well, as cliché as it is, gifts are more about the heart than, y’know. Other things. Although ‘m sure some people prefer efficient, practical presents, the general case is that no matter how much they dislike yer gift, as long as they realize that ya put in the effort, the ultimate outcome ain’t that bad.” He can hear Osamu chopping the ingredients in the background. “And this is all common sense ya would’ve garnered if ya attempted to maintain healthy social relationships when ya were younger, Tsumu.”

“Yer bein’ awfully rude.”

“But ya ain’t denyin’ it either. Honestly, graduate from implorin’ me for advice every time yer undergoin’ a pitiful life crisis. Even kindergartners solve their own problems nowadays. And doesn’t yer season start today mornin’? Should ya really be callin’ me about what kind of gift yer gonna choose for Sakusa-san?”

“I dunno about ya, but for me, this is an extremely critical- wait, how didja know it was –“

Osamu disconnects. Atsumu sticks out his tongue at the screen.

It’s March; Sakusa’s birthday is in a week. The season commences today, and their first opponent is a first division team from Sapporo. He’s been hammering his brain for ideas since the third week of February over what to get for Sakusa, but nothing has really hit him so far. As much as he hates to admit, he’s usually had one-sided friendships, with Atsumu always being on the receiving end. He never had to be in the shoes of the giver.

Disinfectant? But he has two cardboard boxes of those in his veranda. Candles? He has a ton of those, too. Tea? What ‘m I talkin’ about, he has a cupboard dedicated to teabags. Diffusers… perfume? Nah, but anythin’ scent-related is too risky, too preferential. Besides, he got me cookies on my birthday, wouldn’t it be too extra to buy somethin’ pricey?

“Miya,” Sakusa knocks on the window of his car. Atsumu unlocks the door for him. “You’ve received a flu shot, right?”

“Aye-aye, captain. How’re ya feelin’?”

“The same as always.”

“Of course.”

“We’re going to be tardy for the bus.”

“No worries, ‘m not lettin’ us be late.” I guess I’ll brainstorm after the game. They converse heatedly about the Sapporo team they’re against in the first round. Sometimes, Atsumu assumes this is what Hinata was referring to at the vending machine – as they spent more than three-quarters of the week together, he and Sakusa naturally had more time to strategize and monitor other participating teams that season. Consequently, their attacks had more variety and the tendency to be more in tune compared to when Atsumu was paired with other spikers, albeit a hair’s difference. He can’t have other teams catching onto that fact, or else they’d target Sakusa. But if Shoyo-kun noticed… is he just abnormally observant, or was it somethin’ else? “They have gigantic middle blockers. If we time our combo well, then ya might be able to smash through ‘em. How ‘bout that? I’ll send ya a signal.”

“Just give me a high toss and I’ll manage.”

“Show off.”

“Not as much as you, I promise.”

Atsumu parks his car underground and they briskly trudge to the front of the building. Their bus is waiting for them at the entrance of the gym, their staff and drivers loading the athletes’ luggage and equipment. “Five more minutes and we would’ve left without you two,” chastises Meian; Hinata and Bokuto have dragged Tomas into their babble session, forming a boisterous trio.

“Wanna sit at the front? It’ll be quieter.” Atsumu glances meaningfully at the group, and Sakusa concedes with a grunt. The journey to the arena lasts approximately an hour and a half. Now that I think about it, Atsumu buckles his seatbelt, have I ever sat next to Omi during the season before? He hasn’t. To be fair, they’ve slept on the same bed, too; it’s nothing, really, after all the days and nights they've spent together. Despite being aware of this, he does feel a little giddy. Just a little.

“Sakusa, you’re with Atsumu?” Barnes gawks at them, “are you sick? I thought we all got flu shots!”

Thanks, ya just yanked me back to Earth, Barnes. “What the heck does that mean, Barnes?”

“The back row of this bus might as well begin selling tickets for their concert,” interjects Sakusa, “they’re acting like a bunch of preschoolers on a field trip.”

“Hinata does have that effect.”

Meian and Foster board the bus a minute prior to their departure and double-checks that they’re all present. Foster summarizes the advantages and disadvantages they possess in contrast to the Sapporo team: “Sakusa and Barnes, you’re our cannons. Atsumu, set them on fire, understand? I don’t want meager, fragile campfires but a conflagration. They’re slow-starters, and we have to bring the atmosphere to our side before their engines are warmed up. Hinata, we’ll save you for the second round against the Adlers. Bokuto, don't be frugal with your straights, ambush them when you can.”

“Yes, Coach!”

As Foster snaps to their reserve members, Sakusa removes a pair of headphones from his backpack and slings them over his ears. “Too noisy?” Whispers Atsumu, and Sakusa nods. Well, Omi-kun likes to preserve his energy and patience for the game, so. “Gonna sleep?”

“Maybe – I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell ya when we’re there, just get some rest.”

“Okay.” Sakusa folds his arms, his head angled downward. Atsumu shuts the curtains and takes out his phone. It’s been a while since he’s traveled in peace; he was usually with Bokuto, surrounded by Inuaki and Tomas, who were all older than Atsumu but behaved as if they were seven. With Sakusa, a serene quiet descends upon them, the scenery outside whooshing past behind the baby blue curtains and a thin ray of sunlight illuminating a strip of land across the interior of the bus. Atsumu observes how Sakusa’s mask inflates and deflates periodically as the man breathes through his nostrils. It’s strangely soothing.

“-No way, the best hamburger at Mos Burger is- oi, Atsumu, listen to us here,” Barnes pops out of the blue, and then pauses mid-sentence when he spots Sakusa. Atsumu shushes him with a finger over his lips. With a dubious expression, Barnes shrugs and returns to the debate. He’s not awake, is he? The noise-canceling headphones seem to be effective.

He snuggles into his chair.

The rowdy back row, the admonishing growl of Meian, Tomas’s random English phrases, and a napping Sakusa to his right. The thrumming in his chest, the slightest rush of adrenaline and restlessness in his veins, just enough to keep him alert yet relaxed.

It’s a good day.

He has a sense that it will be.

“MSBY Jackals take the first set against VC Sapporo!”

“Oliver Barnes is on a roll this afternoon – we must also mention Inuaki’s incredible fly-receive there. VC Sapporo might not have the leisure to kick into their game…”

Atsumu groans as the commentators ramble on in their booth, squeezing his bottle of water. “Might not have the leisure my ass, are those commentators blind or what? Didja see their blocks? They’re a preposterous balance of read-and-predict blockin’. We’ll hafta tower over their iron wall or else. That's without considerin' their crazy libero.”

“They have an irregular rhythm with their spikes as well,” Hinata provides a cooled towel, and Atsumu thanks him. “Their number eight can’t jump as high, but he’s a meter and ninety-five; almost two meters. It might be better to slow our offense.”

“Agreed,” Sakusa wipes the beads of sweat off his face and chin, “you seem to have a functional brain for a shrimp.”

“Omi-san, I’ve grown a couple of centimeters since high school!”

“A lobster, then.”

“Omi-saaan.”

Sakusa ignores his protests, “I’ll stretch again,” and regresses to the court. Hinata puffs his cheeks and Atsumu pats him on the shoulder with a humorous, ‘don’t mind.’

Oh, right. Might as well ask him now, it’s been buggin’ me. He caps his bottle, “Shoyo,” Hinata turns instantaneously, “what didja mean then?”

“Sorry?”

“Y’know, when ya said,” the whistle blows, shit, “that Omi was my ace?”

“Oh,” a twinkle of remembrance shines in Hinata, “that was just –“

“Miya, don’t slack off and run!”

Come on, “Just a sec –“

“You appear the most satisfied when you toss to Sakusa-san,” Hinata speaks hurriedly, “it was a guess.”

“Atsumu!”

“Thanks for answerin’,” he disposes of his towel damp with sweat towards the benches and sprints back to the court. The most satisfied? I do? Really? He isn’t conscious of his appearance or facial expressions when he’s playing volleyball, after all.

You appear the most satisfied when you toss to Sakusa-san.

What?

Now, what the hell does that mean?

It’s a lost mystery.

As expected of Atsumu, however, he completely forgets about Hinata’s explanation three minutes into the second set. He’s immersed in the game, ensuring that his set-ups are pinpoint-accurate and that the courses of his serves are unforeseeable. Puzzlement is often quashed by his passion for volleyball.

But –

The echo of the words overwhelms him during the third set, right at the twenty-fourth point.

“Reiji of VC Sapporo corners the Jackals with a killer spike- Inuaki picks it up! Ah, but the course of the ball isn’t looking too promising for the Jackals – Meian receives it, the ball goes towards the setter! Setter Miya Atsumu, who is he going to toss the ball to? This is a difficult one, the ball is falling at a tricky –

Sakusa springs into the air. Atsumu’s body is already readied for a set-up motion towards him.

(“I want to give ya wings.”)

It’s his own voice ringing in his head.

It has to be a hallucination - but they're there.

There’s a shimmering outline of wings emerging from Sakusa’s shoulder blades; majestic, glorious obsidian wings, those of a raven, blending in with the rippling black of their uniform. Atsumu’s fingers shove the ball. A feather flutters to the ground, tickling Atsumu’s cheekbone. Sakusa’s arm hovers over the opposing team’s block.

Then –

Am I smilin’?

The corners of his lips are curved.

He’s smiling.

(“Just give me a high toss and I’ll manage.”)

(“You appear the most satisfied when you toss to Sakusa-san.”)

“A point for the Jackals!”

“What was that preposterously high toss? Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi, did they plan this attack beforehand? That spike is a game-changer!”

Atsumu drowns out the jeers and cheers of the crowd, his undivided attention glued to Sakusa. His pulse is beating fast, faster than any intense game he’s experienced. His palms are slippery. Some of his teammates slap his shoulder and back encouragingly. Sakusa places his hands on his hips and narrows his brows at VC Sapporo, most likely creating another tactic to counter their heightened blockade. Atsumu doesn’t give a shit about anything. He’s gazing at Sakusa and his wings that are now invisible.

Ah, he clutches onto the net, grinning weakly. “Haha,” Jesus Christ, am I for real?

“Miya?”

Sakusa is blinking at him quizzically. Atsumu shakes his head.

“Thought a funny pun – I’ll tell ya when this is over.”

“I’ll politely reject your offer.”

Yer special.

Really.

Sakusa’s birthday is on a Thursday. His gift lies securely in Atsumu’s pockets, professionally wrapped by the store’s cashier and not Atsumu. The team throws a mini-party for him, filming a vlog to post on their social media page, sacrificing a perfectly delicious cheesecake and Bokuto’s jersey in the process. Due to Sakusa refusing to blow out the candles, Hinata does it for him, wishing a happy birthday into the camera instead of Sakusa, the main character of the event. It takes another twenty minutes of begging to have Sakusa wear a birthday cone cap (his fans go crazy; Atsumu can hear them across the screen).

“Oh, don’t complain, it wasn’t that horrendous.” Atsumu snickers – Sakusa gruffly slams the door. “Hey, don’t channel yer anger towards my beloved Toto.”

“Your car had a name?”

“It now does.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“Wherever ya yearn to be, birthday boy.”

“Guatemala.”

“Don’t abuse yer authority, birthday boy.”

"Phuket."

"For realsies, c'mon."

A noncommittal hum, “The park, then.”

“The park?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm, alright,” he steps on the gas. There is a public park fifteen minutes away from their apartment; it’s a park with many flower bushes and trees, such as patches of tulips and dahlias. It’s quite early to view ‘em in full bloom, though. Regardless, he drives to the park. They ate chilled soba together, Atsumu paying for the meal as Sakusa had on his birthday. “What’s there to see at the park?”

“Who knows? I just like the park.”

“Ya kinda sound like my grandma.”

“I bet she’s a person with developed taste.”

Atsumu can’t deny that. He likes his grandmother. “Y’know, speakin’ of my grandma – she used to harvest fruits. Plums, apricots, peaches, other stuff. She can’t anymore because she hurt her spine years ago, but…” he relates the story of how she served him a platter of unripe apricots, and how he ran to the bridge to spit it out. “Didn’t want to affront her, y’know?”

“Mm.”

“Ya would’ve liked her umeboshi. I didn’t, but ya would’ve.”

“I’m sure.”

They exchange childhood tales back and forth. Sakusa apparently used to own a pet chick with Motoya. “It died, though.” A sad ending. Atsumu tells him about how he and Osamu fought over who got the top bunk of their bed. It was a futile battle, as their mother resolved the issue by having them switch every six months. Sakusa also talks about his brother and how he became afraid of blood after watching a horror movie their parents forgot to delete from the computer.

“Isn’t he a surgeon?”

“He likes treating people.”

“Basically, he’s a lot kinder than ya.”

“I guess.”

It’s refreshing – the smooth and flowing discourse as well as their late-night visit to the park. Atsumu’s never been to a park at this hour. The security guard warns them that they’ll be closing in forty-five minutes as they enter.

There are many couples on the stone benches, flirting and giggling under the flickering lampposts. Most of the flowers are still mere buds or petite blossoms. Sakusa guides him farther in, past the enormous Victorian-style fountain and ice cream trucks. Crickets and frogs sing in harmonious discordance (which shouldn’t be possible, but somehow is), and fluffy sparrows hop around the pebbled paths. Atsumu coos at a stray cat curled up on the grass, but it doesn’t even flinch. Hmph. Fine, be that way.

Sakusa stops.

Atsumu is ephemerally transfixed by the sight. There is a massive bush – bushes – of budding, golden forsythias, glimmering under the artificial fluorescence of the lamps. The round, plump buds resemble stars strewn over Tokyo’s starless canvas of midnight blue. A truly breathtaking, stunning scenery. “I thought,” he mumbles, bemused, “ya didn’t like flowers, Omi.”

“I never said that – I said, ‘I don’t have a favorite.’”

That is indeed what he said. “Do ya like forsythias, then?”

“Not really. I do like their symbolism.”

Symbolism? Shoot, I researched this a long, long time ago. What was it? Come on, Atsumu…

(Forsythias symbolize…)

Atsumu flops onto the bench, still staring at the forsythias. “Oh, right,” he reaches into his pocket, “yer present. I have a present for ya.” It’s a tiny package, smaller than the size of Atsumu’s palm. Sakusa rips the tape and unwraps the gift.

It’s a keychain – a glass feather. It dangles from Sakusa’s fingers.

Atsumu licks his bottom lip, “I, uh. Thought of gettin’ ya somethin’ else, too – like disinfectant, candles, tea – but ya had ‘em in abundance already, so I just, y’know. Didn’t want to go too overboard, but it’s been a while since I’ve bought anyone anythin’ for their birthday, so I wasn’t certain what was… appropriate. I've always received presents and never, well, I don't have that many friends anyway, so- I- maybe I should’ve purchased an alcohol spray –“

“I like it.”

“ – or a high-quality broom set- wuh?”

Sakusa snorts. “I like it.” A softer smile. “Thank you.”

It’s an inexplicable feeling.

Sakusa makes him feel this way. There is something more that could be, should be, attributed to this pang in his chest. It’s not only affection. It’s reminiscent of the hollowness, the sheer emptiness that swarmed Atsumu upon their initial encounter, yet disparate. This isn’t pain. This doesn’t hurt. This was how he felt during that game when he saw wings spread out from Sakusa as he leaped over the other team’s block. Not quite elation, not quite contentedness, but a sensation that caused a fit of laughter to bubble from the pits of his stomach.

It’s an unanswerable question that paces in his brain daily, pestering him:

Just who is Sakusa Kiyoomi?

His curls reflect the lush golden, sunshine tinge of the flowers. His mask is pulled down to his chin, revealing his parted lips and flawless profile. His pale skin is splashed with color – blue, gray, black, yellow, pink. The splotches waver on his face as the forsythia bushes sift with the breeze.

I’m pretty sure I used to hate him.

He used to hate him.

Then he hated being with him.

And then he didn’t hate anything about him.

And then, well.

It’s complicated. He always believed emotions to be black and white. Perhaps it’s because he’s a relatively black and white person, simple and firm. He likes sugar. He likes volleyball. He likes Osamu. He doesn’t like sour fruits. He doesn’t like nosy reporters and clingy fans. He doesn't like it when his mother messages him about another nice girl in town. He scarcely transitioned from black to white, vice versa. He never put much thought into anything that didn’t involve volleyball, his career. He never had to. Nothing, nobody captivated him to that degree.

Not until Sakusa Kiyoomi.

He ruminates on the trigger. It was gradual. In the beginning, he convinced himself that it was his duty as the setter to cooperate. Even when he realized inwardly that they were far past that mark, he didn’t bother to point it out. They weren’t just teammates. They weren’t just friends. They definitely weren’t friends.

It’s complicated.

Or,

Maybe it’s not.

“I like ya.”

He doesn’t confess consciously. The words leave him before he can scramble to recollect them in his heart.

(“I dunno how to love ya just right.”)

Sakusa’s pupils dilate.

A gust of wind sweeps over them. The faintest, moist fragrance of forsythias is abandoned in the vicinity, aimless, without destination.

And then, Sakusa’s shoulders sag.

The night is cold. The flowers have yet to bloom. Nothing is in full bloom.

“Miya,”

(“If I get too warm, ya might turn into ashes, but if I get too cold, I fear that yer gonna wilt.”)

Sakusa passes him a strained smile.

“I’m –“

(“Say, Omi –“)

“Sorry.”

(The geisha brings his finger to his canine tooth and hooks the thread underneath.)

(The string thins and breaks into invisible strands as Sakusa bites and pulls.)

Atsumu grips the edge of the bench.

It is only the advent of spring.

I’m sorry.

The advent of spring, and the end of a world.

A distant world to Sakusa, and Atsumu’s entirety.

It was rejection.

Chapter Text

“Can you die for me?”

This is a sidenote, but – Miya Atsumu historically disliked love with chances.

As aforementioned, he’s a simplistic human being. Black and white. This or that. Good and bad, right or wrong. Of course, he recognizes that this particular conceptualization depends on the person. For example, sexuality can be a spectrum. Colors don’t only constitute black and white. Not everything has boundaries, and that’s fine. That’s not what he means when he claims that he is simplistic. He’s talking about himself, not everyone else. He likes people, regardless of their gender. He likes tuna. He likes Sakusa Kiyoomi. Easy, uncomplicated.

In that sense, love is messy.

‘Like’ is relatively organized. When you ‘like’ something, you associate it with positive, jovial meanings and images; the same logic applies when you ‘dislike’ something.

Love isn’t quite like that.

Someone once said, “Love and hate differ by the thickness of a sheet of paper.”

Miya Atsumu loves volleyball. Sometimes, he hates it. He had sworn to devote his life to the sport because he loved it so passionately, so dearly. It’s not merely the thrill of victory, it’s also the bone-crushing frustration and madness of defeat. It’s not just the devastation of realizing his limits but the process of desperately thinking about how he can surpass them. He probably loves volleyball as much as he hates it. That, however, is also only possible because his love is so great, nearly immeasurable. The greater the magnitude of his love, the more aggressive his hatred becomes. He’s fairly sure there’s a law of physics that explains everything, not that he studied much in high school to remember.

(In that sense, he most likely loves Sakusa Kiyoomi.)

Anyway, that was a tangent, but – love with chances. Love is messy. And because love is messy, Atsumu doesn’t want to make it messier by considering probabilities. It’s either a zero or a hundred. That’s what he did when he loved Kaya. The moment he noticed that she didn’t reciprocate his feelings, he set his standards to zero. He had no expectations, and therefore he didn’t bother to make a move. He waited for his emotions to dwindle until there was nothing left to dwell on. That was Miya Atsumu’s way of coping with love.

(Sakusa Kiyoomi was a love with chances.)

It’s difficult.

He told Osamu a while ago – when they were in their second year of high school, or something. It was Valentine’s Day. He rejected a girl at the school’s rooftop. He didn’t want her homemade chocolates. She sobbed and tore her love letter in front of him. He went to practice as if nothing happened, and then brought the story up to his twin when they were playing Wii. “Ain’t it obvious that I don’t love her back? Why’d she confess?” Osamu didn’t reply, not for at least three minutes. Maybe it was five or six.

“Ya will fall in love too, Tsumu.”

“Hah?”

“Ya will fall in love,” Osamu said, “I guess ya’ll be able to understand her then.”

As much as he absolutely resents to admit, he does.

She was also in the middle of a love with chances. It didn’t matter how Atsumu felt. She didn’t have a clue about his feelings, just like he didn’t have a clue about Sakusa’s. That’s the catch. A love with chances blinds you.

He grips onto his towel.

He just, really believed –

“Atsumu, you have to focus.”

Foster has his arms crossed, his face stern. The coach had to demand a timeout because Atsumu’s combination with Sakusa was beyond horrendous today. He’s isolated from the team, away from Sakusa, on the bench with Foster. “I don’t know what occurred between you and Sakusa, and I don’t plan to pry. But as a professional, you also cannot have your personal life affect your career and this game. You’d be impacting every single player’s worth on the Jackals, not just this season.”

Atsumu wipes the sweat off his forehead. “Yes, coach.”

Foster nods and tells him to join the team. Everyone is glancing at him warily – no, specifically, they’re glancing back and forth between him and Sakusa. “Sorry, I wasn’t in game mode,” Atsumu apologizes, ignoring their flinches and concerned expressions.

“Miya,” hesitantly, Sakusa murmurs, “I can match your pace.”

His breathing stops at the suggestion. He lowers the tip of his bottle from his lips. Something flashes over Sakusa’s face. Atsumu hopes it’s regret.

“Are ya underestimatin’ me?”

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t chuck his towel. He stares at Sakusa.

Sakusa answers, “No.”

Atsumu charges ahead. “Ya better not.”

The whistle blows and the game resumes. Atsumu has never played with such a clear and conscious mind before. He doesn’t take risks. He uses strategic rather than impulsive feints. He analyzes his opponents and calculates his options. It is volleyball. It is the kind of volleyball he despises – and he is playing it, just like that.

They win, three sets to zero, a perfect game.

Reporters swarm him afterward. Microphones and cameras are thrust into his face, invading his borders of privacy. He resists the urge to glower at the cameramen and bursting lights.

“What’s with the sudden alteration in your playing style, Miya-san?”

“You demonstrated an extremely calm and collected performance today, were you inspired by a particular athlete on another team, perhaps even another sport?”

“Miya-san,”

“Miya-senshuu!”

“Miya…”

He doesn’t open his mouth. The managers construct a barricade for him, and Meian grabs his shoulder to wiggle them through the horde of vicious fans and interviewers. Bokuto snatches a mic from the crowd and steals the spotlight instead, buying them some extra time to bolt from the scene. When he transitions out from his daze, there is Tomas by his side, peeping through the gap of the fenced square window to ensure nobody is still out for their tails.

The older man smiles at Atsumu. “Hey. We’ve successfully escaped.”

Atsumu grins back tiredly. “Thanks.”

“Hinata and Bokuto redirected the attention of the reporters.”

“Did they? Kinda slipped out after seein’ Bokkun, to be honest.”

“I know.” They’re in a janitor’s closet of sorts. It’s too cramped for two volleyball players, at least, but Tomas doesn’t complain. “Did you guys fight?”

“Mm,” Atsumu leans on a dusty locker, “I wonder.”

Immediately after Sakusa turned him down, Sakusa excused himself: “I think we should go home separately,” he mumbled. Atsumu wasn’t even able to tell him, “Happy birthday.” He’s a certified idiot. He should’ve congratulated him first, not the other way around. He drove back home and cried. He cried in the shower. As the white, translucent bubbles of shampoo clogged the drain, Atsumu cried. He cried, yearning for his feelings to dissolve and pop with the bubbles as well. They didn’t. He woke up with swollen eyes the next morning and cried some more. He went to training and lied that a family friend passed away. “Must’ve been a close friend,” Barnes commented, though he was frowning at Sakusa. They all knew. They might’ve not known what they were, but they had a gist of what happened.

“Well, I don’t want to sound all… ah, how do you phrase this in Japanese…” Tomas tongues his cheek contemplatively. “Y’know. Like a know-it-all. I’m only a few years older than you.” Atsumu doesn’t react. “I respect you for how you managed to tie Sakusa to the team, Atsumu.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Nobody was able to, like, approach him. He didn’t get along too much with the setter. And then you came, and you tried to communicate with him. None of us thought you’d be able to.” Tomas chuckles, “I don’t… hm, wait, let me organize this in Japanese. I don’t believe people change. Not much, anyway. And essentially, I don’t think you changed him. However, I am convinced that you were able to draw him out fully.” Atsumu doesn’t know how to reply. It probably is obvious, based on the bewilderment plastered on his face. “Basically, I think he trusts you, Atsumu. More than he trusts the entire team.”

Trust.

Atsumu licks his gums. They taste like coffee and salt.

“I dunno, I don’t really need, no, I don’t…” his jaw clicks. Tomas smiles wryly. “I dunno.”

“It’s up to you.” Tomas twists the doorknob mutedly, “Come out when you’re ready, yeah?”

He nods.

He doesn’t sit around for too long. Three minutes – four. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Did I carry my phone with me? Oh, wait. He does recall someone giving him the device as he ran from the crowd. It was Hinata or Inuaki, one of the two.

“Hello?”

“Ya alright?” Osamu. It’s Osamu. Atsumu’s bundled nerves unfurl automatically. “I watched yer game live. Congratulations, but – back to my question.”

“I dunno where I am.”

“What?”

“I think ‘m in someone’s… I dunno. They’re definitely underpaid. Ya ever just ponder whether janitors are paid enough, Samu?”

“Tsumu.”

Atsumu inhales, exhales. Inhales exhales. “I was rejected.” Osamu doesn’t respond. Maybe he can’t. He wouldn’t be too sure of what to say either, had their roles been reversed. “I assumed that he, y’know. Liked me back. I guess he didn’t.”

“… Tsumu,”

“I’ll get over him.” Atsumu cuts in, “I got over Kaya. I can get over him.”

“Kaya?”

“Kugimiya Kaya. Class president, middle school. Red hairclip, terrible posture, teacher’s pet.”

“Ya loved her?”

“Yeah.”

Osamu pauses. And then, “Sakusa ain’t Kaya, Tsumu.”

Something cracks in Atsumu. He hangs up on the call and turns off his phone. He knows that better than anyone. Sakusa Kiyoomi isn’t Kugimiya Kaya. He never imagined a future with Kaya. Even in the present, they weren’t together. He was satisfied with that.

And Sakusa – and Sakusa.

(Hey, do ya know why?)

The query screeches in his mind. He grits his teeth and fists his hair.

(It’s because ya –)

He punches the locker.

They have one-sided interactions throughout the season. It’s unsurprisingly, unfailingly, always Sakusa who initiates – or tries to initiate – a conversation. Not even a conversation, a greeting. Atsumu doesn’t look at him. It’s petty. It’s not Sakusa’s fault that he doesn’t like Atsumu, and rationally, he is aware.

It is infuriating, though.

The fact that he is nice.

The fact that even in these kinds of circumstances, he is still nice. Not to anyone else, only Atsumu. He doesn’t want special treatment, whatever their relationship used to be. It feels like pity.

Despite everything, his style gradually revives with each game. The reporters don’t bother him, and there are no more articles published about Miya Atsumu’s so-called metamorphosis. They win team after team, and it’s a steady sail, especially with Hinata on the team.

The other day, he unintentionally eavesdropped on Barnes, Bokuto, Inuaki – pretty much all the regular members, sans Sakusa and Atsumu. Hinata seemed to be at the center of attention as they continued, “… I know it seems unbelievable, but they really were close. They weren’t like… now, seriously. You weren’t on the team for long, so. Did you know that they live in the same apartment?”

Inuaki grunted, “Don’t even mention it. Remember that time Atsumu freaked out at the temple? It was Sakusa who pulled him out of that fix. They were a bit awkward afterward, but they got that smoothened in two weeks.”

“It’s not like they were friendly last year,” noted Bokuto, “they just were before we realized, yeah?”

“No kidding. Sakusa can laugh, by the way, I doubted my eyesight.”

“Pardon?”

“He laughs when he’s with Atsumu.”

He staggered away from them and trapped himself in the restroom on the second floor of the gym. He laughs when he’s with Atsumu. He didn’t wish to hear that. He didn’t want to be reminded of his mistakes, his misunderstandings, his chances.

Even now, as Atsumu pants heavily, marked by the opposing team’s spikers so that he can’t toss, Sakusa is the one to hand him bottled water. “No thanks,” Atsumu grumbles, dismissing the other.

“You’re thirsty.”

“’M not.”

Sakusa retracts with a sigh. “Alright.”

They lose that game.

He contacts Suna that evening and they drink together at a local pub. Suna doesn’t even ask for details. He orders Atsumu’s beer, he accompanies Atsumu to his apartment, and they drink some more there. The Raijins were annihilated by VC Kanagawa last month. Suna smokes at his veranda again, and Atsumu doesn’t scold him for it. He breathes in the scent of Suna’s somewhat strong but velvety cigarette smoke – and holds it there, in his throat, as it burns.

“Hey, Sunarin,” he drawls, “tell me somethin’. Anythin’.”

His friend does. “My little sister is in high school now. A second year.”

“Really? Damn. She’s the one who came to graduation, right? That twelve-year-old kid.”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

He remembers how that was the day they all witnessed Suna’s tears – a monumental graduation day. Nobody teased him for it because it was evidently not an appropriate mood. Nobody teases him for it till this very second. Suna’s sister was ill. She was also the only family member – relatives included – who attended Suna’s graduation ceremony. She traveled for hours on a train alone from Tokyo, skipping school.

“She was cute,” Atsumu sniffs the air, “her pigtails.”

“She still is.”

“Yer disgustin’.” Suna guffaws at that. “Hey, Sunarin.”

“Hm?”

“I was rejected.”

“I can tell.”

“I dunno what to do.” He smiles crookedly at Suna. “What if I never move on?”

“Then you don’t.” Suna shrugs, “I gave up, so you should, too.”

His fear isn’t exactly, ‘what if I never move on.’ There’s a lot more to it. A memory – he’s definitely persuaded that it’s a memory, not a dream – rang in his brain when Sakusa said sorry. The past him asking how he was supposed to love Omi. The blurry snapshot of Sakusa breaking their bond. It drives him to a more fundamental question that he should’ve sought to answer eons ago:

Does Sakusa remember?

And if he does, then is that he rejected Atsumu?

Because they weren’t tied together with that crappy red string?

For a connection he let go of hundreds of years ago?

(If ya hate me so much, then,

Why?)

He gazes at his pinky.

Of course, there is no red string.

The team bounces back from defeat rapidly. The other Jackals work around Atsumu and Sakusa’s rigidness and advance with training. Atsumu tosses to Sakusa, and their attacks begin to synchronize as before. It’s not as if his muscles can forget what he’s been doing for the past year. Sakusa is nice, but Atsumu hangs around Bokuto and Hinata. The distance between them widens, and it weathers him down – both physically and psychologically. They avoid each other when their paths coincide at the elevator of their apartment. He doesn’t miss how Sakusa grimaces when he averts contact and mumbles, “I’ll take the next one. Ya go ahead.”

And then it’s April.

All the flowers bloom beautifully, but Atsumu doesn’t care. He’s never liked flowers.

He twists his ankle in practice during a fumbled receive. Barnes, who collided with him in the process, apologizes profusely. “God, Atsumu, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to, god fucking damn it,” Barnes cusses in English, and Atsumu pats him on the shoulder.

“’S fine, ‘s fine, that was on me. Don’t beat yerself over it, ‘m dead serious. I got a little too pumped.”

“It’ll heal in a week or so, no biggie!” Hinata slaps Barnes comfortingly as well, “Atsumu-san is healthy too, and nothing’s broken.”

“Yeah, it was lucky that Atsumu minimized the blow of his fall.”

Foster gestures at Atsumu, “You can leave early – we need you back as soon as possible, understood? You’re our regular setter.”

“Yessir.” He limps out of the gym; Sakusa examines him from head to toe. Don’t stare at me like that, Jesus Christ.

It’s a pain in the ass to shower with a twisted ankle. He hisses when his foot loses balance, the floor slippery with soap. Without his gifted reflexes, he would’ve worsened the injury. Didn’t even get hurt in high school when I was at my wildest and stupidest.

His mother calls when he’s drying his fringe with a towel. Should I pick up or not, a ferocious mental debate unfolds. It’s spring. April. The season of marriage, that time of the year when his mother’s friends living in the neighborhood boasted their daughter’s and son’s partners, inviting his mother to their wedding. It’s because Osamu is gay, but Atsumu isn’t. Not really, anyway.

Screw it.

“Hello, ma?”

“Miya Atsumu, how many times are ya makin’ yer poor ma call?”

“Was busy.”

“Ya lost the season a million years ago, why’re ya busy?”

“We do more after losin’, ma, that’s how it is.” He opens the door of his stall – and freezes. Sakusa is seated on the bench. Their gazes meet. His mother is yapping on and on about some superfluous neighborhood gossip.

“- hey, Tsumu, are ya listenin’?”

He looks at the clock. Practice – is over, alright. “Yeah, ma.” He plops onto a stool and rummages through his belongings for the roll of bandages he was provided. “What was it?”

“There’s this girl in town, Atsumu. She’s studying forensics or somethin’ like that; I don’t even know what that is. Very studious, intelligent, witty. And guess what? She’s a fan of yers, ain’t that fortunate? I have no idea what she sees in yer volleyball, but she’s gone to a couple of yer matches. Ya might’ve bumped into her!”

As if. “There are like, thousands of people in the audience, ma, there’s no damned way I might’ve bumped into her.”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that. Ya have a vacation soon, don’t cha? Come to Hyogo, Tsumu. ‘S not like ‘m askin’ ya to marry her, aren’t I? Just meet her once, and if she ain’t yer type – or who knows, maybe ya ain’t hers – then drop it! Easy-peasy.”

Atsumu flits to Sakusa. The latter has his orbs fixated on his feet. Though he’s not on speaker mode, the volume is at the highest setting, and the smallest noise echoes in this compact space. He knows Sakusa has heard their exchange.

He also knows when Sakusa is uncomfortable.

Heh. He kicks into one of his nastier tendencies. “Yeah,” enunciating and emphasizing each syllable and word, he keeps his attention on Sakusa, “I will.”

“Really?”

“Sure, ma. Really.”

“I’ll pass the message on, then!”

Sakusa squeezes his knees. Atsumu has the insuppressible urge to snort. Ya reject me, yet ya don’t want me to meet someone else? What the hell’s with that reaction? A stranger would presume that yer the one who was turned down, not me. He has myriad arguments but manages to secure them in his heart. He too has been ruminating on Sakusa’s response. He was still considerate. He was still patient with Atsumu. He behaved as if he – well, candidly, liked Atsumu. That was Sakusa Kiyoomi four hundred years ago, as well as Sakusa Kiyoomi in the current century.

But what for?

It fuels Atsumu’s anger.

Disregarding Sakusa’s existence in the room, Atsumu packs his uniform and supplies and exits the locker room. Sakusa follows suit; he maintains a constant distance of five steps from Atsumu.

“Hey.”

He swivels around and scowls. Sakusa hits his own brakes.

“Why’re ya taggin’ along?” He’s heading towards Osamu’s store, which is a light stroll from the gym. Their apartment is in the opposite direction.

“I have an appointment at Matsuoka Tower.”

Atsumu almost snarls back a rejoinder – but Sakusa is at peace, a black surgical mask over his clamped mouth. Whatever. They continue their journey: Atsumu limping forward, and Sakusa walking at a slower pace than usual behind him. There aren’t many pedestrians on the street, only an endless row of trees, their flowers in ripe blossom. Petals flutter to the concrete surface; a group of kids takes pictures with their phones to post on social media.

Right then, when they’re crossing a road, a cyclist whizzes past them at most certainly illegal speed. Atsumu swears under his breath as his ankle wobbles, but a hand grabs his arm and steadies him in an instant, faster than light. Atsumu clucks his tongue in annoyance because he can already identify the hand.

“Are you –“

“’M fine.”

They have fewer than ten seconds for the green light to switch. Sakusa bites his bottom lip but lets go of Atsumu regardless. Atsumu clenches his fists.

(“I like ya.”)

(“I’m sorry.”)

His throat constricts.

What’s with that? I’m sorry? Just fuckin’ say no, ya piece of shit. Ya should’ve just said no. Ya should’ve said that ya didn’t want anythin’ to do with me. Ya shouldn’t have spent my birthday with me. Ya shouldn’t have called me just ‘cause it was fuckin’ White Christmas. No, even if ya did, ya shouldn’t have gone to the beach with me at night. ‘M not in the wrong. ‘M not in the wrong. If ya hated me so much, if ya hated him – the Miya Atsumu of four hundred years ago – so much, so much that ya severed yer fate with him, ya should’ve kept it that way. Ya should’ve kept yer damned word. What’s with that? What’s with that attitude?

What’s with, “I’m sorry?”

Don’t give me that kind of rubbish.

Just don’t do that.

Abruptly, something captures his eyes, roping him in inevitably.

A glass feather – reflecting the shine of the city. Attached to the strap of Sakusa’s bag.

Atsumu stops, and so does Sakusa. How did he never notice? Because he avoided Sakusa since then, sure.

First, it’s confusion. Then, it’s – it’s.

His lips curl. “What kind of shit are ya tryin’ to pull with me, Omi?” Sakusa blinks back. “Ya fuckin’ rejected me, didn’t ‘cha? Ya said ya didn’t, couldn’t like me back. Leave it at that, then, ‘cause I’ve been strugglin’ to forget. What, have ya never said ‘no’ to someone who had a crush on ya in yer life? If ya were attemptin’ to be, I dunno, sympathetic these past few weeks, then,” he’s stumbling over his sentences, “then scrap it. Are ya guilty for what ya did? Do ya want to be friends? Is that what this is about?”

“Miya –“

“Miya, Miya, Miya, fuckin’ Miya.” A passerby flicks at them in a circumspect manner. “Just – what the fuck is yer problem?!” Sakusa parts his mouth, shuts it, and then lowers his head.

They stand there on the pavement, people milling by in pairs, chipper and uplifted by the pretty view. At that precise moment, the final thread of Atsumu’s sanity comes loose. He wouldn’t have been this affected if it weren’t for the glass feather. The keychain he gifted Sakusa.

It just has to be now.

“Omi.”

Sakusa doesn’t budge.

“Ya remember everythin’ about us, yeah?”

Sakusa raises his chin in disbelief – dread. Numbing, numbing dread. That’s all Atsumu needs. He isn’t even shocked. He is, but he doesn’t know how to show it. The puzzle is matched at last.

“Was it funny?” He’s half- no, he’s out of it. He has no filter, he wears no façade – this is who he is. These are his fears, these are his vital organs, this is him. This is him, at his worst, at rock-bottom. A depth he never reached his whole life, not even in front of Osamu. Not even himself.

He didn’t want his first to be in the company of Sakusa.

“Tell me, Omi, was it funny? Was it funny, watchin’ me fall in love with ya all over again? Watchin’ me flail around ya like a fuckin’ idiot? Pretendin’ ya didn’t know a thing about me? What was so funny about it? C’mon, tell me, and maybe we can joke about it together.”

“It wasn’t funny. Nothing about any of this was,” Sakusa tears off his mask. “Listen –“

“I just can’t comprehend what ya wanted to accomplish.” He has to stop. Logically, he understands that. “Ya said ya didn’t need me all those years ago. Ya were the one who ended us. We were finished before we even began, didn’t we? That’s what ya prayed for. Ya broke us off with yer teeth. What else? What else didja –“

“Don’t,” Sakusa snaps. He’s furious, Atsumu subconsciously notices the emotion in Sakusa. “Don’t act as if you know shit about me, Miya –“

“I told ya to not address me with that fuckin’ –“

“You didn’t remember me until last year,” Sakusa is shouting. They’re both shouting. His ears ache. “You didn’t remember everything at once, didn’t you? It was gradual. It was piece by piece, fragment after fragment. You had the leisure to process everything. You had time to separate your feelings. You could tell your emotions apart. That’s why you could confess – that’s why you could say that you liked me.”

Cold water- no, ice. It’s a bucket of ice dumped over his scalp, his body, his soul. Atsumu shudders at the sensation. “… What?”

“I’m not like you.” Sakusa leers. He too, isn’t in the right mind. “Do you know what it means to be in love with someone you’ve never encountered in your life? Do you know it means to mourn for someone you don’t know? Do you know what any of that means, Miya?” Sakusa’s voice softens. “You probably don’t. You don’t know what it means to actually remember. I can’t differentiate my feelings from his. I can’t tell whether you’re the one I like, or whether I’m still longing for the Miya Atsumu of four hundred years ago. I don’t know who I am.” Atsumu is paralyzed as Sakusa’s onyx orbs glisten. A stray petal of plum blossom is reflected on the crystal surface. “I don’t know who I am.”

(Someone screams miles away. The violent squeaking of rubber tires on the road resounds throughout the active metropolis.)

“How am I supposed to,” Sakusa whispers, “how am I supposed to return your feelings, if I don’t even know whether these feelings are truly mine?”

(Atsumu sways. He backtracks and tumbles off the edge of the pavement. Cars honk in the background. The squeaking is drowned out by the hushed, preoccupied murmuring of people.)

“Omi,”

(‘Watch out for spring, danger is near when spring’s enchanted beauty is at the apex of its heights.’)

That was mine.

Sakusa’s was –

(‘You’ll be salvaged from the deathliest curse of your life. May the heavens be with you.’)

But they switched.

“Atsumu!”

In the periphery of his vision, there are thousands of pink, bright pink petals whirling with the breeze. It’s odd because it’s night – the flowers shouldn’t be glowing pink.

(Tires. The flowers were pink because of the headlights. The headlights of –)

He’s shoved away, hard.

It happens in the span of a millisecond.

Screams – many screams, panicked, hurried, and frantic. A glass shard scratches Atsumu’s cheekbone, blood drips from the cut.

(“Someone call the ambulance –“

“A person was hit by a –“

“Is the driver alive?”

“Shit, someone call the ambulance, come on –“

“What happened, what happened –“

“Isn’t that Miya Atsumu?”

“And the person with him, that was –“)

He’s flying on his feet. The truck collapsed over another car parked on the side. He can’t breathe. “Omi?”

Sakusa’s body – blood, blood, blood, that’s too much blood, there’s no way that can all be his – Atsumu can’t hear, can’t feel, can’t, can’t, can’t, can’t, “Omi, Omi! Listen to me, Omi,” no. No, no, no, nononononono –

(Sakusa’s bruised face. His shattered bones. The blood. The blood. The blood.)

(“How am I supposed to return your feelings, if I don’t even know whether these feelings are truly mine?”)

(“Is the ambulance here yet?”

“Fuck- hey, are you his friend? Hey!”)

(“Sorry, we can’t have you enter if you aren’t a family member or guardian of the patient –“

“You have to remain outside, sir, we understand your concern, but –“

“Sir, your ankle, that’s probably broken, you have to be treated –“)

(“Isn’t he Doctor Sakusa’s brother?”

“I saw Sakusa-san run to the ER a minute ago.”)

Pain.

Pain – in his ankle.

The stench of disinfectant. Cream white walls. White floors. A dim corridor. Surgery in progress. He looks up. Hospital. He’s at the hospital. Tokyo Central Hospital. He was guided to the chairs, outside the operation room after being detained in the ER, and then someone – Sakusa. No, Sakusa’s brother. It was Sakusa’s brother. He thanked Atsumu for staying with his brother.

He said,

Atsumu buries his face in his palms.

(“I… they don’t… it’s a miracle if he makes it. In every sense of the term.”)

Until the very end, I never –

He never thought about Sakusa.

Miya Atsumu is always about himself.

In life, in love, in death, he’s always about himself. He was too late when he realized the errors he committed. There was nothing to correct because there was nothing left to correct himself for.

(The glass feather shattered during the accident.)

Sakusa Kiyoomi was capable of flying on his own. And then, Atsumu came along and ripped those brilliant wings away.

(The driver was drunk.)

“Miya Atsumu.”

A man in a black suit. That characteristic tone. “… Why’re ya here?” He would’ve considered the strangeness of Kuroo Tetsurou being at the hospital at this hour if he could function properly. However, he doesn’t have the strength to deliberate further on the issue – it’s just Kuroo. He isn’t Sakusa.

Kuroo looks down at him, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Then, “I don’t need it. I don’t need this kind of destiny.”

(“I don’t need it. I don’t need this kind of destiny.”)

Atsumu’s eyes widen. Kuroo is nonchalant. “How do ya –“

“I’ll give you two choices, mortal – no, Miya.”

(“Reconsider this carefully. You can’t withdraw from this, mortal.”)

“One, you take the final opportunity to salvage Sakusa Kiyoomi. Two, you leave him as is and wait for a miracle to happen.” Kuroo holds up his fingers, “Just a heads up, it won’t.”

He doesn’t know how to wrap his brain around this.

“Make it quick. Even I can’t bring back the deceased.”

Naturally, he chooses without a hint of reluctance, his decision made.

“One.”

A satisfied grin.

“Finally, I can show you the truth.”

Chapter Text

He was born as the third child of a rice farmer.

His mother wove baskets and sold them at the market every morning. His brother, Takaomi, had an innate talent for writing, and his sister, Kayu, sang the poems of Takaomi with her elegant, nightingale voice.

Kiyoomi, the third child, wasn’t exceptionally gifted, but he had fast legs.

“Maybe you could run to the ocean when you’re older,” Kayu cackled, “who needs a horse?”

They weren’t wealthy, but they also weren’t in poverty. All the children were properly fed, Takaomi was able to attend a local writing academy for young boys, and his sister journeyed to a village situated two boat rides away to learn the koto with other girls. Kiyoomi helped his father out with the fields, admiring the sun and sprouts of rice.

Their peace was in flames overnight.

He was awakened by his mother before dusk. “Wake up, Kiyoomi, wake up now.” Weary from the labor of the previous morning, the little boy rubbed his eyes and yawned. Something crackled outside in the rice fields. Takaomi had a sack slung over his thin shoulders. Kayu was grabbing fistfuls of rice grains from their pot of rations. Their father was nowhere to be seen.

“Mother?”

His mother smiled, her calloused hands wrapped around his arms. “We must leave. Your brother knows where to go. Hold onto Kayu, don’t become separated.” It was eerily hot, sweltering and smoky. As if the fields were burning. “Your father and I will follow your path soon. We’ll meet again.”

“Where are we going?” He glanced at his brother anxiously. His brother merely tightened the knot of the sack around his breast. “Mother, where are we going?”

His mother didn’t respond. Kayu grasped his hand, tears welled in her eyes. Takaomi kicked their door open, throwing his arm over his nose and mouth.

The field was on fire. No – their village was on fire. Kiyoomi stood on the ashen grass, absorbing the gruesomeness of it all. Women and children were fleeing for the west, to the forest and river. The men were shouting at the top of their lungs: “The daimyo of Hakagoyama waged war against our daimyo!” “The daimyo has abandoned us!” “The samurai are here!” “Run for the west, run for the west!” His father wasn’t there.

“Come on, Kiyoomi,” Kayu tugged his hand. “Don’t be in a daze.”

Takaomi guided them through the charcoaled houses and ravaged roads. The screams were approaching their heels at a terrifying rate. Corpses of dogs and cats laid on the soil, their fur grayed and peeled off. Kayu muttered under her breath, “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.”

They sprinted with all their might to the river, where the fishermen kept their boats roped to the dock. However, all the boats had vanished; the majority of the villagers had rushed out in a hurry. The river’s currents were too powerful and cold for children to swim in. “Taka,” Kayu mumbled, her lips quaking, “what now?”

Takaomi gnashed his teeth and scanned the dock. He froze for a brief moment as he landed on a crate – it was a crate used to carry fish. He breathed in and kneeled on the ground, in front of his younger brother. “Listen to me, Kiyoomi,” he said determinedly, “you must protect Kayu. Run. You were always the fastest one; nobody could triumph you. Run. Take our sister out of here.”

“But,” he shook his head, “no, what about –“

His brother embraced them. The stomping of footsteps could be heard not too far away. “Kayu, Kiyoomi, this is my last poem.” Takaomi grinned as he recited his farewell, “Through a swamp of suffering, through a cavern without light, and even through a blazing fire that scorches us all, remember,” he gently pushed them into the crate, “Spring awaits us.”

Through the briny flavor of their tears, they floated across the fierce river until the crate was destroyed. Kayu didn’t let go of him as they swam. She forced him to swallow dry grains of rice when they were on land – she sobbed and sobbed hoarsely, “You have to live, Kiyoomi, you have to live.” His feet ached, but he ran with his famished sister. They ran, ran, and ran.

They were weak, nonetheless.

It took less than a day for the samurai to corner them. They were after the girls and women. The siblings clung to each other as they trembled on the edge of a cliff, the daimyo’s samurai circling them with their silver swords. The next second, the cliff crumbled, and so did they.

He couldn’t hear Kayu’s final words. She held him as they fell, her warmth seeping through his pumping heart.

When he regained consciousness, he couldn’t move. He heard the rumbling chatter of people. He was sprawled atop a squashed bush of thorns. And under him was Kayu.

Kayu was dead.

The men lugged him out of the bush, untangling him. Even as he ventured in and out of life and death, he grasped the lifeless wrist of his sister. “Let her go,” someone grunted, “she’s gone.” He couldn’t speak. All that consumed his mind was, please, at least let me take her body. Bury her, so that she can sleep in peace. If that’s too much, let me have her ashes. Her bones. A strand of her hair. She’s my sister. She’s my sister. Please, please, please.

Kayu,

Kayu –

Kayu.

Takaomi had been twelve. Kayu had been eleven.

And he was six.

He was miraculously healed and taken care of by a band of merchants who were passing through the area. When they realized his legs were paralyzed for life, they sold him for a hefty bag of gold to the Yoshiwara, the most enormous and famed red-light district of Edo.

“Well, we needed a kid to replace Ru. He’ll be cheap, but that doesn’t matter. As long as he’s worth more than a pebble.”

The lady who paid the merchants dragged him to a bath. He was commanded to wash his hair and body. Other geishas dressed him once he was finished. From there on, he was transferred to a brothel located in the filthiest nook of the Yoshiwara, where the lowliest courtesans were sent. He wasn’t able to process anything. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t run – he couldn’t even crawl. He was tossed around, shoved, and beaten. None of that was important.

Kayu was dead. Takaomi was dead.

He was alone –

And stripped of his freedom.

Of his legs.

Amidst his devastation, he was flung to the bamboo mat of a room. The lady clucked her tongue, “Ru, you are to train this kid.”

“What? I don’t even like kids!”

“Well, you won’t be here forever – and the demand for male geishas is high.”

The rest of their dialogue went over his head. He sat there, staring at his scarred legs. They were decorations. They were a nuisance. They were not his. They couldn’t be his. He thought about the samurai, about Takaomi. If it were him and not Takaomi that stayed behind, then – then would it have at least been a painless death?

“Hey, brat.”

Fingers snapped. He looked up.

He almost mistook the geisha for a woman. He dazzled; he was the most alluring man Kiyoomi had ever seen. His oak brown locks were untidy but mussed in an inexplicably attractive fashion. His auburn orbs glinted, despite the lack of lamps and candles in the cramped quarters. His kimono must’ve been fairly inexpensive, but an uneducated person would undoubtedly regard it to be sewn from luxurious silk. His smile was not saccharine-sweet but seductive and tangy.

That was who ‘Ru’ was.

“What’s your name?”

He spoke for the first time since his arrival. “Kiyoomi.”

Ru hummed. “Too lengthy. Let’s see… Omi. You’re Omi.”

Omi. He mouthed the name. Omi. Legless, orphaned Omi.

He served Ru. There wasn’t much to do, though, as he was practically immobile. Ru taught him how to read basic characters, how to wear a kimono, and how to play common instruments. “Ah, but you shouldn’t sing. I think you’re tone-deaf. Also, that isn’t how you pluck the string, Omi.” Ru was brutally honest and was not notably amiable, but he did all that he could. When he was in a chirpy mood, he’d set a mirror in front of the boy and comb his hair. “Your curls are special, Omi – not everyone’s born with these. You’d look pretty if you grew them out.”

Every night, he slept in Ru’s closet.

And every night, he heard Ru through the pile of old cotton blankets.

(“Bend over, Ru, spread your legs.”

“Fuck, you’re better than a woman.”

“What does it feel like, to know that you’d never be able to bed a woman ever again? Hey, what does that feel like, hm?”

“Tell me you love me, Ru, tell me you love me more than anyone, anything.”)

In the morning, Ru acted as if nothing happened. He did the same. Ru did not attempt to conceal the marks on his skin. He was not deterred by the jeers of his customers. He lived on in that room with the boy he was meant to train, occasionally reading aloud a book for the boy, or combing his hair. Years and seasons rolled by, and he had become accustomed to the moans of Ru, to the jibes of the samurai, and the long, endless nights.

The summer of his fourth year at the brothel, Ru began to change.

It was because of a customer.

The customer was a samurai that swore his allegiance to a feudal lord. He was the first man to request a song, not Ru, and went by the name of Iwaizumi Hajime. Ru mocked the swordsman, calling him ‘Iwa,’ and Iwa nudged the geisha back jokingly. He was fond of Iwaizumi. The nights Iwaizumi visited were quiet, the twittering of twilight birds and crickets drowning out the tranquil murmur of the two men. On some evenings, Ru would play a creative melody on the koto, and Iwaizumi would lean against the pillar and listen. On others, Iwaizumi took Ru outside. “Here. This is for you, kid,” was Iwa’s catchphrase, offering him a gift in exchange for ‘borrowing’ Ru. The gifts ranged from an assortment of seasonal fruits to unique toys.

Ru did not talk about Iwa when he departed the brothel, accepting a horde of guests after another. The obstreperous nights seemed more unbearable, especially as he recalled the serene nights with Iwaizumi. Ru, however, did not falter. He docilely obeyed the barbaric demands of his clients. He whispered identical ‘I love you’s to them, the phrase so heartfelt that it sounded raw and vulnerable – like the truth.

“Ru,” the query clouded his mind as he patted out the creases and folds of Ru’s obi. “Do you really love them?” Ru’s flippant snort was sufficient for an answer. “Then why do you say it?”

The geisha extended his pipe towards the boy. Kiyoomi lighted the pipe, the act engrained into his nerves and vessels. Ru sucked in a deep breath. The smoke trailed out between the man’s lips and bumped into the flat ceiling, gradually flooding the vicinity. “Those men – the samurai – they are eager to belong. To be yearned.” Ru smirked slyly, “Their life is equivalent to tribute. For their lord, of course. They discard their own lives for someone else. What do you think they’d desire in return?” He blinked back, lost. “They want someone to do that for them. Hence, they beg for love. They’d never have the loyal heart of a fellow samurai, so they seek for love, Omi. And when you do indeed satiate their desires, what happens?” Ru slapped his fan. “They come back for more.”

“Oh,” he nodded in understanding. That made sense. More customers meant more silver. “What about Lord Iwaizumi? He always comes back.” Even without Ru’s buttered confession, Iwaizumi returned.

Ru hummed. “That’s why I never say it to him.”

“Because you don’t need to?”

“No,” Ru’s lips quirked. “Because I don’t want him to.” He frowned at Ru, confounded. The geisha chuckled at his innocent expression. “Say, Omi, do you know how to realize you’re in love?”

Well, there was nothing to realize. He couldn’t even figure out what ‘love’ was.

“It’s when the sky is blue.”

He was only baffled further. “The sky is blue, Ru.”

“Are you sure?” Pointing upward, Ru went on, “Can you see the sky from where we are, Omi?” He lifted his face. There was a ceiling – a wooden ceiling. A paper lamp dangled from a rotten rope. Green mold colored the edges. The wood was chipped and splintered from age and the roughening storms each year. There was no sky. “There is no way for us to verify that the sky is blue. Not from here, at least.” Ru gripped his shoulders. Kiyoomi was suddenly catapulted back to his house that early morning, when his mother pledged that they’d reunite. “It may be true that the sky is blue. That may be someone else’s reality. It might’ve been yours. It used to be mine. But it is not anymore. Our reality is that there is no sky, Omi. We see a decaying ceiling that reeks of putrid fish from the kitchen upstairs. Whether the sky is emerald, turquoise, coral – that is none of our business. That isn’t what is real for us. So,” Ru was rigid. He was trembling. He seemed apprehensive. “So, Omi – when the sky looks blue – do not, do not ever, reveal the truth.”

A blue sky.

A moldy ceiling.

They were both real, yet unique realities.

Kiyoomi was not able to assimilate the meaning of Ru’s caution until much later.

Much, much later.

The fourteenth winter of his life, another war ensued.

It was a bloodbath. The daimyos fought over each other’s territory and reputation. The charred battleground was transformed into the graveyard of its warriors, the once verdant plains saturated crimson. Half the troops slugged back to the Yoshiwara, ravenous and parched for another human being’s soft caresses and soothing warmth.

Iwaizumi didn’t return.

He watched Ru crumple.

The geisha waited. Day and night, dusk and dawn, he waited. Others wouldn’t have noticed that he was, but Kiyoomi did. Ru sat by the porch, gazing imploringly at the horizon blockaded by the gray brick walls. With every customer he serviced, the more Ru appeared to break under his thick skin. One particularly frigid night, when Ru wasn’t loud enough, wasn't good enough, the gruff samurai strangled Ru, the hilt of his katana crushing Ru’s Adam’s apple. Kiyoomi curled into himself as he heard Ru wheeze and beg for mercy, wide awake. Something akin to seething malice boiled in his heart as he heeded the defeated sobs of Ru and the deplorable grunt of the older customer. 

(“Just, just one question, milord. One question, and I’ll do anything you wish. Absolutely anything. I’ll be yours until morn.”

“What is it?”

“I, I have a message for Iwaizumi Hajime, from another lord. Where is he?”

“Hah, you didn't know? That guy, he’s –“)

Kiyoomi did not dare slide open the closet, even after the man was finished with Ru.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was the echo of Ru pounding his own chest. Choked, suffocated whimpers leaked from Ru's compressed but quivering lips with each wretched ‘thump.’ Thump, thump, thump.

A brilliant crescent moon was in the sky that night. Not that Kiyoomi could admire it, but there was a crescent moon. Ru did not have customers in his futon. Instead, he slipped into his single pair of geta shoes, wearing his thinnest summer kimono – the snow was knee-deep. “Ru?” Kiyoomi dragged himself to the entrance, “Where are you going?”

It was cold – so cold, that it could freeze a bear to its bones and marrow. And yet, Ru stepped into the snow like that, his ankles and neck bare. The geisha didn’t speak for a while, simply staring ahead into nothingness. “Kiyoomi.” He stiffened. He almost forgot his own name; nobody had called him ‘Kiyoomi’ in the past eight years. Ru bent down and cupped his cheeks. His palms were like blocks of ice. “My name is Tooru.”

Tooru.

He smiled iridescently. “Can you say my name, Kiyoomi?”

The boy felt the man’s palms become warmer and warmer. “Tooru,” it was almost inaudible, so he repeated it once more, “Tooru.”

Tooru kissed his forehead. “Don’t forget about me," and, "don't forget about you."

With that, Tooru melted into the lake of white.

(The body of a male geisha was discovered floating down the river.

The corpse was disposed along with seared firewood and twigs, as if the man was just another inexpensive log.

He probably was – to the majority. An individual that would be eradicated from the memories of people within a week, like facilely expendable firewood. The flames in Tooru raged as his life trickled out of him, glaciating along with the river. He was another geisha who was once there and was no longer. A monosyllabic name was as unmemorable as much as it was easy.

There was no dignity. There was no honor. There was no humanity.

Only death.)

Hell was not a distant place.

It was right there – with Kiyoomi.

He resisted the prying hands of the older geisha women as they dressed him into Tooru’s kimonos, kimonos that were passed down along generations for decades. One of them snatched his curls and held him against the floorboard. The steel nails piercing the wood bruised his jaw. Eight years. He had survived eight years with Tooru. The geisha had been protecting him. Not from everything, perhaps, but from everything he could.

His very first customer was a retainer in his thirties. He had broad shoulders and a horrid breath. “He’s a virgin,” the lady that bought him all those years ago – the one who was counting her gold at the reception bar – told the bearded man. Her name was Haruno. “Fourteen, maybe fifteen, I don’t know. Isn’t he to your liking? Young, not deflowered – he’s fair for a boy. The only flaw is that he’s half a human.”

Fair. Not deflowered. Half a human. The description pricked his gut.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, he’ll do. Do you know how scarce these things are nowadays? Some bureaucrat is always ahead, curse them.” The man’s greasy hand massaged his thigh. He couldn’t feel it.

“Well, since he’s a virgin, he’ll cost three gold bars. After tonight, a quarter of silver.”

“Who knows, if he’s good enough, I might become a regular.”

He couldn’t even scream.

(“Hey, your name is Omi? Cry for me, hm? I’m paying for you, you can do that, yeah?”

Stop,

“C’mon, suck it properly,”

Stop,

“You can’t kneel, you can’t stand, you can’t walk, you can’t fight – all you can do is take a man like this, like a damned slut, like a damned faggot, Omi, Omi, pretty Omi –“

Stop,

“Don’t spit it out, swallow it, you hear me? Swallow it.”)

He spent three seasons in denial.

There were bruises and scratches littered over his cream-beige skin. Some disappeared, while others scarred. He wept as the sun rose and bit into the hard, sweaty pillow covers as the sun descended, ignoring the insistent presence of another stranger in his sheets. There were typically five an evening on average, and nine if it was a weekend, especially when the samurai crowded the Yoshiwara. His face was wetter than his dripping underside at dusk, his tears reflecting the orange ray that poked through the holes of the poorly built roof of the porch. He lost consciousness as he viewed the gray brick wall gradually become lighter as time passed.

Eventually, his ducts were dried, and the mist in his mind cleared. He faced himself. A half-human, paralyzed, useless. The cheapest courtesan of the Yoshiwara, the lowest of the low. Only good for, he shut his eyes, cutting himself short. He supposed he still longed to hang onto a measly shard of his pride.

He braided his curls, which reached the small of his back. He learned how to smile like Tooru. He mimicked Tooru’s provocative tone, a tone that seemed to rile up the brazen men. He grimaced upon the initial brush of a customer’s finger, but excused himself, explicating that it was a nasty habit of his.

“Omi,” his client grunted, his nails digging into the geisha’s nubs. He responded instinctively, producing promiscuous, theatrical gasps, all rehearsed and fake. I hope he climaxes soon, was a glum thought that crossed him as the man’s tongue invaded his mouth. “Say that you love me.”

(“They want someone to do that for them. Hence, they beg for love. They’d never have the loyal heart of a fellow samurai, so they seek for love, Omi. And when you do indeed satiate their desires, what happens? They come back for more.”)

He kept his attention on the ceiling. There was more mold than in previous years. His lashes fluttered as he mumbled, “I love you, milord.”

Words didn’t hurt. Tooru was correct. There was nothing more valueless yet effective than words. ‘I love you,’ in that sense, was no different from ‘hello.’ Just words. Just a confession. Just a lie. A mutually beneficial lie. What more did he have to lose? Sakusa Kiyoomi died with Sakusa Kayu at the cliff when his wings were severed and replaced with shackles in the shape of legs.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Worthless.

That worthless ‘I love you’ kept him rising for another morning, another spring, another summer, another autumn, and another winter. A new year. At dawn, Haruno delivered a bucket of water to the entrance of his quarters, her brows creased in blatant disgust: “You’ll end up like Ru if you don’t cleanse that filthy mess all over you, Omi.”

Ru.

He considered death. He ruminated on the decision for weeks, two years into the business. He could strangle himself with his obi. He could roll the fabric and make a rope – ah, but he wouldn’t be able to hang himself. He could chew off his tongue. He could knock his skull into the pebbled path on the ground.

But then, seconds before he could carry his plans out, another weighty chain seized his throat.

(“You have to live, Kiyoomi, you have to live.”)

He reiterated Takaomi’s poem in his head as he lulled himself to sleep.

(Through a swamp of suffering,

Through a cavern without light,

And even through a blazing fire that scorches us all,

Remember –

Spring awaits us.)

Four years – four years crept by.

On his eighteenth spring, the geisha met him.

Miya Atsumu.

A floral waft danced in the air. Petals of cherry blossoms were pressed into the grass and stones. It was a strangely unoccupied night. The samurai were rowdily prancing about the district, and yet none stopped by his quarters. He was grateful for the blissful reprieve, but a shortage of guests indicated a morning without meals. Well, he would live without a meal or two. He had been through worse.

To accelerate the flow of time, he combed his hair and braided it again. The scars he obtained as a teenager were now faded thin lines and brown splotches. He betted mentally whether the next samurai to arrive would beseech for his love as his companions had over the years. It was a winning bet. Nine out of ten, they urged to be loved. The other one was for the samurais that were solely after his body.

He flinched when something rustled from afar and dropped his comb. The object clattered to the mirror below.

“Oh,” another samurai. That much was obvious, based on his attire. He was quite young. His dark locks were tied into a wild ponytail. He was tall and bulky, but not so much in contrast to the samurai in their late twenties. He sported a flaunting grin. “Hello, O’ beautiful one.”

Kiyoomi scoffed in acknowledgment. He was one of those types. The ones that glossed their greetings in syrup and sap. They were no better; if anything, they were his least preferred guests. The ones that did not demand for love, but the ones that rambled on, “You love me, don’t you? I know you love me. The way you wrap your arms around my neck, the way you kiss my lips – you love me, Omi. You love me.” He let them be disillusioned. As long as they paid their silver quarters, he was fine.

“Hello to you too, milord.”

The samurai sniffed, his eyes darting about. “I was here to admire the cherry blossoms, but…”

“Then you were misguided. You can view the cherry blossoms on the second floor, where Ren and the other geisha reside. There is nothing to admire here.”

“The second floor, hm…” With a crinkled nose, the man grumbled, “what a hassle.”

You might as well leave. “Those girls cost two silver bars. You’d have to pay more.”

“Would I? Well, a silver quarter is a bit cheap. No wonder.” He cocked his head, “Yer a man, aren’t ‘cha?”

“Yes, milord.”

The samurai marched towards him and stroked his curls. The geisha jerked – and the man froze. He mustered a nonchalant smile, “It’s an ancient habit. Don’t mind me.” His go-to excuse. Most didn’t care.

However, the hand was retracted. Bemused, he glanced at the samurai.

“What’s yer name?”

Up close, he had quite defined features. An angular jaw, a default crooked grin, a sharp nose, and earnest eyes. He gulped. “… Omi, milord.”

“Omi, hm? That’s cute. Yer kinda cute, too.”

Cute? He snorted. That was a refreshing one. “You’re too kind.” His fingers glided along the outline of the other’s profile, pulling him in. “What are you into?”

“I dunno,” he belatedly realized how the samurai was purposefully clenching onto the edge of the floor so that they were not touching. “I’ve never been with a man.”

Of course. That explains his attitude. He planted a kiss on his collarbone. “Just like how you’d bed a woman, milord. And it’s not as if,” he licked his bottom lip, “it’s not as if I’m fully a man.” Atsumu flicked to his folded legs veiled by his kimono.

“Ya can’t walk?”

He frowned; his self-derogatory, cynical commentary was incorporated into his speech because it resulted in a placated reaction from his customers, not an extended conversation. There had been a predictable theme: “At least you know it,” “Yeah? Guess that’s why you’re always crawling on both hands, below me.” Superiority, supreme authority, that torrent of pride rushing through their body – he saw none of those in Atsumu. Don’t be deceived. He’s a samurai. “It’s history.” His pulse thrummed anxiously. He wasn’t used to this.

“Mm,” fingers gently pushed him to the stiff futon, inducing his nerves to loosen. The samurai hovered above him, his unreadable pupils darting over his stature. Make it quick, just make it quick. Atsumu grasped his thighs and lifted them, “Does it hurt?”

That was their beginning.

“Call me Miya,” he said, eventually detaching himself from Kiyoomi as he fastened the cloth belt around his waist. Miya did not fuck him. Instead, he sat on the porch with his legs outstretched, leaving Omi sprawled on the thick sheet. He sat up with a wary glare fixated on his ‘client.’ Miya chortled, “I bet ya could slice a person with yer looks.”

“What’s your ulterior motive?”

Grasshoppers sang in the bushes. The samurai gestured at the star-spangled sky. “Look,” there were cherry blossom petals quivering and dancing in spirals, as if in tune with the breeze. “We can’t squander such a mesmerizin’ night just for some fleetin’ pleasure, don’t ya agree?”

Just for some fleeting pleasure, he parroted internally. “Then you might as well move to the second floor, as I’ve informed you –“

“They probably aren’t worth two silver bars,” the other huffed, adamant. “And besides,” Kiyoomi’s chin was grabbed and guided towards Atsumu. Their lips met – wet and soft. “I’m sure yer better.”

He didn’t know what kind of expression to wear. Resembling a deer caught in headlights, he stared at the client that essentially paid him for a conversation. His braid felt too prim. His kimono was stuffy as gravity applied pressure on his frail shoulders. His chest was cold as snow, unlike other nights where he’d be pouring puddles of sweat and spit over the floor, his back and breasts painfully hot as the friction of their movements set him on fire. It was disconcerting. Too much inaction was, well, scary.

Miya Atsumu was scary.

Struggling to conceal his panic, he tugged at Atsumu’s haori and swirled his tongue over the corner of his lips. “Hey,” fingers intertwined with his own. “Hey, Omi.” The samurai flashed him a rather melancholic grin. “Yer shiverin’. A lot.” He was. It was because of the chilly weather. It had to be. Atsumu embraced him, “Just keep me company until morn; I don’t need anythin’ else from ya.”

Why, he gulped, an unfamiliar, lukewarm substance pooling in his lungs. He remembered Iwaizumi, who asked Tooru to play the koto. He’s not Iwa-san, Kiyoomi chastised himself, he’s not Iwa-san. “… As you wish, Lord Miya.”

“Just Miya will do.”

“I can’t possibly –“ he’s interrupted with another kiss. It was not assertive, not forceful. His insides churned as they sensed a stranger’s consideration for the first time since Tooru. The sudden urge to vomit acid possessed him as he became hyperaware of the untainted intention behind Atsumu’s actions. Atsumu seemed to notice his shift in demeanor. “Can’t you just, just,” Kiyoomi inhaled sharply, the unspoken, discontinued query hurled towards Atsumu, “why?” Why, indeed. This was not the samurai he conceived in his mind.

Atsumu regarded him calmly. “Do ya want me to?” He blanked out. “If ya don’t want me to, then I don’t want it either.” The samurai beamed at the moon which was invisible from Kiyoomi’s room. “What’s the fun in rollin’ in bed with someone who won’t enjoy it?”

It was not only the advent of spring but the advent of them and their last breath.

(A spring of ten years, a spring of blue skies, and a spring of sad endings.)

Chapter Text

Miya Atsumu was a misplaced spring in Sakusa’s winter.

He usually kept the squeaky patio door shut when the brothel wasn’t in business at noon. The tatami mats were always cold as there was no sunlight, not even a candle to illuminate the room. It was pitch black, but he favored the dark. He’d lie down sideways on the floor, in solitude and pin-drop silence. It felt like winter, like something he couldn’t stand. It was that discomfort that kept him alive, that kept him aware of his pulse. People tended to truly sense the tingling soul within them not when they were content, but when they were in fear, when they were frightened.

And then he flung those doors open.

“Yer sleepin’ again,” a lax smile spread over his tanned face. Kiyoomi sighed and rolled over in the opposite direction. “Aren’t ya bored? I’ll talk to ya, if ya’d like.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s always somethin’ to talk about.” A soft ‘plop’ resounded beside his ear as the samurai sat on the fluffy cushion. “I saw pink flowers on the way here, but I dunno their name. I was wonderin’ if ya would be able to tell me.”

He snorted at the statement. “How many pink spring flowers do you think there are?”

“A lot, probably.” A hearty laugh. “Yer right, I should elaborate. Let’s see… they were pinker towards the center. They didn’t have a scent, and… they grew in shrubs. Oh, and about this size,” he measured with his fingers. The mats underneath him became warmer.

He rose – Miya helped him. Flinch, pause, continue. The samurai was not deterred.

“Azaleas.”

“Hm,” an amused nod, “azaleas. So that’s what they’re called, huh.”

He glimpsed at Miya. “Is that all?”

“What?”

“Did you really waste a silver quarter to ask a question?” Twenty-one days. Miya Atsumu had been visiting him for the past twenty-one days. Twenty-one quarters. Nobody in the Yoshiwara paid a geisha for a conversation unless they were the Oiran. “Any girl on the street would’ve been able to answer that for free.”

“Maybe, y’know,” swooping in, Miya grinned mischievously, “I just wanted to see ya.”

This again.

He found Miya Atsumu to resemble an itch. He didn’t disappear. He was persistent. He regressed when he was on the verge of being forgotten by his consciousness.

He was,

Nice.

It was not something he wanted to acknowledge, so he scratched him off as a charlatan. He was a samurai. It was the samurai who had slain his brother. It was the samurai who had cornered him and his sister at the cliff. It was the samurai who had hurt Ru. If he was a mere half-human, then the samurai were beasts wearing a man’s skin. It’s a rather entertaining conceptualization of the world. There might be a ton fewer “humans” in their civilization than they believed.

Miya bought him presents. He focused on desserts, such as dango skewers and matcha tea, or sugared apricots and honeyed pears. They didn’t converse about each other, but inconsequential things, like the weather, how the dog of the salt merchant gave birth to puppies overnight, and the upcoming festivals that Kiyoomi never attended. “Sorry,” apologized the other, “I thought… no, I wasn’t thinkin’, my bad.”

“It’s fine,” he replied, “nobody’s ever that curious.”

“’S not as fun as everyone claims,” Miya said dismissively, “just some dancin’, lots of food. Not a huge deal – right, ‘s just a big party.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he angled his head so that he was looking at the geisha from below. They stared at each other for a hushed second, and then shortened the distance between them, their lips locked together. Miya liked to kiss. It was the only physical service he ever requested Kiyoomi to do. “Ya taste like honey,” whispered Miya, “’s kinda, kinda erotic.”

Kiyoomi chortled, “Do you want more?”

“Can I?”

“You know you,” paid for me, he completed matter-of-factly but halted. That was not what Miya wished to hear. “Yes, you can.”

His smile glinted like the gleaming scabbard for his sword. “Then without further ado,” their pace was laidback and carefree as if they had all the time in the galaxy. Perhaps they did; he cost a silver quarter per night. “Touch me, Omi,” his voice was muffled as he spoke into Kiyoomi’s mouth. His hand slid over the samurai’s neck, stroking the bumps of his bones and trailing up to the pinna of his ear. “Hey, Omi – wanna go out with me tomorrow?”

“Out?” Outside. When had he last been outside? “Where?”

“I discovered a flower patch yesterday. I wanted to bring ya with me.”

It wasn’t as if he was confined to his quarters. Other geishas were allowed to leave their posts with another guest as long as they didn’t step out of the boundaries of Yoshiwara. Haruno granted them permission as well, and as Miya promised, he took Kiyoomi in a wheeled cart. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the route with the least people,” reassured Miya.

The flower patch was a hidden garden of spring blossoms, surrounded by trees and shrubs. He was put down gently in the shade of a plum blossom tree, as the other pranced about, doing somersaults and high jumps in the grass under the sun. An idiot, he snorted, definitely an idiot.

“What’s yer favorite flower?”

“I don’t have one,” Miya took a strand of his hair and tucked it behind his ear. “Why do you ask?”

“’Cause, I wanna look like somethin’ that’s yer favorite.”

Something that’s my favorite. Did he have favorites? What did he like? I feel as if I used to have one of those. “My favorite…” if anything, it was Kayu that liked flowers. She was the reason why he had memorized all those names – because she’d bring a basket of them home and dry them in the fields. “Let’s see…” He turned towards Miya. Right then, the rich-gold, magnificent yellow blossoms – a bush of forsythias – captivated him. The forsythias lit up the samurai as if he were the radiating sun. “… Forsythias, I suppose.”

Miya whined, complaining that he didn’t have anything yellow. As Kiyoomi snickered and consoled him, he wondered what the meaning of forsythias was.

That was their first spring together.

(“I’ll come back.” Miya kissed him deeply, tenderly. “I’ll come to embrace ya once more in spring, when the forsythias and plum blossoms are in full bloom.”

“Are you telling me to wait, Miya?” He felt the man’s lips curve through the little space between them.

“I’m sayin’ that I’ll miss ya, Omi.”)

It wasn’t as if he trusted Miya Atsumu.

In fact, it would be more accurate to declare that Kiyoomi completely erased him from his memory. Not completely, but to the degree where he vaguely remembered the dark-haired samurai and who he was, maybe once in two months or so. He might’ve been a strange customer, but that was all he was. The Yoshiwara wasn’t such a compassionate place. As soon as Miya left, he was thrust back to the cycle of winter, where he’d have his legs spread for another series of edacious patrons. He didn’t have the leisure to reflect on a guest who had merely been a fleeting dash of blue in his spring.

He readjusted to the violent fists, the intrusive fingers, and the stench of alcohol. The ‘I love you’ he hadn’t uttered throughout spring tasted sour on his tongue. There were no kisses. There was a guest who had a habit of yanking his curls backward whenever he needed the geisha to be louder. There was a guest who wouldn’t quit till dawn, starting from dusk. There was one whom Kiyoomi abhorred, a brawny fisherman who punched him in the gut when he wasn’t tight. It was easy to forget. It was easy to forget about the serenity he once had, when there was too much he had to tolerate. Odd, because he never judged it to be ‘too much.’ This was his life. This was his past, his present, and his future.

The summer heat was scalding. Autumn was a season of thrilled customers. Winter was frosty.

And then, spring was back.

It was a morning where a breathtaking storm of petals – petals of flowers in full bloom – had swept through the porch of his quarters, past the stone wall. He cracked open his eyelids when he sensed a presence hovering above him. His vision blurred.

There, on his fours and smiling atop of Kiyoomi, was no one other than Miya Atsumu.

To his surprise, he whispered:

“Miya.”

Miya beamed, quiet. He melted over the geisha and sighed, wrapping his arms around the latter and rolling them over so that Kiyoomi was sitting on him. Before Kiyoomi could react, he was pulled down onto Miya’s chest and landed with an ‘oomph.’ Miya cupped his cheeks. “Omi,” he didn’t look much different. Well, to be fair, it had only been a year. “I missed ya.”

Kiyoomi glanced at Miya’s earlobe. There was a metal hoop pierced through it, and a gorgeous forsythia blossom dangling from it. “What’s this?”

“Well, I can’t dye my hair, so I cranked my brain for some ideas.” Miya sniffed, “Some of my companions mocked me – said I looked like a girl.”

He smiled softly, “It’s pretty.”

At that, the samurai reflected his expression. “Yeah?”

It was as if there was never a summer, an autumn, and a winter – it felt like the continuation of last year’s spring. An elongated breath seeped out of Miya as he caressed Kiyoomi, his hands on the geisha’s naked waist, the kimono drawn up to his breast. He was wearing nothing but a thinner, almost translucent garment under the dress, his pale skin tinged in the hue of plum blossoms. Miya’s scent was that of a budding forsythia that had basked under the spring’s rays of light, mixed with other elements of himself, like sweat and iron.

They did not sleep together. They didn’t sleep together, but they spent the night like that, Miya’s hands exploring Kiyoomi’s body, and Kiyoomi’s lips tracing the fresh scars that dotted the swordsman’s muscles and flat stomach. It was as if they could go on forever, although there were definite limits and barriers. Miya’s husky grunts and his raw moans entwined through the twilight.

Sixty nights.

For the two short but marvelous months of spring, they were together.

He still had customers to serve, but he had recognized a pattern in Miya’s visits. When he notified Haruno to not accept any more clients for Miya’s time, the woman shrugged and went with it. She just needed his silver quarters to be paid by someone. Although he couldn’t conceal the marks that remained from other men, Miya did not comment on them, and he was glad for that. It wasn’t as if he was humiliated – it was his job. It was what he did. However, he didn’t want Miya to care.

Because,

Because, what?

“Hey, Omi.”

“Hm?”

It was a rainy evening. Droplets poured over the grass fields, rapidly forming puddles and swamps. Miya was hugging him from behind as they gazed at the scenery, the downpour creating an illusion that the world was a haze of green and blue and gray ink.

“Do ya have a name?”

A name. He leaned on the man’s shoulder. “I don’t have a name worthy of being called.”

“There ya go again,” pecking him on his scalp, Miya scolded him lightly. Pit-pat, pit-pat. “Y’know, Omi.”

“Hmm.”

“I had a twin.” He blinked as Miya droned on. “His name was Osamu. Older than me, by the way. Always had somethin’ rude to say.” Takaomi and Kayu jittered into his mind. “When I was younger, a group of bandits attacked my village.”

(“You have to live, Kiyoomi, you have to live.”)

“Osamu sacrificed himself as bait and let me run because we had to let our pa know – he was a tradesman, he wasn’t at home. We couldn’t let him go back to a home that no longer existed; we had to inform him that at least one of us had survived. And because Samu was older, he,” Miya’s arms squeezed around him. Kiyoomi closed his eyes. “I couldn’t find pa in the end. Maybe he died too, I dunno. He probably died.”

“Me too,” he murmured. Miya frowned at him. “My family was slaughtered in a skirmish between two daimyos.”

He huffed rather emptily. “We match, then.”

“I guess we do.”

Pit-pat, pit-pit-pat. “I didn’t want anyone to call me Atsumu. I thought that if I trashed the name of Miya, if I did that, then,” the whites of his eyes were bloodshot as he spoke, “then Samu wouldn’t live.” He buried his nose into Kiyoomi’s neck. “He’d just be a figment of my imagination, someone that never actually existed, someone I just,” inhale, exhale, “someone I just… created, and then killed.”

He flicked to Atsumu.

And then, “Through a swamp of suffering; through a cavern without light; and even through a blazing fire that scorches us all,” words he hadn’t recited in years, a poem he thought he had effaced from his memories entirely. “Remember, spring awaits us.”

“What’s that?”

“My brother’s poem.” Atsumu stared at him. “He was real, Miya.”

Vulnerable – that’s what they both were. They lifted a layer of their hearts, peeling it off and presenting their insides to the other. The thick layers became thinner and thinner, like the white garment under Kiyoomi’s kimono. The momentous night they merged together was also the night their last sheet, practically a transparent veil cloaked around their hearts, was set on fire, burnt and gone.

He chanted ‘Atsumu’ in the blankets as the man’s sturdy arms held him up on his knees. Atsumu groaned and muttered a string of compliments and sweetened phrases into his eardrums: “Yer the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, more beautiful than spring at full bloom,” “I dunno how to recall my life without ya,” “Omi, Omi, does it hurt? Tell me if it hurts,” “Ya gotta tell me if it feels good, I wanna know what makes ya feel good.”

He didn’t lie to Atsumu.

He didn’t think he could, anymore, not with how proximately and keenly Atsumu observed him.

When Atsumu had to leave for another journey, he made the same promise – the forsythias and plum blossoms. “I’ll always miss ya,” said Atsumu.

And this time, Kiyoomi replied:

“Me too.”

Breathing became more facile when there was someone to wait for.

He couldn’t escape his fate, but he could hope. He could count the days and nights that remained until spring. When a customer grabbed his hips and assaulted him for what seemed to be the millionth time that week, he reiterated mentally, ‘this is Miya, this is Miya, this is Miya.’ It was a tad bit more endurable that way. Even if the customer reeked of sake, he could condone it as Atsumu being slightly drunk. Even if the customer held his wrists down so that he couldn’t move, he could persuade himself that it was Atsumu being a little out of it. He gazed at the ceiling blankly – this is Miya, this is Miya, this is Miya.

It wasn’t a strategy that always worked. Occasionally, the name would slip from him as his gritted teeth were parted forcefully. Fuck, he’d curse, as his client, or whoever was above him, clamped their palm over half his face and took him mercilessly, unforgiving. There wasn’t anything he could do. He wondered whether this was how Ru felt towards Iwaizumi.

Along with spring appeared Atsumu, and they’d crash into each other, Atsumu hoisting him up in his arms and spinning in excited circles as they kissed.

“I’m back.”

Kiyoomi chuckled. “I can see that.”

He took initiative and lowered his head over Atsumu in the futon, swallowing his length to the posterior of his throat. His kimono was tossed aside as Atsumu’s fingers drew a straight line along his arched spine. “Yer eager tonight, Omi,” Atsumu sucked in a sharp breath as he bobbed his head, “missed me that much?”

Perhaps he did.

No, not perhaps – he just did.

Atsumu was mellow. Of course he was. As he entered Kiyoomi, the latter shuddered and queried through his quivering breath, “You can be rougher, Miya.” He could handle it. He had worse. Far worse.

At that, Atsumu answered, “’S not like ‘m a nice guy, Omi. I’m just nice when it’s about ya.”

A dulcet man who bought him honeycomb apricots.

Odd, because Kiyoomi always thought he preferred sour to sweet. It might be the difference between what you like and what you want to like. Miya Atsumu was an individual anyone would yearn to like. Candid but candied, emotional but collected, and gracious but also relentless. He’s full of contradictions and parallels that shouldn’t be in one person. It’s that complexity that made him shine.

They went out for strolls in Atsumu’s wooden cart. Shushed gossip proliferated from other geishas to their clients, about how ‘the halfie was out with a man, the ill halfie was out with a man.’ Atsumu never seemed to mind. Kiyoomi didn’t either – gossip didn’t harm anyone, as long as it was contained within the borders of the Yoshiwara district. The Yoshiwara’s foundation consisted of valueless prattle, money, and sex after all.

Atsumu would gesture at shrubs and trees and pester Kiyoomi about the nameless blossoms. “I told you about those last year, Miya.”

“Well, that was last year, ya can’t expect me to memorize all of ‘em. ‘M kinda dumb.”

His springs developed into a season of anticipation. No, to be more specific, it was as if there was no exit to his spring. There was the beginning, where Atsumu initially crashed into his life, and then they were in the middle of the passage, where Kiyoomi waited for Atsumu to visit the Yoshiwara again. He treated his summers, autumns, and winters as squalls – just a brief, extremely short period of rainfall, where Atsumu was absent. It was still spring, however. It was spring as long as they were both living on this globe, in this country.

There was a year – the sixth or so – when Atsumu didn’t return, even when the forsythias and cherry blossoms were in full bloom. Kiyoomi gazed at the petals quashed on the soil, chewing on his lip until his teeth drew blood from the broken, chapped skin. He was reminded of Iwaizumi’s sudden death, the cessation of his arrivals, and how that battered Tooru day by day.

If Atsumu died,

If he is dead,

Then will I –

No, where will I,

How will I,

Can I drag myself to the river without being found out?

My feet –

If he’s dead, then I can’t –

A week later, Atsumu scrambled to his porch and embraced him, apologizing in overly cohesive, incoherent strings of phrases. “I’m sorry, there was some stupid strife in the west and I had to be a part of it, y’know how it is- no, I don’t wanna spout excuses, just know that I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I was gonna write a letter to inform ya but I thought I’d get here faster than the horses, and I,” the samurai blubbered on and on, as the geisha melted in his arms. It was exponentially more petrifying when you had someone to lose. He clutched the hem of Atsumu’s ripped top and exhaled onto the fabric.

“It’s fine,” he choked out, “I thought you were,” Atsumu kissed him. They both did not desire for that sentence to be completed. Their interactions did not have to be verbal. He sensed Atsumu’s ‘I’m sorry’ through the way he stroked the curve of his side. In response, he sucked on the metal hoop that clinked as the forsythia blossom shifted with the tip of his tongue.

“If I die,” the other muttered firmly, “that’s with ya, Omi.”

He chuckled as he pecked the bridge of Atsumu’s nose. “That would mean I have to die first, then. How altruistic of you.”

Atsumu hummed noncommittally, “Ya see, I’m aware how this might come off as an awful lot selfish, but,” his fingers dug into Kiyoomi’s kimono, “I don’t wanna see ya be happy with someone else, Omi.”

They might’ve been too reliant on each other. There was definitely something more thorned and muddier than fondness and attraction between them, and it was mutual. Perhaps it wasn’t appropriate. They were both hollow people, people who were missing a shard of their heart, desperate to have the void filled by another. He didn’t know whether he was the piece Atsumu needed, vice versa. Nonetheless, he at least knew that they were both sure that they wouldn’t be able to meet anyone else who even vaguely fit. They might’ve been mismatched, but that’s likely also why they clung to each other. To demonstrate that even the ruined can live – together.

Some would call the world they had, woeful.

But it was the only world they shared.

“Ya can have this.”

Kiyoomi carefully picked up the gift. It was a hairpin – a thick silver rod with a sharp, pointy edge, its other end meticulously ornated with twinkling stones in the shape of a flower. Atsumu beamed and garnered a handful of his curls, tying it up and fixing the bundle into a shelled bun. “I told you, you don’t need to spend more money than you already do, Miya.”

“Don’t nag, I didn’t spend a penny on this.” He frowned, bemused. “It’s my ma’s memento.” In disbelief, he whipped towards the other. Atsumu flapped his hand as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I was s’posed to show it to pa when I met him. But, well. As y’know, I never did get to meet ‘im, so it stayed with me for all these years. ‘S not like it suits me much, and I feel like my ma would want someone pretty to wear it.” Nuzzling into Kiyoomi’s lap, he drones, “And yer pretty, Omi. It’s for ya.”

“I don’t know if your mother would be too excited to watch her son fooling around with a courtesan in the heavens.”

“My ma’s not such a stringent woman,” Atsumu sniggered. “Hey, Omi?”

“Hm?”

“Speakin’ of the heavens,” he could feel Atsumu’s lethargy. His dialect became more pronounced when he was sleepy. “Speakin’ of the heavens, Omi, ever thought about flyin’?”

“Flying?” He combed Atsumu’s fringe, pressing his thumb over the corner of his hairline. “I don’t even remember much about the time I was able to walk.”

“Mm,” the man snuggled into his touches. “I had a dream when I was… I dunno, it was at the ocean or somethin’. We were campin’ out at the shore. I dreamt that ya were a swallow – actually, ya might’ve been a hawk, not too sure – anyway, ya were a bird. Ya had wings, and ya were sailin’ through the clouds and heavens, like it was the easiest thing in the world. I dunno how I was able to tell that that bird was ya; I just felt it. And I was admirin’ ya from the ground, tryin’ to get yer attention, jumpin’ up and down…” A heartful chuckle, “I think ya might’ve squawked at me, shoutin’ at me to shut the hell up.”

The heavens. Kiyoomi had never liked the heavens. If his life was destined to be this way, then he believed that he at least deserved a right to resent the almighty one who mandated the world. He didn’t need to be in the heavens, or so he thought, until Atsumu mentioned his dream. “Doesn’t sound too bad,” he huffed, amused by the story. “And so you’re simply watching me?”

“No,” Atsumu went on, “I yearned to fly by yer side. I woke up while yearnin’ for it. Maybe I never got to fly with ya.” He reached out to Kiyoomi’s face. Kiyoomi held his hand and brought it to his ear. “Or who knows, maybe I was the one who gave ya those wings – so that ya could fly higher and higher.”

“Hmm,” he pictured the scene. “What about flying together, though?”

Atsumu’s eyelids shut, “I mean, we can’t always be together. Ya need to explore the world on yer own – y’know, since ya hear everythin’ about it from me. We can switch; ya can glide over oceans and other lands and tell me about what ya saw, what yer life was like without me. I’ll wait for ya here, just like ya waited for me. And then in spring, we’ll fly together to the heavens, to somewhere else nobody can find.” A moment of silence; birds chirped, and frogs croaked in the bushes. “Can ya imagine it, Omi?”

He could. As fictitious and nonsensical as the situation was, he could. “Atsumu,” he whispered, “what’s the color of the sky?”

“Today?”

“In our dream.”

“Oh,” Atsumu pondered for a couple of seconds, “blue. A spotless gradient of blue.”

(“Say, Omi, do you know how to realize you’re in love?”)

He inhaled a stuttered breath. Atsumu asked, “Can ya see it, Omi?”

(“It’s when the sky is blue.”)

“Yeah,” he didn’t dare open his eyes. “Yeah, I can.”

He could.

He really could.

It was an abnormally sweltering evening when a crowd of hostile samurai barged into his chambers.

He wasn’t afraid, per se. He slept with all kinds of men who naturally had all kinds of fetishes and preferences. He was capable of drowning out their foul language into white noise, spilling the vulgar and bawdy answers and actions they paid for out of reflex. Even if the sky was blue, he was still a geisha.

He wasn’t afraid, then he was.

“Are you the crimson blade’s woman?”

He froze around the customer.

“Woman, Aritaka, please,” his companion scoffed, “just because he’s better than the average woman doesn’t mean he is one. And hey, don’t stop moving your hand.”

“I bet you told him that you love him.” His breath reeked of cigar and putrid fish. “And I bet he trusts you.” Kiyoomi grimaced as the man bucked his hips with a grunt. “He doesn’t even know shit, doesn’t even know that you say it to everyone who fucks you each night. C’mon, ‘fess up, Omi. Say the words, I want to hear ‘em too.”

He blinked out the sting in his pupils. The mossy ceiling entered his sight, sore and unseemly. “I love you, milord.” Just words. Just a confession. Just a lie. Just ‘I love you.’ It was okay. He was okay.

“Do you want him to buy you out of here, Omi?” One of the samurai grabbed his chin and yanked it backward. “Like the other chicks who become the mistress of some foreigner, some barbarian from the west with loads of gold? Is that why you’re sucking out meager silver quarters from the crimson blade?” A jarring snicker, “Tough luck. Even if he can afford to buy you out of this brothel, what’ll he do with you afterward? You can’t give birth, you can’t work, you can’t even,” they seemed to be too lost in their joke, “you can’t even walk on your own two feet, Omi. And guess what – he’ll be content, believing in a lie you spout to every one of us. There goes his future, there goes his life as a samurai, there goes his purpose of twenty years which he spent serving his daimyo.”

He gulped.

“All because he fell for a geisha like you.”

When the men were gone, he was lying on the mats, his chest aching but his legs numb and senseless.

What they didn’t know was that Kiyoomi had never lied to Miya Atsumu. There was no lie. There was no confession. Meaning, there was no ‘I love you.’

(“What about Lord Iwaizumi? He always comes back.” Even without Ru’s buttered confession, Iwaizumi returned.

“That’s why I never say it to him.”

“Because you don’t need to?”

“No, because I don’t want him to.”)

Atsumu was outraged when he witnessed his condition. As he grasped the hilt of his sheathed blade, Kiyoomi gripped his ankle with the little strength he had in his body. “Don’t,” he rasped, and Atsumu halted in his tracks. His skin was burning hot as if he was exuding his fury. “Miya, please.” He saw the seconds of hesitation, of rebellion, of turmoil within Atsumu.

“Why didn’t ya,” spat out Atsumu, his fists balled. Kiyoomi’s throat dried instantaneously as he processed the implication of that beginning. Why didn’t you?

Why didn’t you?

Why?

“Why didn’t I, what?” Something shattered in him, too. “Say it, Miya. Why didn’t I, what?” The shards caused his organs to bleed as he spoke in pain. “Why didn’t I run away?” You should’ve run with your sister, with Kayu, with your legs, with your fast legs, you could’ve run faster, you could’ve gotten away, if you had, then you wouldn’t be here, you wouldn’t, “Why didn’t I resist?” You should’ve pulled back, you should’ve gritted your teeth and fled while you had the chance, while you had the energy, while there was hope, before you were degraded into a halfie, into something less than human, “Why didn’t I, what?”

Atsumu stared at him, his mouth slightly agape.

He knew. He knew that wasn’t what Atsumu meant. He knew that wasn’t what he intended to communicate. He knew, but he didn’t know. It was something in between, something he wasn’t quite rational enough to identify.

“What can I do with these cursed legs? Tell me, samurai – what can I do?”

The samurai hurried to embrace him as he always had.

“I’m just,” he could recall Kayu’s stiffened corpse. He beseeched to at least have her ashes. To have her buried. “I’m just living with what I have left.” He had a room that wasn’t his. He wore a kimono that wasn’t his. There was not much he had, sans himself. And even that, he only had half remaining.

Atsumu apologized. Kiyoomi refused to listen.

“I love ya.”

The jeers of the men who had assaulted him echoed in his eardrums. There was a ceiling above his head and a blue sky above Atsumu’s. Both were real.

“Don’t,” he shook in Atsumu’s arms.

“I love ya.”

(If the heavens were made of moldy wooden ceilings and not blue skies, he wondered if their fate could’ve been different.)

Chapter Text

The word proliferated like a droplet of ink dyeing a puddle black.

No patrons – not even an innocent ant – stepped foot into his chambers. He had never spent an evening with the dusk in solitude, uninterrupted by a drunken samurai who didn’t bother to greet him, simply stripping him to his numb ankles. Nobody vocalized their apprehensions, but the rumor became a fact engraved into a thick slab of stone when the victims cried aloud with their missing limbs.

The crimson blade’s message was concise and clear:

Don’t touch him.

Atsumu regressed to his room that night, a jaded scowl etched across his handsome face. He threw his blade towards the glass and the katana fell out of its scabbard, revealing a once-silver blade that was now crimson. “Sorry,” he grunted while massaging his neck, “I stink.” The forsythia blossom hanging from his earlobe was shriveled and brown. Kiyoomi dragged himself towards the other and ripped it out from the metal hoop. “I forgot to replace it,” said Atsumu. He was covered in blood. It couldn’t be seen, but it could be smelled and felt. The grim reaper loomed over his exhausted figure, but the reaper wasn’t his. Kiyoomi rested his head on Atsumu’s shoulder in silence, the stench of death tickling his nostrils.

“I,” Atsumu sucked on his teeth, “I didn’t kill ‘em.” He didn’t respond. “Really. I didn’t.”

Inhale, exhale. “… Is that so?”

He felt Atsumu stiffen. “I just don’t wanna be somethin’ ya hate.” Puzzled, he raised his chin and peered into Atsumu’s indecipherable expression. He was smiling, but he wasn’t. He was frowning, but he wasn’t. “Do ya really tell everyone?”

Cold sweat gathered underneath the sash of his kimono. “Tell what, Miya?”

“That ya love ‘em.”

His heart dropped. Gravity strangled his throat and suffocated him. He saw the answer in the samurai’s unwavering, certain orbs. It wasn’t a question. There was no hesitation in Atsumu. He had answered the question for himself. Panic pounding in his ears, he grabbed the collar of the man’s yukata. “I didn’t mean it,” he blurted out, “I didn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything, Miya.” Atsumu stared at him, his expression static. “Believe me. Please.”

“If it doesn’t mean anythin’, say it to me.”

Kiyoomi sat there, his grip on the fabric weakening. “… Miya.” At his obvious reluctance, Atsumu’s jaw tightened. Then, the latter let out a sigh as he brought the geisha into his arms.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have…” he squeezed Kiyoomi. It hurt, just a little. He didn’t mention it. “I know. I know ya didn’t mean shit. ‘S just what ya do. I know that, I,” a moist laugh was muffled into his collarbone. The sound dug into Kiyoomi’s chest. “I always seem to disappoint ya, Omi.”

“Don’t be stupid.” He caressed Atsumu’s back. He didn’t know how to comfort him. Atsumu didn’t deserve to be bound to him. He comprehended the weight of Tooru’s reply back then – I don’t want him to.

“I dunno how to love ya just right,” mumbled Atsumu, “If I get too warm, ya might turn into ashes, but if I get too cold, I fear that yer gonna wilt. Say, Omi – how am I s’posed to love ya?” Just don’t, the advice settled on his tongue, prepared to lash out any second. Something within his conscious mind stopped him, however. Because – because what if Atsumu really did leave? “Tell me, Omi – how?”

He lifted Atsumu’s face gently. “Let me ask you. How are you so confident that this is love?”

“How am I so confident?” Atsumu blinked. “What else would I call this, then?” His hand slithered under Kiyoomi’s obi, unknotting it. “I think about my death often, nowadays.” He pulled off the geisha’s clothes. “And yer always there. Through my life and death, yer always with me. That’s how I realized.” He kissed Kiyoomi’s knee. “I know what ‘m feelin’ best. Nobody can tell me that ‘m not in love with ya, Omi. Not even ya.”

Love. The term rang in his head. Love, love, love. “Kiss me,” he whispered, and Atsumu’s mouth parted. “Don’t daydream.” At his hissing, the samurai chuckled and kissed him.

“Yer never the one to ask for a kiss.”

“I wanted one.”

“What a coincidence – me too.”

They became one through the repugnant odor of sweat and blood. As Atsumu embraced him, Kiyoomi pondered whether this was who Atsumu actually was. Stained, brutal, and callous. With those same hands that slaughtered a fellow swordsman, he stroked and touched him. With those same eyes that glared at his opponents, he regarded Kiyoomi with overwhelming fondness. With that mouth that spat crude profanity towards the bodies he had slain, he also said, ‘I love you.’

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu breathed heavily, “would ya die with me?”

He recalled how Ru died, or more specifically, how Ru chose to die. Iwaizumi’s corpse wasn’t found. He occasionally ruminated on why Ru decided to jump into a river. A river flowed for eternity, towards the ocean, towards the vaster seas. Perhaps – perhaps one day, he’d meet Iwaizumi in the waters.

With a soft smile, he held onto the man.

“Yes.”

Even if he wasn’t able to choose how to live,

He could at least choose how to die.

(All seasons eventually came to an end, after all.)

(“I wonder when ya will tell me that ya love me,” questioned Atsumu under the moon.

“When I’m with you, the sky is blue,” replied Kiyoomi.

Atsumu didn’t understand the meaning behind his confession. That was fine. They would reach a cliff one day, and Kiyoomi would be the one to fall. Atsumu would lunge forward to catch him, but he’d shove the man away. While Kiyoomi only had half to lose, Atsumu had much more. He would see the sky while plummeting to the ground. Perhaps then, he’d finally be able to say the truth.

Words that weren’t just words.

Love that wasn’t just love.

To a man who deserved a lifetime of spring.)

If there was anything he should’ve remembered, it was that Sakusa Kiyoomi had long been ignored by the heavens.

His prayers landed upon deaf ears of the deities – and he was not the one to abuse his prayers. He was not pious. He had never been spiritual, never faithful in anyone who was supposedly reigning over their world. Had the world been governed by an almighty god, the world would be a better place. A fairer place. A place where people didn’t have to throw themselves in rivers because that was their only way to die as a human being. A place where guiltless children weren’t beaten and choked. A place where people could love, no matter who they were.

Their world was none of those things.

The wilting commenced on their tenth spring.

“Out.”

He frowned at Haruno. “Out? Where to?”

“You have a guest.”

“I only have one guest nowadays.”

“You have another.” She squinted at him, “Consider yourself fortunate. I guess you can disappear, after all these years in this wretched brothel.” With that, she hissed at him to get ready within the next ten minutes. There was only one future ahead for a geisha who was out of Yoshiwara prior to their retirement.

Marriage.

Someone – had bought him.

He felt nauseous. No. He thought of Atsumu. No. The forsythias, the plum blossoms. Just one more year. One more year, and he would’ve been chased out of this cramped room. Why now?

Why now?

The guards carried him to the main hall of the brothel. He coughed when he was dropped like a ragdoll, his joints crashing into chipped wooden panels. Haruno tugged at the sleeve of his kimono to make him sit upright. “Bow,” she growled, as he blinked out the black dots that clouded his vision. There were a lot of geta shoes and black hakamas.

“Is he the one?”

He peeked upward. There was an old royal in his sixties, at least, with an oriental-patterned fan in his hand. His clothes were sewn from high-quality silk – the price had to be exorbitant, practically tailored for the gods. And there was one person and nobody else in the region who could afford such extravagances.

The daimyo.

“Well, Atsumu?”

Kiyoomi fluttered at the mention of the samurai’s name. Atsumu was encircled by his companions, frozen. Realization clicked in the geisha. The rumors. The gossip. The tattle had traveled over to the daimyo. It was to be expected – there was not a soul in Yoshiwara who hadn’t heard of the crimson blade’s “man.”

“Saionji-sama, I… he’s,” Atsumu sputtered, unable to look at him. Kiyoomi lowered his head and bore his eyes into the surface. He was processing the situation they were in. Atsumu served the daimyo – the daimyo was the one who paid off his debt. A samurai could not disobey his lord. There was no value in a disloyal vassal. Nonetheless, he noticed the flicker of turmoil in Atsumu; he was battling with his choices, and it wasn’t between the geisha and the daimyo. It was between choosing Kiyoomi or death.

“Even the stray dogs of Edo know that Miya Atsumu, the crimson blade, unseduced and uncharmed by the Oiran herself, has been entranced by none other than the infamous courtesan who’s only half a human being and a man.”

“With all due respect, Saionji-sama,” he could sense the sticky, hot magma in Atsumu. His mind whitened. “He and I haven’t been doing anything out of the ordinary.” If Atsumu exploded here, if he lashed out, if he betrayed his own lord, then everything was over. Over for Atsumu.

“Oh, I’m not criticizing you, Atsumu. You’re a man – a man with power and authority. You have the liberty to pursue your desires. I was, well, curious, nonetheless…” he tapped Kiyoomi’s head with his fan. “About the courtesan who captivated the crimson blade.”

Think.

Think.

How do I,

How do I save Atsumu?

Think.

He won’t die here.

You won’t let him die here.

“His name is Omi, yes? Not a very dignified name.”

“Yes, Saionji-sama.”

He had been mistaken. He had more than half of himself to lose. He had a man that wasn’t his, but an inseparable emotion, an aching itch that lingered throughout his body. Before he was aware, he had let something grow and sprout within him, something he couldn’t live without, even if his heart was pumping with blood. Kill it, and Sakusa Kiyoomi would be a shell once again. A breathing carcass.

The daimyo lifted his chin with his fan. “Well, can you speak?”

He gulped. “Yes, milord.”

“Good. Now you tell me – are you Atsumu’s?” He couldn’t respire. His brain was whirring. Keep thinking. Keep thinking about what you can do. “Even I don’t touch a fellow man’s plaything. That wouldn’t be quite fair, considering who I am, no?” Atsumu rustled. They didn’t have time. He didn’t have time. He had to move – forward. Towards life. Towards Atsumu’s life. Towards Atsumu’s future.

(“There goes his future, there goes his life as a samurai, there goes his purpose of twenty years which he spent serving his daimyo. All because he fell for a geisha like you.”)

“No, milord,” he said in a hushed tone, “I’m not his.”

“The rumors proclaim otherwise.”

He inhaled, fortifying his resolve. He had been running all his life. He had been running, even when he couldn’t run. He had been running towards nowhere. He was no longer directionless. “You must realize I’m the cheapest one here – not just this brothel, but the entire Yoshiwara, milord.” His lips quirked. He too, was despairing. He’d rather lose himself than lose his spring. “Lord Miya has paid three hundred bars of silver over the past decade. Three hundred and one silver bars, and then I’m yours.”

“Omi –“ Atsumu shouted, but a katana swiftly pointed to the arteries in his neck at the motion. Don’t. Don’t move. Please don’t move.

“Is that so, is that so! Aren’t you a cheap one, as they all say!” The daimyo’s greasy hand fondled his moles. He didn’t flinch, mustering all his courage that he believed had dissolved with Kayu when he was a child. “So, you’d warm my bed for three hundred and one silver bars?”

He stole a glimpse at Atsumu – a gracious second that could be their last.

The golden forsythia blossom captured his attention.

His spring had been long enough.

I suppose it’s time to let you go.

“Gladly, milord.”

He could see the sky from his new bedroom. It was merely one of many fancy rooms in the castle, one that was too spacious for a person who couldn’t even roam. A maid visited his doorstep three times a day to deliver his meals. His palate and stomach were not acclimated to such huge servings: a full bowl of rice, a fatty chunk of grilled mackerel, pickled vegetables, and wild berries sweetened with honey and sugarcane powder. The most he was given at the brothel was porridge and some leftovers from the kitchen.

The daimyo never poked in to meet him. He preferred that. If he was meant to be alone until he was knocking on hell’s front gates, then so be it. He did not regret his decision.

There were books stacked in the corner, a slab of charcoal, and some sheets of cheap paper. He spent days and nights reading, writing, and folding paper objects. Each sentence reminded him of Atsumu. He wrote about Atsumu – not in a straightforward fashion, but in metaphors. He drew ashen forsythias with charcoal. Every now and then, the maid who tended to him would meekly ask about his sketches and lousily phrased poems. He would tell her in riddles, that he never liked winter – he never liked winter, until he noticed that the season that followed suit was spring. She cocked her head but nodded. “That is true.”

He was in winter again. That’s all it was.

Three months had crept by.

And then, Saionji came in.

It was on a moonless night. The maid had fluffed his futon in the morning and washed his curls with scented water and oil extracted from summer blossoms. His kimono was brand new, uncreased and slightly scratchy on his skin. Saionji slipped inside, wearing nothing but his white yukata. He couldn’t be bothered. He had slept with more men than he could ever count on his fingers, or even on all fingers of the geishas in Yoshiwara. Being the mistress – mistress, how preposterous – of the daimyo didn’t miraculously transform his past.

“You really are ravishing for a man,” mused Saionji, tipping his cup of sake. Kiyoomi refilled it to the brim.

“You’re too generous, milord.”

“No, no, I mean it. I have seen my share of geishas, both male and female – whores all the same.” He exposed Kiyoomi’s shoulder by pulling down his kimono, his mouth on the smooth curve of his bared neck. “Not even when I was the daimyo of Hakagoyama, have I seen a beauty like you.”

He paused.

The daimyo of Hakagoyama.

(“The daimyo of Hakagoyama waged war against our daimyo!” “The daimyo has abandoned us!” “The samurai are here!” “Run for the west, run for the west!”)

He stared at the man who was in the middle of undressing him, his fingertips journeying over Kiyoomi’s chest. The daimyo of Hakagoyama. “Your pulse is racing,” the other chortles, “I hope it’s out of anticipation.”

Takaomi.

Kayu.

Saionji pushed him to the floor. An unpleasant hardness drove into his scalp. Abruptly, he was reminded of Atsumu’s gift – the hairpin. It was his treasure. To him, the hairpin had been Atsumu. Saionji was lying atop of him, smothering his breast and upper abdomen. He imagined Kayu’s feeble life seep out of her vessels as she passed to the heavens with nobody by her side. He repeated his brother’s poem, his legacy, in his head – over and over.

Before he could regain his grip on his conscience, his fingers tore out the hairpin from his locks and –

Lukewarm, ruby globules spattered over his kimono. Saionji’s eyes were dilated, his lips quivering as he gaped and gasped. Blood spurted from the depths of his throat. His cherished hairpin was drilled through the daimyo’s neck. Stupefied, Saionji extended his hand towards Kiyoomi; the latter yelped and scrambled to distance himself from the dying lord. Within a span of seconds, the daimyo was cold and dead.

He had killed him.

He had killed – Saionji.

The daimyo of Hakagoyama.

The one who had started it all.

I have to, what could he do? Run? He didn’t have the leisure to joke around. He’d be executed in the morning. He couldn’t flee. A sensation akin to peace rested on his shoulders. This was how he was going to die. He had gotten his revenge. He avenged his family and neighbors. Even if he were to be burned alive in hellfire for bloodying his hands, he’d at least be content.

“Omi?”

He snapped to the entrance. He thought he was dreaming, but the daimyo’s blood was drying on his cheekbones and nose. Miya Atsumu was absorbing the scenery – the deceased, most definitely murdered daimyo, and the former geisha who was sodden in his blood. “Miya,” he murmured dazedly, “why are you here?”

“For ya,” Atsumu answered, “to kill ‘im.”

Kiyoomi scoffed and laid his head against the wall. “I killed him already.”

It was as if the world had stopped around them. There was no wind, no medley of the crickets and frogs, no soft inhales nor exhales – nothing. It was just them and a dead body. Atsumu approached him. “We’re gettin’ outta here,” he told Kiyoomi.

“Where?”

“I dunno,” the samurai grinned, “as far as we can go.” He was hoisted into the air. “Hold onto me, yeah?” He obliged and clung to Atsumu. How far would they go? To the mountains? To the oceans?

Well, it mattered no more.

They escaped together. Atsumu ran and ran through the darkened streets and forests. They could heed the multiplying footsteps of their pursuers. The other samurai had found the corpse of their lord and were out for them. Arrows were shot and swords were flung. Atsumu brandished his katana; his blade sliced through the shower of arrows and flames –

But not all of them.

A hoarse wheeze left Atsumu as he tensed and shuddered. “Miya?” Kiyoomi frantically scrutinized the man – the fletching of the arrow could be seen, its feathers quaking along with Atsumu’s agonized pants. “Miya, put me down.” He knew they both didn’t have much, both in terms of time and life. “Miya,” he pleaded, anxiety swirling in his gut as Atsumu’s skin turned paler and paler.

They were in the woods, a layer of branches and leaves above them, engulfing them in nature. He had a premonition that this was where they would have to bid farewells. This was their graveyard. This was their deathbed.

“Damn,” Atsumu grumbled, “it was poisoned.” He was talking about the arrow. Kiyoomi cradled him in his much thinner arms.

“Don’t speak,” he whispered wetly, “don’t speak, Miya.”

“Hey,” Atsumu’s palm wrapped over his cheek. Kiyoomi intertwined their hands. “What’s yer name?”

(“Can you say my name, Kiyoomi?”)

“Kiyoomi,” a crystal tear fell to Atsumu’s cracked bottom lip. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu parroted. “What was it? God, I swear I memorized half of it…” his volume was being reduced to rumbly whispers. Kiyoomi clutched onto his hand. “Through a swamp of suffering,” he stalled upon identifying the all-too-familiar introduction. With a wobbly smile, he continued,

“Through a cavern without light,” Atsumu laughed quietly. ‘That’s what it was, yes.’ “And even through a blazing fire that scorches us all, remember –“

They chimed in unison.

“Spring awaits us.”

He brought his lips to Atsumu’s.

“I’ll wait for ya,” Atsumu smiled. “Come flyin’, Kiyoomi.”

His smile reflected Atsumu’s. “Okay,” he felt Atsumu’s grasp weaken, “okay, Atsumu.”

And with that, Atsumu wilted.

Kiyoomi held his lifeless stem and cried. His sobs were muted, drowned out by the melody of the forest, the breeze weaving through the trunks of trees, and morning birds flapping their wings. His tears did not dry. He whimpered the man’s name again and again until he was convinced that it would weather away with the rocks. Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.

Such a fleeting spring –

In his desolate winter.

“You might be able to flood the country with your tears, mortal.”

He jerked. Atsumu was freezing to touch. His cheeks were sunken, and he didn’t move. Kiyoomi licked the inside of his mouth – and then looked up. What was there to fear? His greatest fear had occurred that night, and was lying in his embrace, on his numb lap.

There was a cat.

A sleek, black cat.

“Don’t mourn too much,” the cat’s tail stroked Atsumu’s ankles. “This one was never destined to live more than thirty years. Not in this life, not in his last, and not in his next. Forever, most likely.”

There was much he should’ve found skeptical: a blabbering cat discussing matters of fate, for one. But he was nothing but a clump of despondence and suffering. “What do you mean?”

“There are humans like him sometimes,” the feline yawned as if none of this impacted him much – not even a dead man. “Ones who are fated to live short. Such is his destiny. So – don’t mourn too much. All humans reach death.”

“It isn’t just,” he quipped in an instant, “he deserves more.”

“You wouldn’t know how to measure what he deserves –“

“I do.” Atsumu. Miya Atsumu. Someone who deserved better. Someone who deserved more. “Bring the heavens to my feet. Fate? His destiny? Don’t make me laugh.” He squeezed Atsumu. “If the heavens truly knew who he was, they wouldn’t subject him to such rubbish.”

The cat simpered, “Bold of you to insult the heavens.”

“The heavens took everything I owned.” His family. His liberty. His skies. His youth. His innocence. His spring. “If that was my fate, then so be it. My life will cease to exist, and I will be scorched for eternity in the underworld. But Atsumu,” he said through gritted teeth, “Thirty years? What has he done? I will not accept it – I cannot accept it.”

Silence. The mysterious creature examined him with newfound interest. “It’s not a problem that can’t be solved.” Out of the blue, a blinding glow flashed through the early morn, and a red string appeared – tied to Atsumu and his pinky. “That is the red string of fate that connects you to him. The string of love, I guess.” The string’s glimmer was stellar. “You can alter his fate in exchange for severing the string.”

“… As in?”

“As in, it’s love or life. His life. Up to you.”

He didn’t have to mull over the query.

“I’ll do it. I’ll cut it off.”

The cat’s whiskers twitched. “Reconsider this carefully. You can’t withdraw from this, mortal.”

“It doesn’t matter.” It really didn’t. “Over love and life, I will choose him. Over and over – I will choose him.”

“That string connects you – to him. You will be disposing that destiny with your own hands. Do you know what that means?”

What that means? To never be destined to love Miya Atsumu ever again? To be crushed by fate? Whatever that meant, there was no chance of love trumping Atsumu’s lives to come. Spring might not await them, but spring should await Miya Atsumu. That’s all there was to it. “I don’t need it.” He resolved, “I don’t need this kind of destiny.”

If discarding this measly red string salvaged Atsumu –

Why would he ever need it?

He bit into the string until it broke into invisible strands. The cat had vanished.

Kiyoomi grabbed the hilt of Atsumu’s sword.

If we were to encounter each other in our next lives – or our lives after that, or after that, or further away, we would have nothing between us. You will not love me. And perhaps, although unimaginable, I may not love you. We may be soaring through different skies. And who knows, that could be for the best. But Atsumu, while this is only hypothetical – a what if, yes? A what if. If there comes a future where I happen to remember what we used to be, what we had –

Then I hope I would be allowed to at least – at least love you once more.

Just like this.

Say, Atsumu –

Would such a future be ahead of us?

(The sword pierced his heart.)

Spring –

Was no more.

###

Atsumu awakens from the dream. There is Kuroo with his arms folded, seated on the bench beside him. “That’s the truth,” he says wistfully, “but even then, it’s not all of it.”

“I don’t,” what the fuck just happened, what the hell did I just see, “what?”

Kuroo isn’t perturbed by his reaction. “Your string was not severed that morning.” He snaps his fingers – a red string appears as it had in his memories. The string guides him to the OR, where the surgery is in procedure. “That was an illusion I presented to both of you. It wasn’t real.”

Atsumu legitimately has no clue how he should even respond to all this crap. Reincarnation is incredulous as is. “… Sorry, what?”

“Love and life are two independent elements. They cannot supplant each other, and therefore one cannot be sacrificed for the other. Life is life, and love is love. They operate disparately with unique mechanisms that I do not have any authority over.”

“But,” he glances at the string, “then my fate –“

“Your course of life was successfully reorchestrated, no worries. You’ll live longer than thirty years.” Kuroo sighs, sounding somewhat distressed, “Ever heard that a cat possesses seven lives?” Atsumu nods. “That’s it. I used one of my lives to change your fate. Your string is safe.” The cat – he’s a cat, ain’t he? – elaborates, “It was meant to be a… well, a nasty fit. I didn’t think both of you would regain your memories of your past lives. I only realized the consequences after another pair I saved had recollections of theirs. I was young when I spared you – seven remaining, so essentially my first life. I had no experience.”

“Wait, but,” Atsumu interjects, “I don’t, I don’t get it. I was dead before ya offered Omi the deal. Why was I able to recall it happenin’?”

“Because I purposefully brought you back to life, in order to make you witness the deal.” Atsumu scowls. “As I said, I was young and immature. I couldn’t fathom how you humans could so easily trash the red string. You’re born with it; only humans are born with it. Cats, on the other hand…” Kuroo cuts himself off with a heavy sigh. “Look, I need you to know that I’m sorry for what I did. I had my reasons. I was envious of humans when I was younger, and it had been only a week since I lost a loved one myself. I’ve been waiting for you to be reborn so that I could fix the problem.”

Sakusa is on the verge of death. Right. That’s why they’re at the hospital. He was so overwhelmed that he’d almost let the present circumstance be forgotten.

“I still have two lives. If I hand one over to Sakusa-kun, I can select how to live my last life, either as a human or a cat, and Sakusa-kun will be saved. He’ll be able to play volleyball as normal, and there will be no side effects or trauma. He’ll be cured completely.”

“Why would ya do that?”

“I’ve told you already; I have my reasons.” Kuroo shrugs, “I want to become human.”

Atsumu chews his lip, and then scans the string tied around his pinky. “This is real, right?”

“Yeah.” A smirk, “And don’t worry, I can’t take it away. I never could, to begin with.”

He shuts his eyes and joins his hands together. “Save Omi.”

Kuroo smiles and pats him once on the back. “Of course.”

When he’s conscious again, commotion is stirring in the operation room.

They both live.

Chapter Text

For as long as he remembered, Sakusa Kiyoomi despised filth.

His earliest memory was when he was at his grandmother’s shabby house (built in the ’70s or so, withstanding the terrors of war), sprawled in the living room as he gazed at the ceiling. There was a growing patch of green mold on the planked wood, most likely due to the lack of sunlight and moist atmosphere of that particular spot. It wasn’t much; his grandmother cleaned regularly, after all.

Despite that, he couldn’t stand it.

He tripped and tumbled out of the room, an irresistible wave of nausea rippling through his guts. He keeled over the toilet seat and gripped the bidet, hurling his breakfast and acid into the bowl. Cold sweat drenched his sleeveless white shirt and goosebumps broke out over his arms and thighs. He had no clue what was happening. His older brother, Takaomi, dashed towards him and rubbed his back – Kiyoomi shoved him away, yelping aloud.

“Your son has been diagnosed with mysophobia.”

The cause was unidentified. There were several treatment and therapy options. They reassured his parents that mysophobia could be successfully managed.

Nothing worked.

After multiple visits to various therapists, his mother held his hand tightly. She was one of the few individuals he could bear to touch. “It’s okay, Kiyoomi,” she smiled, “I guess it’s something we’ll just have to live with, yes?”

And that was that. He adjusted his life to accommodate his condition, and his family did the same. His siblings, who were more mature and level-headed than teenagers their age, shrugged his phobia off nonchalantly. “My brother likes to be clean,” Kayu, his sister, told his homeroom teacher, who had tried to convince him to remove his mask during class. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” She got into an argument with the teacher in front of everyone. After a week, the three of them landed in a different school that didn’t care about whether he wore a mask during class or not.

He didn’t think it was inconvenient. The masks could get stuffy in the smothering summer heat, but it was better than vomiting in an alley. His peers used to mock him for washing and sanitizing his hands every hour, but even that dissipated when he was the only person who didn’t catch the flu in fifth grade. Clearly, his lifestyle worked out for him. Nobody asked him ‘why,’ and he didn’t, either. As his mother said, this was just something he had to live with. There was no point in questioning ‘why.’

Life went on. His brother and sister took the typical elite course of their family; Takaomi’s ultimate goal was medical school, while his sister aspired to become a prosecutor. Academics didn’t interest Kiyoomi, though. It was his cousin, Komori, who had introduced him to the sport of volleyball.

Volleyball – the sport of flight.

There was something enlightening about volleyball. The scenery past the net, the blocking. The swiftness of the ball. The brief contact and emotions that surged from those milliseconds. The spaciousness of the court. The invisible wings.

He was completely absorbed within months.

The court was the only place he took off his mask and gloves. Komori had laughed, commenting that it had been years since he saw Kiyoomi fully. It was an exaggeration, but he did feel a swell of pride and relief when he witnessed his mother tearing up in the audience, clapping as he waved at her at his first official match. Although he fumbled a couple of receives and missed a spike or two, they won. His mother came running to him and stroked his reddening palms. She whispered:

“You were born to fly, Kiyoomi.”

Albeit quite dramatic, he liked that.

His mother hadn’t been wrong (she rarely was). He had a prodigious sense and talent for the sport, as well as the determination to practice in order to improve. Some called his pessimism and nitpickiness flaws, but in volleyball, it somehow fit. He didn’t overestimate his skills, and he concentrated on the accuracy of his serves and spike courses. His setters complained over his excessively specific demands, but he was the ace and the one that led the team to victory.

Years passed. He attended Doushou Junior High and was easily crowned the ace of the club. Unfortunately, due to an ankle injury of their regular setter, they dropped out in the quarterfinals of their regional Kanto tournament in their third year. Itachiyama had already scouted him by then, so he didn’t have many concerns about where to go next; only a bitter aftertaste of defeat remained.

“Apparently,” Komori switched on the TV set, “there are these – amazing twins.” Kiyoomi was dragged along to the couch. He honestly didn’t give a crap about how amazing these twins were; he wanted to finish his homework before dinner. “Come on, this is the junior high finalist game. It’s kinda huge.” Relenting, he crouched beside Komori and squinted at the flickering screen. There was the usual volleyball court and players. Yako Junior High was losing by a set. “That’s the school, the one with the… Miya twins, right. They’re called the Miya twins.”

His lungs seemed to shrink at the mention of their names. Kiyoomi frowned.

The Miya twins.

“And Miya Atsumu scores a point with a two-attack dump!”

The commentator shouted. His heart raced as the camera zoomed into a face – the setter.

And then –

(“Kayu, Kiyoomi, this is my last poem.”)

(“I will come to embrace ya once more in spring, when the forsythias and plum blossoms are in full bloom.”)

(“I dunno how to love ya just right. If I get too warm, ya might turn into ashes, but if I get too cold, I fear that yer gonna wilt. Say, Omi – how am I s’posed to love ya?”)

(“I’ll always miss ya.”)

(“I’ll wait for ya. Come flyin’, Kiyoomi.”)

He wasn’t certain what had occurred. When he was conscious, Komori was attempting to console him, asking whether he was alright, where his medication was, if he needed something else, on the verge of ringing his parents. The television screen was black, and Miya Atsumu was nowhere to be seen. He told his cousin that he had to be left alone. Reluctantly, Komori left with his brows furrowed in worry.

It was an incomparable experience.

The memories that didn’t exist prior to that minute suddenly did. They didn’t gush into him like a dysfunctional faucet, not like a wild waterfall after a squall. No, it was something on an entirely different league – an almost endless film of scenes and clips that weren’t there before were uncontrollably playing in his head. He heaved into the toilet and coughed, and coughed, and coughed, hoping the repeated act would magically wake him from this nightmare. It didn’t, of course.

Half an hour later, when he was shivering on the bathroom tiles alone, his sister barged into the room and hollered for Takaomi.

The doctors informed his family that he had gone through a particularly strong attack. They attempted to discover the trigger by asking him roundabout questions. He kept his mouth mostly shut, responding with general answers related to his mysophobia.

Because, well – what he was supposed to say?

When he was fully conscious and mindful of his surroundings again, the first thing he did was to lift both his legs. His right, then his left. And his arms, for good measure. An inexplicable flood of relief swept over him when he confirmed that they were all fine. The paralysis – the sensation, or rather, the lack of it – was too real. The helplessness, the fragility of his soul, the utter loss of light and purpose. And not to mention –

(“Hey, your name is Omi? Cry for me, hm? I’m paying for you, you can do that, yeah?”)

He ran to the toilet once more and puked.

The mossy ceilings. It was an image carved into his being. He could recall each green-brown splotch, every moldy black corner. He used to think that was the ceiling of his grandmother’s house. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

For weeks, he was not able to process what happened. He lived like a changed person. Not much about Sakusa Kiyoomi had changed, but simultaneously, everything had. He wore longer sleeves. He ran more laps in the mornings until he could feel his thighs strain and his stomach pull inside. He did not flinch when people touched him, but he instinctively scooted away from them, maintaining a safe distance at all times. He did not read or buy any volleyball magazines and briskly walked out of the gym and clubroom when other members were chatting about the latest powerhouses and aces of schools outside their prefecture.

That would typically be the norm if you’re forced to accept the fact that this life was not your first out of the blue.

Initially, he fought the idea. It couldn’t be true – it just couldn’t be true. Reincarnation was a fictional, completely theoretical, unevidenced concept. It was a trope that sappy and depressing romance movies used around the winter season for the sole purpose of making people sad. It was a bullshit myth that some girls in elementary used to gossip about.

But he knew he couldn’t refute his fate when he finally mustered the strength and courage to check the validity of his memories. Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime – they were a duo he had never encountered, but somehow knew. They were former third years at a Miyagi powerhouse named Kitagawa Daiichi, their appearances slightly younger than he recalled, but otherwise identical. He saw their photo in a sports newspaper. And there was absolutely no chance of him knowing them when he had never met them before.

The Edo period, Yoshiwara, four hundred years ago, and a red string of fate.

Miya Atsumu.

Someone he used to love.

Kiyoomi huffed aloud, hugging his knees as he sat on his bed at night.

He wasn’t even aware that he was interested in men. And out of all ways to find out – out of all ways to find out, it had to be this. This, which didn’t feel real.

It’s strange. It’s strange when you’re fourteen and abruptly feel like you’re in your late twenties. It feels wrong to love someone you’ve never even brushed fingers with before. Sakusa Kiyoomi felt strange and wrong. And the most crucial thing to take note of, was that he was no longer confident that these feelings were his.

At least to say, it messed him up. Thoroughly.

He began to withdraw from his family. At the dining table, when Kayu sat across from him and ate her lunch, he saw her broken, deformed corpse in the bush. When Takaomi called him over to wash the dishes, he saw his brother shoving the crate with cheeks smeared in ash. He could smell the smoke scorching his nostrils, the wretched tanginess of charcoaled animals, and amongst everything else, wood saturated in the rotten stench of putrid fish. And it was hell.

“We can’t help you if you don’t say a thing, Kiyo.” His brother said one day, after months of ignoring the elephant in the room. He signed up to move into a private dormitory at Itachiyama, and it was a week before his departure. Kayu stopped initiating conversations after he snapped at her to piss off. His parents tiptoed around him ever since he told them to not come to his games. Takaomi, being the more obstinate one of the Sakusa’s, was the only person who wasn’t deterred by his sudden shift in attitude. “You know we all care.”

“Nobody told you to,” he grumbled.

Takaomi softened. “I know you care the most, Kiyo.”

Looking back on his adolescence now, he can admit that he had a defeatist mindset – that nobody would be able to understand him, that he was the most unfortunate human being in the universe, so on and so forth. He doesn’t think that that’s his fault; there’s only so much you can expect from a middle schooler.

Surprisingly, the distance served for the better. There were fewer triggers with his family out of sight. Spring was an arduous, tiresome season because all of his clearest, strongest memories were all in springtime. But even then, due to the fact that he spent more hours of the week alone, he was slowly able to manage his emotions and the flashes from his past – his past of centuries ago. His panic attacks decreased notably in frequency. He didn’t suffer from as many nightmares. He was still prescribed sleeping pills for his “insomnia,” but that too was resolved as he searched for healthier options, such as stretching exercises and herbal tea. The morning jogs and exercise proved to be beneficial.

He was improving. Not that anyone else could notice, but he could.

Then, the youth camp approached.

“He’s coming too, apparently.” Komori glanced at him, “The setter of the Miya twins.”

“Miya Atsumu?”

“Yeah, him.” His cousin appeared warier than usual. “You okay with that?”

No, he wasn’t okay. He had regained some peace of mind at last. Miya Atsumu lingered in his heart every day, every night, and he wasn’t even Miya Atsumu of the present. His heart was whispering, “You love him, you love him, you love him.” He hated it. He would’ve ripped out the organ, only if it didn’t take his life along as well. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, you, well,” a sheepish sniff, “nah. Nothing.”

He read in a book once: the disparity between love and hate was paper-thin. The heart beat when it loved. The heart also beat when it hated. There was no physical difference, only an emotional one. It was all a matter of perspective and interpretation.

On the bus journey to the camp, he chanted to himself over and over, “You hate him, you hate him, you hate him.”

One might say that ‘hate’ is too much of a negative emotion. It’s a fair argument; he had never met the current Miya Atsumu, after all. He could be decent, and he could even be nice, not that a nice personality appealed to Kiyoomi. But he couldn’t afford to treat him lukewarmly. This wasn’t about Miya Atsumu, this was about Kiyoomi. This was about how he had ruined his own life because he happened to remember a piece of another ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi’ he wasn’t meant to revive. And he desired to live. He desired to live – sanely. Unrestrained by his past, unrestrained by love. He technically had no one to love anymore, as his red string was severed four hundred years in the past.

A very tiny part of him also wondered if Miya went through the same experience as he did. If he had, then maybe they’d be able to understand each other. He veiled that possibility, though, because then his hopes traveled elsewhere – to a chance that he might become interested in Miya. That demolished his aim of hating him.

You know you’re desperate when hating someone is the only way you can breathe.

“You’re kind of pale.” Komori inspected the vicinity, “Is it the air conditioning?”

“Motion sickness,” he lied. His pulse rate shot through the roof as they trudged over to the gym. Beyond that door was Miya. The boy who had been alive and dead in him the past year.

(You hate him. You hate him. You hate him. Don’t listen to anyone else. You hate him. You hate him.)

They entered.

In the periphery of his vision, he saw Miya Atsumu.

He had blonde hair.

(“Omi.”

“Hm?”

“How would I look with yellow hair?”

“Horrid.”)

He didn’t look so terrible. A shocker.

His heart threatened to burst as he quietly walked past Miya. The setter did not react. Well, something in him deflated, that wasn’t a big deal.

At camp, they hardly interacted. He found it queer as Miya seemed to be congenial terms with everyone else, although there was a disturbing edge to his personality. The setter was undeniably more laconic when he communicated with Kiyoomi. He didn’t think much of it; if anything, he was thankful. Whether Miya Atsumu retained his memories or not, he was not somebody Kiyoomi wished to interact with ever again. Not when he was conflicted as is.

Besides, it wasn’t as if they were destined, anymore.

(Would such a future be ahead of us?)

He bit his tongue.

Don’t think about it.

You hate him.

Just hate him.

The camp was hosted once a year throughout his three years of high school. He was invited every year, and so was Miya. He avoided the boy like the plague, and the latter didn’t make an effort to befriend him either. His heart persisted to ache when he let his mind wander and land on the blonde, but Kiyoomi swatted the emotion away as something akin to agitation and ire. It was an involuntary reaction, a part of him that, strictly speaking, wasn’t his.

“You won’t be able to do that forever.”

“Huh?” He scowled at Komori, “Do what?”

“Cutting people out of your life,” he chomped a hefty bite from his popsicle, “being an antisocial asshole, and such. We’re graduating in two weeks, we’ll both go pro, and you’ll have to get over that… well, that.”

A noncommittal hum, “I’m alright.”

“How long has it been since you’ve messaged auntie?” He paused. Komori sighed. “My point exactly.”

“You probably ramble on about how I’m doing anyway.”

“That’s not the same thing.” The brunet halted and took his popsicle out of his mouth. “I’m not trying to be a bitch or whatever, but – you know you’re different, right?” His cousin seemed to be actually upset. And Komori never got upset. “You’ve been different since middle school. You’re pushing everyone away. It’s like you’re scared to ever create some sort of bond, relationship – a connection.”

Scared.

Was he?

“It’s just,” he couldn’t find appropriate words, “a pain.”

Komori stared at him. “You’ll be lonely someday.”

Inwardly, Kiyoomi responded, it’s either confusion or solitude.

Over the course of three years, he had more time to reflect on his situation. He attempted to draw a line between ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi’ and ‘Omi,’ but he never could. Whenever he attempted to do so, a memory interrupted him, and his focus evaporated. He’d have to live with this eternal state of bewilderment. Now, if he handled this alone, then it became his problem. When he had to form connections with others, however, it was no longer his own. How could he care for them when he wasn’t sure whether his affection, romantic or not, was his? What kind of relationship would that be?

The answer: nothing. Meaningless scrap.

If that were the case, he was better off alone.

With that resolve, he marched on. A year and a half later, he signed a contract with MSBY Black Jackals after passing their seasonal tryouts. He conversed and practiced with his teammates, but he didn’t bother to do much more with them. He rented an apartment that was an hour away from the MSBY gym building by foot and filled it with candles and minimalistic furniture. He discarded anything that wasn’t necessary. Without much in life, there was also nothing much to feel.

He thought that was his future.

Until Miya Atsumu was scouted by the Black Jackals.

“We all agreed that we needed a more solid setter,” Meian announced to the team, “’we,’ as in the board members, Coach Foster, and us. Come on. We’ve all been thinking about it, haven’t we?”

“Miya, huh,” Inuaki rubbed his chin, “the setter of TY Eagles, right?”

“One of the best teams in Division 2.”

“Who’s met him already?”

Bokuto’s hand shot up. “At nationals – spring tournament, my third year of high school. Guy’s got a nasty personality when he’s in the game, but he seemed alright.”

“Well, he’s already in, nasty or not.” Meian’s attention was redirected towards him. “What about you, Sakusa? He’s your age, isn’t he?”

He dragged his mask further up his nose. “We weren’t close.” Meian the rest of the team didn’t appear too startled at that. He was not the most amicable teammate they had, surely.

The gravity of his fate crushed him when he got home, amidst brewing a cup of tea. As a puff of steam from the teapot warmly condensed on his skin, he felt as if someone was strangling him. He stood there, unable to pour his cup of jasmine, feet rooted to the floorboards. Right, they weren’t close. They weren’t close at all. Who was he kidding? They exchanged less than fifty words in the span of three years, when they spent more than three weeks together total at camp. That had been tolerable. It kept him awake at night and he downed three times his average dose of sleeping pills in high school, but it was tolerable. Once camp was over, he didn’t have to bump into Miya for another year; he could simply not watch his matches at the nationals.

But if Miya signed a contract with the Jackals, they were discussing years. More than a season. Many seasons.

And Kiyoomi wasn’t ready.

When had he ever been ready?

Fuck, he balled his fists on the bar of his kitchen, his tea chilled and cold in the teapot. Fuck, I was just starting to get better. Seven years. He had hit the seven-year mark of his life going to shit. He learned to separate himself from a crowd. He trained himself so that even if the memories inundated him during a game, he’d throw up in the toilet afterward. He could sleep without pills and extra doses of medication. He even considered ringing his mother last weekend. Even with nothing, he was fighting every single day, just to breathe. Just to cling to himself, because he lost most of him when he was only fourteen.

He did not get a wink of sleep the day Miya was supposed to join them.

Meian texted them to gather at the meeting room to greet the setter. He washed his face at the sink and grunted upon spotting the purple bags. Forget it. His fingers felt like strips of ice. Hate him. Just remember that you hate him. Don’t think about anything else.

He inhaled as he wrapped his palm around the knob.

You hate him.

“Hey, Miya, this is Sakusa Kiyoomi, our outside hitter.”

For the first time in two years, he looked at Miya in the eye.

“Hi,” Miya extended his hand awkwardly and then stiffened. His orbs wavered for a second, and then he lowered his hand. Kiyoomi blinked. “Miya Atsumu.” Not a handshake, then. Good. Had they opted for a handshake, the setter would’ve been able to catch his fiercely beating pulse, and he’d have no persuasive excuse.

He mumbled, “I know.”

His fingertips trembled as he rushed to the refrigerator. Many emotions – emotions he hadn’t felt in a while – breezed through him. There was a thin layer of panic, apprehension, and fear, a default layer he grew acclimated to living with. As he swung open the fridge, however, an empty void supplanted his madly pumping heart.

He saw Miya’s face.

That underwhelmed, completely unaffected, dispassionate face.

The face of someone who didn’t remember a thing.

(“Wait for me, yeah? Wait until I come for ya.”)

He realized this in high school. It wasn’t anything new. It was evident that Miya hadn’t gone through what he had. In high school, he didn’t care as much. He was too preoccupied with himself and his issues, the terrors at night, and his severe insomnia. He had not been in a state where he could feel anything about someone else.

It was different now.

Something pricked him.

He remembered –

But Miya didn’t.

His initial thought: Liar.

And then:

How could you?

He took out a bottle of water and slammed the refrigerator. Miya was chatting with the other members. The nearly glaciated bottle numbed his calloused palm. His toes curled in his sneakers as he held a shaky breath.

How could you?

He made it his personal mission to steer clear of Miya as much as possible. All he felt when he watched the man was an ugly muddle of frustration, betrayal, and the mildest fondness – a fondness that he did not categorize as his own. Why me? He couldn’t accept it. Why him, and not Miya? Why not both of them? Why not none of them? It was an ill-fortuned love from four hundred years ago. There must’ve been thousands of people with similar stories during that era. What was so special about them? Because they were both men? Because he couldn’t use his legs?

What was so special about the two of them – that it had to be remembered?

And why did he have to be the one?

He scoffed.

Because my life is shit, I guess.

There couldn’t be any other explanation.

A month went by until the ice shattered.

“Uh, Sakusa… Sakusa-kun.” His name was called. “Um, hi.” By Miya Atsumu.

He grabbed his body wash and bit his bottom lip. Agitation bubbled within him. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. He did just that. Miya did not react well and blocked his path. Kiyoomi was the one to back down. “Hi, Miya.” He laughed mentally as he headed towards a vacant shower stall. Hi, Miya? What a joke.

What a sick joke.

Naively enough, he thought that’d be it.

It was a given that fate had other plans.

“… Ya live here?”

Jesus fucking Christ, you cannot be serious.

They were both dead serious.

“Which floor?”

“Fourth. 407.”

“Oh. I’m on the ninth. 910.”

They boarded the elevator in solemn muteness, the awkwardness almost palpable. At the fourth floor, the lift dinged, and he muttered a reluctant thanks to the setter. Stampeding towards his house, he tousled his locks and groaned. Someone tell me this isn’t real. I’ve gone through a fair load of things that didn’t feel quite real enough, and this does not have to be included in the list. Formerly lovers, currently worse than acquaintances, and residing at the same apartment? Don’t mess around, my life isn’t a Taiwanese romance film.

He sank into the mattress of his bed and sighed.

Fuck.

The most annoying part of this arrangement – well, there were two parts. One, Miya Atsumu could not simply be avoided. Two, the residues of Edo’s Sakusa Kiyoomi were hopelessly attracted to Miya Atsumu, and that impacted his decisions. And therefore,

“Ten minutes. Just ten minutes. Ya won’t even see a trace of me in yer house if ya give me ten minutes.”

He found himself letting Miya in, one step at a time. “Wear those slippers before you enter. Sanitize your hands with the alcohol spray on the cabinet. Don’t touch anything else in the house. Run straight to the bathroom. I don’t want to see any water droplets on the tiles once you’re finished.” The blonde swallowed. It was quite a jovial sight, to be honest, with how he was holding his towel and shaving cream, disheveled. “Ten minutes. Go.”

Miya sprinted to the bathroom. Kiyoomi crossed his arms and leaned on the wall.

This is common courtesy. His shower was broken and we’re neighbors. Nothing’s weird. Nothing’s out of the ordinary. I can do this much. Even if I don’t like him, I can do this much.

It was a huge miscalculation, though – that he believed Miya would leave after the shower. He did not.

He readied a cup of coffee for the other and was briefly reminded of how the past Miya liked sweet foods. “Sugar?” The question slipped out of him before he could wave it away. Luckily, the man thanked him and put in a spoonful of sugar without finding his sharpness suspicious.

They talked. It was unexpectedly natural, the rhythm between them familiar and comfortable. He revealed a lot more about himself than he thought he would, such as his issues with sleeping and common remedies. In the last five minutes, he had a jasmine-scented candle in his grasp to gift to Miya. “Dark roast espresso, no sugar, no milk, extra ice, and three napkins. My coffee order.” With that, he locked the door in Miya’s face.

I was just being nice.

(“I will always miss ya.”)

Just being nice.

The presence of Miya was an excruciating alarm that forced him to recall why he had become so aloof to begin with. The feelings were returning. Feelings that weren’t his. Affection and attraction he couldn’t understand. He never bothered to love anyone for more than twenty years for that precise reason.

But it was too late.

(“Me too.”)

The cogs were already rotating.

And as if to prove this, Atsumu said:

“Thanks, Omi.”

A sour acridness caused his tastebuds to dry and prickle. “Don’t call me that.”

(“Call me Miya.”)

Miya smirked defiantly. In that smirk, Kiyoomi saw Atsumu. He saw the samurai who appeared ever so frequently in his dreams, a poisoned arrow piercing his heart. Atsumu had a radiance nobody else could imitate, and it was that radiance that resembled the golden hue of forsythias. And although he didn’t want to admit, that very second, he could slightly understand why the geisha could not resist this man, or who this man used to be.

He was bright.

“Omi-kun, then.”

Since that day, he became confuddled once more.

The mantra of ‘you hate him’ weathered. He minded Atsumu’s pestering and mocking less and less. They ate udon together at Osaka, which exceeded his expectations. Their relationship was no longer stagnant, with Kiyoomi being able to respond to Atsumu’s snarky jokes. They advanced and advanced, until the anxiety in Kiyoomi wound around his heart like thorned vines. He couldn’t erase his trauma – his childhood, his deranged adolescent years, and his utter confusion. That had him shoving Atsumu away again, leading to an odd dynamic of push-and-pull.

And then Atsumu exploded.

“Make up yer fuckin’ mind,” he saw the hurt in Atsumu’s flickering irises. “’Cause ‘m sick of it. This push and pull thing yer doin’ – it sickens me. Six months, Omi, six months. Even yesterday, ya gave me all that trash when I invited ya for a ride, and then just now, ya casually start a conversation in the elevator. What song ‘m I s’posed to dance to? If ya hate me then just stick with it, I don’t wanna spend another season tryin’ to butter up to ya –“

“Miya.”

He clutched Atsumu’s sleeve. He had to make a choice. If he didn’t seize this opportunity, he’d be a coward forever. He would be the fourteen-year-old Sakusa Kiyoomi who wallowed in his sorrows without listening to anyone else. How he really felt towards Miya didn’t matter – this was about himself. This was about whether he would be able to live, even in the presence of others.

This was about him, learning to move on.

“I don’t hate you.”

(There was something he noticed once the statement escaped him.

He did not hate Miya Atsumu.

And it was the truth.)

Moving on meant making amends.

The grand first obstacle was his family.

“Wanna ride?” Atsumu offered, as it was raining outside, but he refused. He was meeting his sister at a nearby café. They hadn’t spoken to each other in months, not since Kiyoomi intentionally sliced himself off the entire Sakusa household. His brother never really let him go, because Takaomi was like that, but Kayu was more wounded by his retaliation than anyone else.

It was about time.

Kayu was seated in a corner booth of the café, the tabletop wiped clean without a spec of dust in sight. She had ordered herself a cup of hot black coffee and a banana muffin. “Kayu,” he greeted, the syllables rolling off his tongue in unfamiliar chunks. “It’s been a while.”

Kayu glared at him meaningfully. “A while?”

“Years, I suppose.”

“I can’t believe you never came home,” she shook her head, her legs crossed defensively, “don’t you ever think about mom and dad? They’ve been waiting for you to visit for ages, Kiyo, goddamned ages. I get that you’re- I don’t know, obsessed with volleyball, it’s your profession and lifelong passion, I get it. We all get it, okay? But you never tell us anything about yourself, your games, it’s like the stalker reporters of Sports Daily know you more than we do –“

He butted into his sister’s tirade. Kayu wouldn’t cease to spew enraged words otherwise. “I’m sorry.” Upon hearing the apology, Kayu bit her tongue. “I know it wasn’t… the best course of action, but it was my best.” She faltered. Kayu had always been weak against him. He was taking advantage of that, no matter how unfair it was. “I won’t be able to tell you my reasons. Not even Taka, nor mom and dad. It’s nothing personal; I think I won’t be able to explain it coherently to anyone.”

Kayu was glowering at her muffin. She hated bananas. She probably had no clue what she was getting. That indicated how nervous she had been to meet him. “I just,” she clamped her glossed lips, “I just wanted to help you.”

“I know.” He couldn’t possibly confess that her absence alleviated his conditions and symptoms. “I really do.” Because she was one of the geisha’s biggest regrets: the fact that he wasn’t able to bury her properly, as she deserved, as he promised his brother. Consequently, she was the one he remembered the most powerfully about. “But I’m doing better now.”

“Really?”

“Positive.”

Kayu seemed to be relieved afterward. They bid their farewells and Kiyoomi regressed to his apartment, treading through the harsh downpour. His shoes and pants were saturated and soggy with rainwater when he arrived, but it felt as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders. He’d eventually contact his parents as well; they’d be delighted to hear from him.

Slowly. I can regain them slowly.

There was one event he didn’t anticipate that night, however, and that was Atsumu knocking at his door half-past three in the morning.

And a chill shot down his spine when Atsumu murmured about his nightmares in the dark.

(“I didn’t want anyone to call me Atsumu. I thought that if I trashed the name of Miya, if I did that, then… then Samu wouldn’t live. He’d just be a figment of my imagination, someone that never actually existed, someone I just, someone I just… created, and then killed.”)

There was no other alternative.

Atsumu was regaining his memories as well, one by one.

Sakusa’s heart squeezed.

There was no good in dwelling on the past. They might’ve once been lovers. They might’ve once been more than just lovers. They were once destined to be together, but now they weren’t.

“Omi.”

“What?”

“What’s yer favorite flower?”

(“I don’t have one. Why do you ask?”)

He inhaled. “I don’t have one. Why do you ask?”

Through the audible tightness in Atsumu’s voice, his suspicions were confirmed. Atsumu was beginning to remember, albeit in a distinct fashion from Kiyoomi. If luck was on their side, he might forever believe that he’s dreaming, that none of his “dreams” were once real. That would be beneficial for not only Atsumu but both of them. Yes, he used to think it was unjust that he had to be the one to bear the brunt of the sword, but if it was a past better forgotten, then one of them was enough.

He was enough.

A whisper:

“Forget, Atsumu.”

(“It doesn’t matter. Over love and life, I will choose him. Over and over – I will choose him.” Because, “I don’t need this kind of destiny.”)

They didn’t need this kind of destiny.

October fifth was Atsumu’s birthday.

This was not a piece of information he acquired from his memories; both of their past selves were not aware of each other’s birthdays. It probably wasn’t an important concept to them, considering their social statuses. Atsumu’s birthday was displayed on his profile on the MSBY Black Jackals homepage.

“I’ll buy ya dinner,” Atsumu purchased an espresso for him, tailored perfectly to his preferences. “The blackout, y’know.”

The blackout, he repressed the urge to snort. They had been hanging around together for a few months, and Miya Atsumu was an extremely decipherable person. He would never be a dexterous conman or a Hollywood actor (he had the looks, at least). This is about his birthday, isn’t it? Sipping his coffee, he feigned cluelessness. “This will suffice.”

“Just let me treat ya.”

He complied. They could spend a birthday together, as, well, teammates. Comrades. That sort of thing. As Motoya once cautioned, he couldn’t spend his whole life alone like some shriveled potted cactus forgotten by its owner. There should be no red string latched around their fingers now, though Kiyoomi couldn’t see it anyway.

Five hours before dinner, he realized that birthdays needed gifts.

Shoot. He pinched the bridge of his nose. The most recent birthday he celebrated was years ago, and he didn’t buy presents then because it was his aunt’s. He also didn’t want to consult his cousin as it was as clear as day that he’d be nosy and report to his mother, who would then proceed to call him and ask to bring the girl home.

What’s considered as a gift appropriate for teammates? Not something too pricey yet cheap, not something with oddly interpretable connotations, not something romantic. His heart intuitively twitched at the word, ‘romantic.’ I guess I’ll get a dessert. Atsumu liked sweet foods. Cookies, then – high-quality cookies were moderately priced. Not romantic or anything.

“Yer so unromantic, Omi-kun.” Deadpanned Atsumu on their walk to the Thai restaurant. Thank you, that’s the look I’m going for. “It’s one of those nonscientific, cultish beliefs. Like the red strings of fate, or…” he paused and glimpsed at Atsumu. No, he doesn’t know. He isn’t acting. He’s not an actor. “Miracles on White Christmas.”

Miracles, huh.

If there were curses, then there had to be miracles.

He huffed. “Childish.”

They bantered and conversed over dinner. He paid for the meal and wished Atsumu a happy birthday, tossing him his pack of cookies. As soon as he returned home, he flopped over his couch and remained motionless for minutes. Atsumu’s blithe smile was ingrained into his mind – the smile he wore as he gushed about White Christmas. It wasn’t a smile he had seen in his memories, from the infamous crimson blade. The crimson blade’s smiles had been bittersweet and unstable, as if he was in love with someone who could pulverize any moment. This Atsumu – Miya Atsumu of the Black Jackals – was different.

He was someone Kiyoomi didn’t remember.

A possibility he never contemplated over popped into his train of thought.

(If this Miya Atsumu wasn’t the Miya Atsumu from four centuries ago, then –

Then, could he fall in love with him?)

No.

Don’t think about it.

Even if Atsumu wasn’t the same person, what about him?

Who was he?

Who was Sakusa Kiyoomi?

(It wasn’t a question he didn’t long to answer – it was a question he couldn’t answer on his own.

Even after all these years, he was a somebody, better off labeled as a nobody.)

As if to remind him of his unresolved trauma, the nightmares slithered back into his life, until he came down with a fever.

His nightmares had a repertoire. He witnessed a venomous arrow piercing the samurai’s chest, the man clutching onto his bloodied kimono sleeve as he recited his brother’s poem. There were the unhinged and intoxicated customers who degraded him through the devastatingly long twilight of winter. Sometimes, it was just him in that miserable, somber chamber, paralyzed and alone.

He usually woke up with an inaudible scream, his fingernails clawing at his sheets, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Out of habit, he kicked off the blankets to make sure that his legs were functional.

That morning, he was too exhausted to even lift his pinky.

Atsumu pounded on his door as he didn’t make it to the jog, and Kiyoomi let him in, half-delirious. When the setter fussed and demanded an explanation, he said it was because he gave his umbrella to a grandma. Which was technically not a lie. He did give an umbrella to a grandma, but he had a spare for himself. Lessons were learned when he had to ride Atsumu’s car.

Atsumu’s porridge was edible. In fact, it was quite delicious. It was a pleasant surprise.

After taking his medicine, he drifted away on the bed once more, to another bout of feverish slumber. He dreamt about Ru, the snowy night he jumped into a river to follow Iwaizumi’s tracks. Don’t forget about me, he whispered as he kissed his forehead, don’t forget about you. He cried out for the older geisha, begging him not to leave. All he could think about was how the men who hurt Tooru would deride him as they burned his corpse; the men who assaulted and bruised Tooru every night and early morn. “A geisha who was afraid to retire,” they would mock, “it was either the river or the streets, wasn’t it?” As if they knew him. As if they knew why Ru chose to die.

His eyes shot open.

A dream.

Just a dream.

He calmed himself, breathing in and out. Beside him was Atsumu, who had also dozed off.

(As if they knew why Ru chose to die.)

(“Over love and life, I will choose him.”)

He studied his pale pinky and then reached out towards Atsumu.

His throat constricted.

At the photoshoot for the promotional video, he was introduced to Kuroo Tetsurou.

During the break between his solo shoots, the man greeted him and handed Kiyoomi his card. “Kuroo Tetsurou,” he beamed. The hairs on his arms stood at the voice. He had heard this voice somewhere. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sakusa-san.” Kuroo didn’t take note of his circumspection. “To be candid, I wasn’t convinced that you’d agree to this appointment. I’m glad everything ironed out, though.”

“Ah, yes.” He replied a tempo late, “Of course.”

Kuroo sent him a wry expression. It unnerved him. “So, the Black Jackals. What’s it like?”

“Nothing atypical,” where was it? Where did I meet him? “Just like any other division 1 team, I guess.”

“And Bokuto’s wild, yeah?”

“Right.” He turned to Kuroo, “You know him?”

“Sure. High school friends. I was the captain of Nekoma – you might not know us. We weren’t exactly regulars at the nationals, unlike Itachiyama and Fukurodani.” Oh. Maybe that’s where. He knew Nekoma; they were the cats who competed against the crows at the spring national tournament. Itachiyama was defeated due to Iizuna’s injury halfway through. “Well, we lost to Karasuno either way.”

“I see.” No… doesn’t seem spot-on. Something bugged him. “Have we met at the nationals?”

Kuroo shook his head, “I don’t think so. Not like this, at least.” Thought so. “Why?”

“No, nothing.”

A staff member gestured at Kuroo to move out from the angle. “Oops. I suppose I’m being a nuisance.” He flashed a welcoming grin at Kiyoomi, “Feel free to hang around the set. We still have some more photos to take.” He nodded. Kuroo barked at a manager who was lounging in the corner and then swiveled around to stare at him. “By the way, just… you know. You can ignore this if you’d like,” he blinked, “be careful next spring.”

What? “I’m sorry?”

“You don’t have to take me seriously,” shrugged Kuroo, “but it might help. Okay, I’m officially tardy to the next meeting. I’ll see you soon, Sakusa-san.”

He never received a clarification on what that warning was implying. Be careful next spring? What for? And how would Kuroo know, anyway? What did Kuroo know that he didn’t? Not to mention, he still had no recollection of where he formerly heard of Kuroo’s voice.

Unless –

Unless it wasn’t the present.

Was that plausible?

He laid wide awake in bed, submerged in his sea of thoughts. Hours must’ve flown by when he twisted his head towards the curtained window. Through the thin gap of the curtains, he saw a fluff of white, which gently tugged him out of his trance.

(“’M lookin’ forward to it, though, it might be a White Christmas.”)

Half-skeptical, he scrambled to the window and opened the curtains.

It was snowing.

(“Miracles on White Christmas.”)

He didn’t know why, but before he was aware, he was dialing Atsumu’s number.

“Omi? What is it?” Atsumu said groggily, his query laced with sleep. Kiyoomi touched the frigid window and gazed at the whitening metropolis.

“Have you looked outside the window?”

Atsumu was thrilled. It was a matter of seconds until the phone call warped into an invitation to the beach. And of course, because he didn’t wish to rob Atsumu of his glee, he obliged. It was Christmas, after all. There was a place for happiness.

It’s freezing. The air reeks of sea brine, and the salty breeze sifts through his curls. Atsumu stands next to him, leaning against the car. The ocean is gray-indigo, just like how the ocean would appear at this hour of the day. Something feels warm in his heart as he vaguely thinks, right, you never got to see this. ‘You,’ as in the other Kiyoomi. The geisha who was never permitted to escape the suffocating boundaries of his cramped room.

“Omi,” he flitted towards Atsumu, who went on, “the sky’s blue, ain’t it?”

He wondered if that was a genuine question or Atsumu attempting to probe him. Then again, it didn’t seem to matter. It was Christmas. Christmas had that quality – as if nothing else mattered, other than the fact that it was Christmas. Like anything could happen.

“Depends on where you are. It’s not blue right now, is it?”

(“Say, Omi, do you know how to realize you’re in love?”)

“Yeah. Yer right.”

He exhaled.

Chapter Text

On Saturday, three days before New Year’s, he visited his brother with a bottle of champagne from the supermarket.

Takaomi swung open the door and stared at him for three seconds. Kiyoomi held up the bottle and mumbled, “Hi.” It was an impulsive decision, and he hadn’t messaged his brother beforehand. However, Takaomi beamed.

“Come in.” He entered. Takaomi was casually rambling, “I would’ve cleaned the house if you sent me a text. I forgot to do the laundry yesterday morning- wait, you did not see that sock. I swear the couch is clean.” Kiyoomi shrugged and plopped onto the couch. While he never thought of his mysophobia as a hindrance, he was a bit sorry for how it transformed his entire family’s lifestyle, though they might not be aware of it. “Is that champagne?”

“Yeah.” Takaomi took the bottle from him and placed it on the island bar. “From Lawson’s. The big one.”

“Seriously? You bought us supermarket champagne? What’s the point of me having a rich little brother, then?”

“You’re a doctor, you should earn enough.”

His brother clucked his tongue, “I wish. I’d have to open my own clinic to collect pennies, Kiyo. Do you want anything? I have some macadamia nuts, almonds… oh, I got camembert cheese and crackers. And mom’s pickled plums.”

“Pickled plums, then.”

“Who eats pickled plums with champagne?” Nonetheless, his brother scooped a spoonful of pickled plums and served them in a bowl, arranging his own platter. He returned to the living room with two glasses. Just when he was about to undo the cork, Takaomi’s phone rang. “Sorry, it’s my girlfriend. Give me five minutes.”

“Sorry, you had a date?”

“No, she’s probably going to break up with me.” With a cool shrug, Takaomi slipped into his bedroom and answered the phone. Kiyoomi blinked but did not question him. Instead, he rose to his feet and loitered around the house; he had never been to his brother’s place until tonight.

Takaomi was the odd one out of the Sakusa household, rather than Kiyoomi who had mysophobia and was an athlete. It was most likely because he and his sister inherited most of their genes from their father, while Takaomi was born as a carbon copy of their mother. Takaomi was the artist of the family – an occupation that only existed in the Komori bloodline, not the Sakusa’s. He had many friends (also rare for a Sakusa) and was easygoing, lighthearted but with deep intellect. It only made sense that Motoya and Kiyoomi were cousins after one had seen Takaomi, who resembled their youngest but acted nothing like him. It was also why his parents were astounded when their oldest announced that he wanted to become a doctor in high school.

That went on a tangent – in summary, Takaomi was unique, and so was his taste. He could see it in the gigantic modern art design framed on his wall, something one would never find at his or Kayu’s apartment. On the bookshelf in the corner was a collection of poems and classic novels from various countries, not particularly organized in any order or genre. He skimmed through the titles, some familiar and some written in a different language.

Then, his eyes landed on a notebook, metal springs poking through the assortment of books. He pulled it out and read the cover. Poetry. Sakusa Takaomi, 2-B. Second grade? No, judging from the relaxed penmanship, it had to be his second year of middle school. Let’s see…

“Winter,” was the title.

[Winter – Sakusa Takaomi]

When the last icicle hanging from our roof thaws

I wonder if we’ll be able to see

A sprouting seed in the glaciated earth.

When the sprout grows,

I hope it becomes a plum blossom tree

So that everyone knows,

Winter is over.

His lips mouthed the words on the page. He clutched the edges of the notebook and absorbed the verses in awe, enraptured by the image it painted in his head. He thought about the poem that had been living in his head since he was a teenager.

“Oh my god,” stomp, stomp, stomp, “what the hell are you reading? Oh my- that’s from middle school!” Takaomi’s face was beetroot as he snatched the notebook from Kiyoomi and tossed it back to the bookshelf. “I can’t believe I let someone read that, even Madoka hasn’t read that!”

“Why didn’t you keep writing?” He frowned, “And who’s Madoka?”

“My sixth girlfriend. I liked her best.” His brother didn’t respond to his query and propped himself on the carpeted floor, popping the cork of the champagne. Kiyoomi dropped to the floor as well, across the foldable table. He nibbled on a pickled plum. “Irisu dumped me.”

“The one on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

“What number was she?”

“I don’t know, nineteenth? I lose track nowadays.” Takaomi munched on a salted cracker, “Dad’s been pestering me to bring a girl home and settle down, but it’s not really my thing. I like dating and I like being in relationships, but I don’t want to get married. You know what I mean?”

If marriage was an option, sure. “I guess.”

They chatted properly for the first time in years. Takaomi did not ask why he took so long or what brought him here. He wouldn’t have been able to answer the second question anyway, because he wasn’t certain himself. They clinked glasses, and halfway through his fourth, Takaomi appeared slightly drunk. Kiyoomi had a relatively high tolerance in comparison to his siblings.

“How was the poem?” He glanced at his brother, who was tilting his glass in a couple of decided angles. “The first one was Winter, wasn’t it? It took me six hours to write that.”

“Good,” it was a genuine compliment. “Really. I liked it.”

Takaomi hummed as he cupped his chin with a palm. A strip of melted cheese on a cracker vanished into his mouth. “Remember when we were kids?” A chuckle, “Well, you were a kid, I wasn’t. When we slept over at grandma’s during the summer.”

“Yeah,” he could still picture the mossy green ceiling, although it didn’t make him nauseous anymore. “What about it?”

“You might not recall this, but,” Takaomi sipped from the glass, “I was the one who told you to lie down.” He froze and reflected; he didn’t remember what occurred. He was too young. “I thought it was interesting, the moss. I just wanted to show you. I think I told you to lie down on the floor, and then grandma requested for my assistance in the garden, so I left you there alone.”

“Hm.”

“That haunted me for years, you know?” Kiyoomi lifted his face from the eaten plum, quizzical. The eldest sibling was smiling wistfully at the fizzy alcohol. “I thought it was my fault. The therapists kept saying there was no cause, that they couldn’t identify a trigger, and so I vaguely assumed that it was my fault. Because I was the one who made you lie down.”

He bristled. “Taka, that’s not –“

“Yeah. It’s nonsense.” Takaomi snorted, “I know. But I was a kid and it scared me. The whole, you know, thought of it. Every time you and mom went to the hospital, I was so afraid that one of the therapists would just figure it out. That I was the one who made you see such a thing. Or that even worse, you would.” He stared at his brother, his fingers curling into the fur of the carpet. “It controlled me for a very long time. The fear, I mean. I think it wasn’t really about you at that point; it was about me. I won’t delve into the details, but – it was rough.” Takaomi poured himself another glass.

“And then, I read a poem.” He briefly flitted to Kiyoomi, “Have you read Lorca before, Kiyo? Federico Garcia Lorca.”

“No.” He didn’t read poems since high school, when they were mandatory.

Takaomi’s head bobbed a little as he inhaled. “Si muero,” Spanish flowed smoothly off his tongue, “Dejad el balcón abierto. El niño come naranjas, desde mi balcón lo veo. El segador…” his brother wrinkled his nose, trailing off. “Crap. I forgot. I used to memorize the whole poem in middle school.”

He nodded. “What’s it called?”

“El balcón. The balcony.” Takaomi’s lips quirked, “If I die, leave the balcony open. The boy eats oranges – from my balcony I see it. The reaper mowing wheat – from my balcony, I feel it. If I die, leave the balcony open.” Another sip, “It’s my favorite poem. It was the poem that saved me. When I read this aloud in the library, I cried. Really. I don’t know why, but I thought,” he sucked in a shaky breath, “I thought I could be forgiven.” He noticed the minute crease between his brother’s brows which conveyed his bitterness and nostalgia. “It might’ve just been a sentimental phase of a middle schooler. I don’t know. But it inspired me to write – I believed I could save people with my writing.”

Kiyoomi bit off the sourest portion of the plum. “I liked your poem.”

“Thanks.” Sighing, Takaomi continued, “But I found out that I didn’t have the gift. Everything I wrote felt ingenuine – except Winter. That one was written for you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, no joke. Anyway – I thought it didn’t matter, even if I didn’t have the heart for it. I could just become someone who saved people differently. Hence medical school.” He chuckled, “I’m glad I did. This job suits me.”

It did. Saving people fit Takaomi like a tuxedo tailored specially for him. Kiyoomi nodded in agreement. The pretty golden bubbles in the beverage floated upward. “I don’t care about the cause anymore.” He identified the cause when he was fifteen. Takaomi wasn’t included in the reason at all. “It wasn’t really that important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Takaomi exhaled through his nostrils, his lips pressed together into a soft smile. “So, what are you doing for New Year’s?”

“Going to the temple with the team.”

“You?” He scowled at the man. “I mean, sure. You can go to the temple with your team.” Stunned, Takaomi mumbled, “I just never imagined such a day would arrive. A day where my little brother is social.”

“We haven’t met each other in a while, so yes.”

The other huffed. “Whose fault is that?”

“Mine.”

“At least you’re aware.” The air conditioner was switched on as the room became stuffy with heat, although it was probably radiating off their flushed skin. “Mom misses you. Why don’t you bring her a present around June? It’s her birthday then. At least dad wouldn’t ask whether you have a girlfriend because you haven’t been home in forever.”

He reminisced on his past and what he had let go to breathe. Gradually, he was piecing Sakusa Kiyoomi back together. One by one.

He tipped the glass and replied:

“Sure.”

It was strange how Miya Atsumu melted into the iron layer of his life.

What should’ve been morning jogs morphed into coffee and breakfast outings, and what should’ve been late-night dinners ended up with them sitting beside each other on the couch reviewing their previous matches with other teams. Kiyoomi never thought it was unnatural while it happened because it was too natural. Atsumu had a way with him, persuading Kiyoomi with his charming Hyogo dialect and Osamu’s umeboshi onigiri. He never ruminated on how unusual this was for him because Atsumu made it seem like a daily occurrence.

Then he began to wonder.

It wasn’t anything major. They were watching a recording of their match against the Hornets, Atsumu cross-legged on the floor and Kiyoomi on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in the space between his legs. “Ah, I fumbled that toss, nasty,” Atsumu grunted, his nose scrunched up. Meian spiked it across the net anyway. “Captain saved that one.”

“You missed a jump floater immediately afterward.”

“Stop remindin’ me, ‘m tryin’ to forget.”

“Learn from your mistakes.”

“Ya also flunked a ball outta court ‘cause the Hornets’ left kept on challengin’ ya!”

“That was once.”

Atsumu puffed his cheeks adamantly. “Gah, I’m outta beer.” With a groan, the setter stumbled towards the refrigerator and scanned its contents. “Omi, ya don’t have any beer.”

“Be happy with water.”

“No waaaaay,” Atsumu whined, kicking the floorboard. Kiyoomi glared at him and pointed downstairs – he didn’t want the residents below to file a complaint. The blond furrowed his brows. And then, “Omi, let’s go outside.” He was sporting a mischievous grin, obviously eager to tempt the spiker. He glanced at the clock. It was half-past ten.

“It’s ten-thirty.”

“Yeah, Family Mart’s open until midnight. It’s a Sunday.”

“What if someone recognizes us?”

“We’ll take pictures and sign autographs, I s’pose. Fan service, Omi, it’s pretty critical.”

He frowned at Atsumu’s attire. “You’re in an ‘I Love Hawaii’ shirt and penguin-print pajama pants.”

“I can borrow yer parka, yer one size bigger than me.”

There was no chance for Kiyoomi’s victory. Pushing the bowl of popcorn aside, he grumbled, “Fine.” He didn’t bother changing out of his Nike sweatpants and T-shirt and pulled out two black parkas from the wardrobe. They both didn’t opt for sunglasses as that would only make them look more suspicious. Atsumu’s rosy-cheeked penguins poked out from parka, his feet wriggled into his sneakers. “I’m going back home if more than five people ask to take a selfie.”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t seen many of our fans at the local Family Mart.” They walked on the slippery pavement, Atsumu skidding over the frozen puddles of dirty water. Sakusa shook his head as a mother would watch her child play in the snow, cautioning the setter that he’d trip and bite off his tongue. “Ya didn’t hafta say that, now I’m thinkin’ about my poor tongue,” Atsumu pouted. He then proceeded to pull down his mask and slowly breathed out, a misty cloud dissipating into the atmosphere. “’S pretty cold now, ain’t it?”

Kiyoomi shrugged, “It’s December.”

“Almost New Year’s.”

“Mm.”

Atsumu smiled crookedly, and silence enveloped them. It’s not silence, per se, but a lack of conversation; a couple of trucks and cars whooshed past, and a Pomeranian yipped in their direction. Atsumu gave it a wave – the dog barked. “Feisty,” he laughed to himself. Sakusa kept his head low and watched Atsumu interact with the little things around him: snowflakes, icy puddles, dogs, and his own breath. It was mildly amusing yet soothing, like how Atsumu wormed into his life.

As the setter predicted, there were no customers at Family Mart. Atsumu shuffled to the alcohol section while Kiyoomi took advantage of the trip and restocked his vegetables and fruit. He scowled in annoyance when Atsumu unloaded numerous cans and ham into his basket. “Miya, what did I say about filling my pantry with ham?”

“Dunno, don’ remember. Ooh, salami. Omi, let’s buy salami.”

“Weren’t you here for beer?”

“Don’t be so stringent, c’mon. I’m gonna buy salami.”

“Are you even planning to go home tonight?”

“Not really.”

I knew it. “What about practice tomorrow?”

“I brought my sportswear when I barged into yer house.”

That’s why his bag had been so heavy. It was basically a sleepover. Kiyoomi wasn’t even surprised now; Atsumu even had his own toothbrush dangling from the brush holder on the mirror of his toilet. “Please tell me you’re done shopping.”

Atsumu sniggered at him. They paid for the items at the cashier, and the part-timer gasped when she saw them. Quite meekly, she ripped a post-it from the desk and asked if they could sign it. Atsumu grinned warmly and purchased a sketchpad instead, signing the sheet with flair. Sakusa wrote his under Atsumu’s. Fortunately, she was the only person who seemed to recognize them.

At home, they commenced round two and resorted to watching three more recordings of past seasons, even some treasured high school ones. Atsumu was fond of his second-year match against Karasuno. They lost, but it was the last game they played with the third-years. And he kept his promise to Kita. He babbled on and on about his high school tales to Kiyoomi, and the latter listened. It was nice.

It was also that moment when he realized how unperturbed he was by Atsumu’s presence in his apartment.

Strange.

“Omi.”

He turned to Atsumu. “Hm?”

Atsumu smiled like an idiot, his eyes in the shape of crescents and his cheek flattened against the table. “Nothin’, just wanted to say yer name.”

He was motionless for a second. He could feel his pulse pound in his wrist, vibrating through the hand he was using to hold his beer. Atsumu closed his eyes and chewed on the leftover peanuts in his mouth. Kiyoomi looked away, his throat burning.

If he had to label this emotion, it would be what he categorized as hatred, like all those years he spent resenting Miya Atsumu. The inexplicable fire in his chest, contrasted with the ticklish sensation in his fingertips, his throat dry as he gulped down the remnants of the can. He was clinging to a sliver of himself during that time, in fear that he’d lose himself to a geisha who shared his name. Perhaps that was how Takaomi felt before reading Lorca. The fear of losing himself to a beast called guilt.

But then again, the difference between love and hate was paper-thin, said someone in history.

And Kiyoomi might’ve finally chosen to acknowledge that paper-thin disparity in his feelings.

Affection.

(Could he?

Was he capable of properly loving someone else as himself?)

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu stirred. “Hmm?”

Warmth blossomed in his lungs. “Nothing,” Kiyoomi leaned against the cushions of the couch, “I just wanted to call your name.”

(“Call me Miya.”)

(Atsumu didn’t like being addressed as ‘Miya,’ because he had a twin brother.)

They drove to the temple in Atsumu’s car. He fed Atsumu his rice balls as they bantered throughout the journey. It was rather jovial to see Atsumu stiffen whenever his fingers grazed the man’s chin. Kiyoomi tried his best not to laugh at his reaction, for both of their safety. He didn’t want to die on New Year’s.

“Happy New Year,” they greeted the other Black Jackal members; Atsumu was beaten by Inuaki because he teased him about his marriage plans. To their astonishment, Inuaki had scored himself a girlfriend at last. The libero gestured at the fox sculptures guarding the torii and remarked how they held a semblance to Atsumu.

“I’m cuter than that, Wan-san!”

“No, the cunning smile, it’s definitely you.”

“Yer so rude.”

Kiyoomi scrutinized the sculptures as well. The foxes did look a bit like the blond. Concealing the quirk of his lips under his scarf, he followed the crowd and trudged past the foxes.

There was a lengthy cue in front of the temple. A toddler with a 500-yen coin was whispering something inaudibly, and another couple in front of her was kissing each other whenever they thought nobody was looking. Kiyoomi averted his gaze as Atsumu inquired, “What’re ya gonna wish for, Omi?”

Wish, huh. He didn’t really have one. He wasn’t the type of kid who believed in Santa Claus, and his father taught him that if he wanted something, he had to obtain it with his own strength. Of course, Atsumu wouldn’t be placated with such a bleak answer. “I don’t know. Global hygiene and longevity.”

“Ya sound like a grandpa. Longevity, really?”

He deemed longevity to be a perfectly normal wish, but whatever. I’m sorry that I care about my health more than the average person. “My wish, my choices. You?” Atsumu blinked and fell quiet at that. I bet he was the rebellious kid who never actually prayed to the gods but picked a fight with them. The tiresome kind.

“It’s a secret.”

I’m sure. “I shouldn’t have bothered.”

After a few minutes, it was their turn. He nudged Atsumu and took a step forward towards the wooden offerings crate. He saw silver coins stacked on the bottom.

“What’s the order again?”

“Bow twice, clap twice, bow once.”

His 100-yen coin jangled as it tumbled onto the pile, slipping through the bars of the crate. He bowed, clapped, and shut his eyes. Longevity. He stalled. What else?

(“Over love and life, I will choose him.”)

A wish.

That had been Omi’s wish. It was a trade he made with the heavens – his red string of fate in exchange for altering Miya’s lifelong destiny. That would mean he and Atsumu were no longer meant to be. Somewhere in this universe, he had someone to love and so did Atsumu. They weren’t each other’s ‘someone.’

Strangers would sneer at him. Well, they wouldn’t believe the entire ‘reincarnation’ tale to begin with, but it perhaps was even more incredulous to become reluctant of love because of a string he couldn’t even see. He understood and sympathized with those people; he would respond similarly, had he been in their shoes. Reincarnation was a fictional concept, and the red string of fate was a rubbish rom-com trope. It was simply comical to reassess your feelings based on such things.

However, Kiyoomi wasn’t one of those people.

How could he be confident that the fondness he felt towards Atsumu was purely his own? The irresistible emotion of ‘love’ he experienced at the age of fifteen was rewritten as abhorrence in his mind because he had to preserve ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi.’ What if this feeling was just a result of him correcting what had been previously rewritten?

If that were the case, he couldn’t ever tell Atsumu.

Because that would be offensive – no, beyond offensive.

Hurtful.

And he knew he did not long to see hurt in Atsumu’s expression.

(Whether that concern was some sort of affirmation, he didn’t know.)

He fluttered open his eyes and angled his body towards Atsumu. “Miya,” and then he hardened. Atsumu’s eyes were bulging and bloodshot, his nails clawing at his chest, his jaw gaping for oxygen as he wheezed. No sound escaped him, only the ragged exhales and short inhales as he subconsciously gasped for breath. Kiyoomi grabbed the man’s wrist, “Miya.” Atsumu didn’t flinch. He didn’t appear to notice that Kiyoomi was touching him at all.

“Sakusa, is Tsumu alright?” Bokuto shouted, Meian and Inuaki observing them with narrowed brows. “He’s been shaking for a while.”

A handful of people in the crowd began to murmur. Atsumu’s condition was worsening, his skin sickly pale and lips blue. Kiyoomi didn’t think as he brought the blond towards him, his wrist still grasped. “I’ll take care of him. Please go ahead.”

Tomas tilted his head, “He doesn’t look –“

“I’ll take care of him.” He hid Atsumu’s face with his arm and dragged him to the largest, tallest tree he could spot in the vicinity. “Miya,” he fought to capture his attention, but Atsumu was completely out of it, spiraling in panic.

Instinctively, he realized.

Atsumu was going through the same nightmare he had been subject to as a middle schooler.

That hellish, harrowing place – Atsumu was there. Which one? He struggled to remember every detail of his past. Was it Osamu’s death? The annihilation of his village? The bloodbath he had to witness as a samurai? The guilt he had to bear, knowing that he served a daimyo who attacked other innocent townspeople, ones just like his brother and mother?

Their regrettable love?

That doesn’t matter.

He knew how painful this was. He knew what it felt like to lose oneself. He had nobody who truly comprehended his agony when he was a child.

Atsumu had him, though.

“Miya,” he shook Atsumu’s shoulders gently, his heart twisting at the sight of tears rolling down the other’s cheeks. He pulled in Atsumu closer; the tremors caused his body to tremble. “Miya, listen to me.” Atsumu froze in his embrace. “Please.”

The fluff of dyed locks disappeared as Atsumu lifted his face. “… Omi?” He whispered in confusion. Kiyoomi understood. He thought he could finally know why Motoya had been so careful around him when they were younger. It was because Motoya couldn’t understand what was going on. He didn’t have a clue about what set him off.

He quietly related to Atsumu what had happened and where they were. Atsumu nodded and detached himself from Kiyoomi. He was uncomfortable – avoidant. Which memory did he see? It couldn’t be Kiyoomi’s death; Atsumu was already dead when Omi prayed to the deity. He couldn’t decipher Atsumu’s behavior.

They went to pick their omikuji. Kiyoomi selected ‘best luck’ for the first time in twenty-four years, while Atsumu landed on ‘worst luck.’ He swapped their papers. “Really, Miya. It’s fine. Have it.”

Between them, it was Atsumu who needed the luck, not him.

As abominable as it was, he believed in Fate, after all.

Another tangent, but the Sakusa’s were quite ill-fortuned when it came to the topic of romance.

He didn’t know it was a family trait until their father told them some time ago when he was an elementary student. The assignment had been to draw a family tree, and due to a course of blurry events, his father mentioned how the Sakusa’s found love challenging. His grandparents’ marriage had been arranged and it was an obligatory relationship, and his father and mother broke up six times before signing the marriage documents, all their split-ups due to misunderstandings and the lack of communication.

Takaomi couldn’t settle on anyone despite his laidback personality. His brother wasn’t an individual who could multi-task. When he worried, he worried. When he worked, he worked. He couldn’t be in a healthy, fulfilling relationship while advancing his studies and hospital career. Additionally, Takaomi was candid with his family, but not many people knew who he actually was outside. In summary, he wasn’t a partner who could provide a sense of security to their significant other. Albeit being self-aware, Takaomi didn’t make an effort to change. He probably dismissed it as unnecessary.

Kayu took after their mother, but she was a Sakusa as well. Unlike Takaomi, Kayu was more serious when it came to relationships. She gave each relationship her all because she was madly in love with that person. Kayu was both amazing and arduous to watch like that. In ten out of ten cases, it was her boyfriend’s fault. Her first boyfriend in high school had cheated on her. The second one borrowed money and never paid it back. The third one said he was attracted to her sexually but not emotionally. Three amongst numerous others, all whom Kayu loved. Kiyoomi couldn’t wrap his head around how she managed to give so much each time, and still had enough for herself and her family. Again, Kayu’s love was amazing but arduous to watch.

And Kiyoomi – who never loved, for justified reasons.

The spark in him had ignited for Atsumu. Whether that spark was his or not was irrelevant, just for this moment. What must be emphasized was that he admitted that there was a spark. That he felt something akin to love towards Miya Atsumu. He might never experience something like this ever again. He was a coward, and he was constantly chased by his past, too preoccupied over a conflagration the smallest spark could induce.

Nonetheless, at the same time, he wanted to pursue fire – to be scorched. It was a complex, contradictory emotion that nobody else could feel.

He took a step of courage and chose to blindly sprint into a plain of orange flames, towards Miya Atsumu, that dawn of New Year’s. If he and Atsumu were on the same page- no, if Atsumu was in the process of catching up, then maybe, just maybe, they could work this out. They’d have much to elaborate and discuss, but there was a ray of hope. Between flailing for stability in a constant state of darkness and risking that stability for light, Kiyoomi chose the latter.

Back to the tangent: the Sakusa’s were unlucky in love.

Atsumu distanced himself from Kiyoomi.

He caught on since day one. Atsumu might believe otherwise, but Atsumu wasn’t a superb actor. His excuses were laughable, although the situation itself wasn’t. Not to mention, Sakusa Kiyoomi was an expert when it came to avoidance; he had been doing it his whole life. Catching another fellow avoider in their act was easy. It’s just that that person was Atsumu, and that stung.

Kiyoomi snorted. Not because it was funny, but because it stung. It wasn’t an emotion he imagined he could feel.

The days stretched out into a week. He didn’t have to wait for Atsumu to devise another clumsy lie; the diverted gaze, the strain in his facial muscles, the awkwardly raised hand – he was too obvious. “Okay, Miya.” He replied glumly, the sting in his heart gradually increasing in magnitude and force as it permeated his nerves.

He could think of a few reasons why Atsumu was retracting. All of those reasons were ones he had used to rationalize his distancing from his family. He couldn’t be sure, however, as he wasn’t Atsumu. Atsumu could be avoiding him for a completely different set of reasons. What was it? Was it how he responded at the temple? Was it their fortune papers? Or was it something Kiyoomi said thoughtlessly while they were driving home?

His thoughts swarmed his mind during the hour-long journey home, his steps heavier than usual. He traced each of his words, his actions, his decisions when he was with Atsumu. Was it one day? Was it a misunderstanding? Was it his fault? Was it something that was amassed over the span of weeks and then exploded?

What was it?

What did he do wrong this time?

What was he doing wrong in this life?

Another week passed until he gave in.

He dunked in countless bottles of alcohol into his system till he couldn’t think straight. He didn’t want to think. If he thought too hard, he’d be back in the dark. He chose to trust his heart because he wanted out, not whatever he had before. The shitty rubbish he had before.

He wasn’t quite sane and definitely not sober when he rang Atsumu’s doorbell.

And to be honest, he didn’t recollect much about that night.

He did remember asking, “What did I do wrong?”

There were too many errs he had committed throughout life, not only towards Atsumu but everyone. He couldn’t apologize to all of them, but he could apologize to Atsumu. He just had to know what he was apologizing about. An apology towards everything was as insincere as an apology towards nothing.

“Nothin’.” Atsumu’s voice echoed, “Ya’ve done nothin’ wrong.” The man promised they’d be back to normal tomorrow.

Vaguely, Kiyoomi wondered whether ‘Miya’ would’ve said the same thing.

They were back to normal the next morning.

The jogs, arbitrary meals, and sleepovers returned to both of their rhythms. Kiyoomi often frequented Atsumu’s place to clean and organize his apartment. Atsumu insisted that he was clean and organized, and Kiyoomi told him that White Christmas would never come for another century because Santa Clause disliked slander. Atsumu didn’t look too happy about that but shut up either way.

He was dazzling, like gentle fire, like nothing Kiyoomi ever had.

He too, yearned to have faith in his affection.

Then, the nightmares launched their attack.

No, not nightmares – it was a nightmare. And it wasn’t a nightmare he formerly experienced.

In the dream, he was being strangled by someone in the opaque, dense blackness. The surface was there, but it wasn’t. He was being crushed but was also plummeting. The fingers squeezed his windpipe. Kiyoomi pried them off; it was meaningless. He didn’t have any strength remaining in his body.

“You think you can love him?”

He knew that voice.

It was a voice he knew very well.

It was his own.

“What are you going to do if loving him leads to his destruction?” Omi. The sleeves of his battered kimono brushed Kiyoomi’s cheekbones. “I overturned his fate with our love.” He couldn’t see Omi’s expression. Perhaps the figure in the shadows wasn’t Omi at all. “What if your love kills him?”

“Love isn’t what killed Miya,” he choked out.

“Maybe,” he couldn’t breathe. “But what you’re feeling –“

Is that really love?

After all, you’re the one who said –

The difference between love and hate is paper-thin.

Hey, Kiyoomi.

Think about it –

You can’t love someone if you don’t know who you are. Listen to yourself. If love wasn’t what killed Miya, what killed him? Fate? Fate cannot kill, Fate is merely there. What killed Miya, if not love? The daimyo he served? The poisoned arrow? Directly, yes, those may be acceptable answers, the truth. But at the roots of those answers, what is there? What lies beneath the ground? Who lies beneath the soil?

It’s you, isn’t it?

So, let me ask you again:

Who are you?

Can you answer that, Kiyoomi?

“I like ya.”

The forsythia petals drew circles in the wind.

“Miya,” his orbs glistened, “I’m sorry.”

(He saw the headlights flashing Atsumu’s stature. Atsumu’s profile darkened as the white lights approached him at a frightening speed. He shoved Atsumu out of the way and was reminded of their omikuji.

It was Atsumu who needed the luck, after all.

As the truck collided into his body, Atsumu’s silhouette hazily fleeted by.

He mouthed:

I wanted to love you too.

As myself.)

When he awoke, he was lying on a flat hospital bed in the VIP ward, an incessant ‘beep-beep-beep’ reverberating in the room. There were baskets of fruit and bouquets of flowers on the drawer by his bed, and none other than Miya Atsumu dozing off on the edge of his mattress. Soon enough, nurses filed in, and the setter was ushered out. “Omi,” he croaked, “we’ll talk later, right?”

His throat ached, so he nodded.

Takaomi came to explain the severity of his injuries. In conclusion, he was required to run through half a year of rehab for his bones and motor abilities to fully recover. His brother claimed that it was a miracle he’d even be able to play again on court. “I thought you were gone,” muttered Takaomi, his voice thick with remorse.

The reporters were kicked out and rejected accordingly by security and hospital staff, per the orders of MSBY. Kiyoomi concentrated on his rehabilitation activities. The team seemed to have some kind of shift scheduled for visiting him, because they took turns rather diligently, barreling in uninformed with snacks and coffee too sweet for his liking.

Atsumu, on the other hand, came every day. The sweet coffee automatically became his.

They didn’t converse much. The setter updated him on the specific progress of the team and who was temporarily replacing Kiyoomi. “He’s not as good as ya, but he’ll do,” chuckled Atsumu, and Kiyoomi huffed a little. He always had bags of his brother’s umeboshi onigiri and bottled green tea.

“The hospital has food, Miya.”

“Not delicious food.”

They didn’t talk about the accident nor the argument prior to it. Atsumu didn’t question him about his past, and Kiyoomi chose not to ponder further about who he was. He thought he deserved to be ignorant, just for a short while when he was hospitalized. He liked this peace, though he was immobile like Omi.

Four months later, he was able to walk. Atsumu congratulated him by sneaking in a box of umeboshi and chips, along with two bottles of coke. “Since ya shouldn’t be drinkin’,” shrugged Atsumu. They clinked their bottles and drank the soda. A small conversation followed suit: they discussed about strategies against other teams and their formations, their lineups, and their combination attacks. They went over the strengths and weaknesses of each Jackals member, including their own. They debated over which plan was more effective against certain teams.

And then, three minutes of silence.

“Y’know,” Atsumu said out of the blue, “I thought about it. About us.” He lowered his bottle. “And I decided that ‘m still in love with ya.”

Kiyoomi flinched.

He didn’t have an answer prepared yet.

“I thought about things in yer perspective. Ya were right. I had time to think – a lot more time than ya. I thought they were dreams in the beginning. I knew I was weird around ya, but I never bothered to ruminate on why. I think I didn’t want to associate the emotion with a logical reason; it wasn’t a logical emotion. But ya weren’t like that. Omi-kun was young, clueless, and,” Atsumu softened, “faultless.”

The fan on the ceiling buzzed above their heads.

“I was also conflicted. I didn’t know whether the one I loved was the Omi of four hundred years ago, or the Omi-kun sittin’ in front of me now. I mean, it felt crazy to even fall in love with someone whom I was so convinced was a figment of my imagination. But both Omi’s were real, and I… y’know. Ya would know, wouldn’t ya?” He did. He gave Atsumu a nod. “In the end, though, I knew I was in love with ya.”

Kiyoomi squeezed the bedsheets and whispered, “How?”

“Because yer not the same person.”

He stared at Atsumu. Atsumu smiled.

“Ya wouldn’t know, but there’s a mole in the middle of Omi’s back – the Omi of the past. Ya don’t.” The man leaned back on his chair. “Of course, that’s just a physical element. There are other things. Geisha Omi-kun was,” there was a tinge of moroseness in Atsumu’s irises. “He looked like he was about to disappear any second.”

(The crimson blade’s smiles had been bittersweet and unstable as if he was in love with someone who could pulverize any moment.)

“He was fragile. He was delicate and beautiful. Like a spring blossom that would die when spring was over.” Atsumu gazed at Kiyoomi. “But yer not like that, Omi. Ya can fly. Birds don’t die when spring is over, they glide into the sky.”

Towards a freer, bluer, and brighter place, unbound by spring.

The ice in his fingertips thawed.

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu leaned in, “I’m scared shitless when I see severed body parts.” Kiyoomi looked into Atsumu’s eyes, unblinking. “I have no idea how to use a sword. I like my twin, but he’s very much alive. So are my parents. I dunno what the hell I’d do without ‘em. I also wouldn’t grow out my hair like that, it’s tasteless. I could list on and on until yer satisfied. My point is,” he held Kiyoomi’s hands between his palms. “We ain’t them.”

(That second, he realized why his last nightmare had been so dark.

The person who had been strangling him wasn’t the geisha, but just Sakusa Kiyoomi.

It had been him all along.)

Somewhere beyond this world, ‘Omi’ and ‘Miya’ were together. Perhaps they weren’t. Regardless, it was a story of the past.

This – is the present.

They are living now.

“Omi,” Atsumu mumbles, “do ya love me?”

Oddly enough, he remembers Lorca.

“Yes,” he replies –

I love you.

[El Balcón – Federico Garcia Lorca]

Si muero

Dejad el balcón abierto

El niño come naranjas

(Desde mi balcón lo veo)

El segador siega el trigo

(Desde mi balcón lo siento)

Si muero

Dejad el balcón abierto

Chapter Text

Sakusa recovers fully before their next season, as if the accident itself was a dream.

He receives a ton of coverage by the media for at least a month, many so-called medical professionals and volleyball experts claiming that there was no other way to describe Sakusa Kiyoomi’s case than a ‘miracle.’ “Considering the impact of the vehicle, as observed in the security cameras installed by the traffic lights…” “The severity of his wounds was sufficient to kill any ordinary human being…” “He truly must be a man born to play volleyball, chosen by God Himself…” yada, yada. Neither of them denies it; it was a miracle, after all. They couldn’t explain that a cat deity working in the marketing department of the volleyball committee saved his life.

Speaking of the cat deity:

“How many times do I need to tell you,” Kuroo drawls, his legs crossed, “that I’m mortal now?”

“Doesn’t mean yer memories suddenly went ‘poof,’ so y’know. I still have questions.”

“I’m not a free man, you can’t just summon me like this.”

“So yer not free?”

“Well, no, I have time to spare today.” The older man sniffs and turns to greet Sakusa. “Hi, Sakusa-kun. I’m glad you’re safe and tight again.”

“Me too.” Sakusa doesn’t look too content with the arrangement; it’s a precious Sunday, and he’s sitting in a café wearing his running attire. Atsumu forgot to notify him earlier. “Your warning sucked, by the way.”

Kuroo stammers, “What could I do? I’m not- well, I wasn’t permitted to meddle with human beings unless they were on the verge of death, okay? There are extremely complicated guidelines and policies up there too,” he points at the ceiling frantically, “and by interacting with you both so often – I was about to have my powers confiscated, Jesus Christ. Wrong religion, but Jesus Christ.”

“They have religious divisions in heaven?”

The former-deity heaves a sigh. “That’s a whole different story that I will not delve into. What I mean to say is, that’s the best I could’ve done then, alright? It’s not like my warning would’ve changed much, but I was trying to give you a heads-up.”

“That I would die,” Sakusa deadpans.

“That you would die, precisely. But you didn’t, and that’s what matters, right?”

“Question: how old are ya?”

“Very old. You stop counting after three centuries or so. Next question.”

“What were yer powers?”

Kuroo slurps his vanilla shake languidly. “I used to do a lot more when I was a cat, when I had all seven lives. I could bring back people to life for a couple of minutes, predict the future, communicate with the supernatural, transform, all the cool stuff. You lose them as your number of lives decreases. Being a cat has many positives, mortals.”

“You’re a mortal,” remarks Sakusa.

“Yeah, it’s shitty.”

“What, so all pet cats are actually gods?”

“No, they’re normal cats. As in, they’re cats with one life left – ones that chose to be a cat, not human. If they happen to give birth, then there’s an entirely separate process for the kittens to- look, is this conversation valuable?”

Atsumu shrugs, “I dunno ‘bout ya, but this is extremely interestin’. Not even school teaches you about cat deities.”

“There are other species – nine-tailed foxes, raccoons, tigers, bears – there used to be more of us, but with forests being ransacked and rivers polluted, there aren’t many places to live. Most of them have blended in with society.”

“That’s mildly disconcerting.”

“Hyogo is a popular area for foxes,” Kuroo snaps his fingers, “you should’ve had at least one fox at your school. Maybe not nine-tailed, but I bet there was one.” Atsumu blinks and filters through every possible face he can recall from high school. “Don’t overthink it. Are you going to ask me meaningful questions or what?”

“Why did I retrieve all my memories at once?”

Kuroo looks at Sakusa, who shows no trace of agitation nor ire. He’s just genuinely curious. “Because you were the one who made the contract with me. Well, the past you. Those who directly sign a contract with a deity in their previous lives tend to regain most of their memories as soon as they spot the trigger. In your case, that was Miya-kun.” Gesturing at Atsumu, Kuroo continues, “Miya-kun, on the other hand, got his memories back because he met you. It’s a much more gradual process for him, though, because his trigger is you, and you aren’t a deity. It was striking, wasn’t it? When you encountered him.” He quirks his brow at Atsumu.

“I… yeah.” He can feel the twinge of somberness lingering in his veins. “I remember that.”

“That’s not, how to put this… ah, an iced matcha frappuccino, please. And a slice of apple pie for takeaway.” The waitress nods and skips away with her notepad. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Those weren’t your emotions, as you might’ve noticed. They’re, eh, remnants of sorts. Miya Atsumu of four hundred years ago died feeling betrayed by Sakusa Kiyoomi. That was my fault, so I’ll apologize once again. Either way, the reason why you thought you hated him was most definitely the consequence of that. The same rule applies to you, Sakusa-kun. Reincarnation is about the soul, after all.”

“What about you, then?” Sakusa frowns at Kuroo, “What happened to your other lives?”

“Cats and humans live under distinct conditions, as I said earlier. I’m just the same cat. I can adjust my age – I could. I’m stuck in my late twenties and will dwindle away and die from here on. Besides, it’s not that common to be reborn as identically as you two – same name, same appearance. The majority aren’t even born in the same country.”

Atsumu entwines their fingers with a smug grin. “Well, we’re fated, so y’know.”

“Good for you,” snorts Kuroo. “Well, if you’re done with bombarding questions, I have an apple pie delivery to make.” He grabs the plastic bag and rises from the bench. Then, he flits to Atsumu with an indecipherable gaze. “You might want to be more sensitive about your selection of words, too.”

“What?”

Kuroo flashes him a lighthearted smile. “Nah, don’t mind it.”

(“Wait, ya can see ‘em too? The… the strings.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m not exactly human.” A pensive pause. “I can see that you don’t have one, if that’s what you mean.”

Miya Osamu released his wrist and huffed out an awkward laugh.

“Yeah. I don’t.”)

It’s quite hilarious how there is no monumental alteration to their relationship, despite being upgraded to boyfriends. Atsumu knew Hollywood romance films were all bullshit, and he’s proven it.

There are slight changes, of course. Like holding hands, hugging from the back, mingling on the couch together, and kissing.

Slight changes.

Surprisingly enough, Sakusa was the one to initiate most of them. “I’m not that nervous when I’m touching you,” he mumbled, “I wonder why.” That was also the day Miya Atsumu’s heart ascended to heaven. He remembers literally melting to the kitchen floor, a puddle of goo as Sakusa kicked his side and hissed at him not to overreact. Atsumu had to grow accustomed to the casual fingers combing his dyed cowlicks, the abrupt arms that wrapped around his back when he heated their dinner in the microwave (it’s a shame that they both survive off Osamu’s food), and the gravelly ‘good morning’s when they woke up in Sakusa’s bed.

For someone who has never been in a relationship, Sakusa Kiyoomi is amazing at what he does.

And very affectionate.

Though they don’t act like that on the court, the switch in dynamics is visible to not only the team but their fans. Atsumu didn’t understand in the beginning – they didn’t even brush fingers when they were playing, and Sakusa still addressed him as ‘Miya’ in public. Not until Bokuto, the densest member of the Jackals (according to Atsumu, not official), scrunched up his nose and said, “You’re not being serious are you, Tsumu-Tsumu? You guys have this, this…” he wiggled his fingers in the air, “look goin’ on.”

What look?

Hiding in the shower stall, he watched a recording of their match against the Rockets. And he saw it then: Sakusa looked soft when he high-fived Atsumu after an incredible combo. He dropped his phone and crouched in the stall, his cheeks flushed and butt-naked.

It was a matter of time before they started receiving an insane number of advertisement and modeling offers – as a pair.

“I am not modeling for an underwear brand with you.” Sakusa refutes, adamant and annoyed by Atsumu’s insistence. In Atsumu’s defense, he truly believes that the underwear will sell like hotcakes; he has seen Kiyoomi in black underwear. Nobody should look that hot wearing undies.

However, he relents because he doesn’t wish to force Sakusa into something he doesn’t want to do. “Fine. What about this facial mask brand?”

Sakusa clucks his tongue. “I’ll think about it.”

“Awesome.”

They concede that they shouldn’t publicize their relationship. Both of them hated blurring the lines between their personal lives and workplace; they were pro-athletes, but there was no chance of the media leaving them alone. Atsumu is perfectly satisfied with how they are.

He shares the grand news with Osamu over the phone because it’s another busy season for his twin’s store. “Congratulations, and don’t forget to tell ma that yer not gonna get married to a nice, pretty girl who graduated from med school.”

“Right. I totally forgot.”

“Be happy, Tsumu.”

He stills at his twin’s (extremely rare) solemn, heartfelt tone. Chuckling, he answers, “Yeah. I am.”

It’s a lengthier conversation when he “introduces” him to Suna. Which technically isn’t an introduction because they’re all acquainted with one another. “I can’t believe you chose to date this pain in the ass, Sakusa-san.” Suna pours himself a glass of cold water; they’re huddled around Atsumu’s dining table. “Are you sure you’re aware of what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“I’m starting to regret it after watching him do the laundry. Also, just Sakusa is fine.”

“As I said, ‘m sorry I turned your white socks pink, okay? It wasn’t my intention, I didn’t think I’d do the laundry when I was drunk, too! That's never been a thing!”

“You do the laundry when you’re drunk?”

“He does my laundry when he’s drunk,” corrects Sakusa, “I should’ve never given him a key.”

“But Omi, where else would I sleep?”

“I don’t know Atsumu, your bedroom, maybe?”

Suna watches their banter with a dispassionate expression. After three minutes, he cuts in, “I understand that you guys are smitten with each other, so can we move on to something other than laundry?”

He does develop strange drinking habits. After chugging down bottles of beer at a meeting with his old high school clubmates or Osamu, he rings Sakusa to pick him up. According to Ginjima, he sobs over the speaker, crying, “Omi-kun, you fuckin’ meanie, why the hell aren’ ‘cha here?” To which Sakusa replies, “You said you were meeting a high school friend, Atsumu, I don’t have to be there.” “But, but,” he would then blubber, “I want ya here.” Cue Ginjima’s disgusted scowl and dry vomiting. Sakusa arrives in less than twenty minutes, apologizes to Ginjima, and drives a half-conscious Atsumu home. Atsumu drags himself over to the washing machine and dumps Sakusa’s clothes into it. Sakusa doesn’t stop him because Atsumu gets all whiney when he does.

“You’re a disaster,” Sakusa grumbles.

Atsumu doesn’t argue with him. It’s true. Also, because he kind of likes how Sakusa smiles when he says it.

Oh, right – disasters. We must discuss disasters.

Like their first sex.

“I’ve never,” Sakusa was really reluctant to go on. Atsumu had never seen his boyfriend so unwilling to talk, not since they initially met. Sakusa rubbed his neck with his palm and nibbled on his bottom lip, clearly uncomfortable. “… Yeah.”

They were both sitting on Sakusa’s bed, shirtless. It wasn’t as if they were planning to fuck, but it had developed into that kind of mood – and then Sakusa detached himself from Atsumu. Upon hearing Sakusa’s meek admittance, Atsumu immediately caught on to what he was inferring. A million thoughts rushed through his mind that moment (such as, shit, why didn’t we talk about this before), along with countless flashbacks of his past casual partners. Relaxing his shoulders, he placed a gentle hand on Sakusa’s arm. “Hey, Omi.” He waited until he felt the tension in Sakusa dissolve a little. “We don’t have to do anything. ‘M fine with not doin’ anything.”

“No,” Sakusa twisted the sheets under them. “I want to.” He faced Atsumu, “Really.”

Atsumu nodded slowly, “Slowly, then.”

Not that they had much success as Sakusa was lost and Atsumu was jittery – that was embarrassing. At least they laughed in the end.

It’s a step-by-step procedure. Atsumu never hurries Sakusa, and Sakusa learns to fall into the rhythm. “I have more experience bottoming,” he mentions after a month, “just… thought ya should know.” Sakusa rolls his eyes.

“I expected that.”

“What does that even mean?”

And because Sakusa Kiyoomi is incredible at whatever he does, he is, well. Incredible.

“Sometimes,” Atsumu wheezes between his panting, a sheen of sweat glistening over his breast and jawline, “sometimes, I think yer bein’ unfair. Like, super unfair.”

Sakusa glances at him as he brushes his teeth. “How so?”

“Everythin’.” A dull throb weighs down his lower back. He glares at Sakusa, “Am I actually yer first?”

The raven shoves a toothbrush into Atsumu’s mouth with a sharp sigh. “For the umpteenth time, yes.”

There is no justice in the world, Atsumu is certain. Not that he’s complaining, but he is. He is complaining, ish. It’s a dilemma. “Strictly speakin’, it’s my win ‘cause I taught ya how to do all those stuff, right? Ow, ow,” his hand flies to his ass as he bends over the sink to spit out the paste. Sakusa shakes his head and helps him stand.

“If that makes you feel better, then sure, it’s your win.”

“Don’t ya go off teachin’ other people.” Sakusa remains silent for a second and then pulls Atsumu towards him. Flustered, the blond stutters, “What?”

“I’ll repeat those words verbatim to you,” he murmurs in Atsumu’s ear, “I don’t let anyone mess up my laundry, Atsumu.”

“… Was that meant to be romantic?”

“Kind of.”

In summary, they’re in love.

“We’re meetin’ who?”

“My parents.”

“Aha,” Atsumu nods curtly, “I beg yer pardon?”

“My parents,” Sakusa is patient as he eats his breakfast. “And my siblings, but you’ve met Takaomi.” He has. Sakusa Takaomi was absolutely nothing like his younger brother with the exception of his face. He was one of the first people to know about them and seemed completely unaffected by the news. “Well, Kiyoomi wouldn’t push someone away from a truck if they didn’t matter to him, no offense,” was Takaomi’s straightforward explanation. “And trust me, nobody in our family would care about him dating a man.”

“As in, today?”

“Today.”

“Why?”

“My mom doesn’t plan ahead.”

“Oh.”

Within an hour, Atsumu is dressed in his cleanest shirt and slacks with the most expensive bottle of wine he could find in the supermarket winery section. “Should I wax my hair?”

“You always wax your hair.”

“Yeah, but if your ma doesn’t like waxed hair?”

“She wouldn’t give a crap, Atsumu.”

“Yer so unhelpful, my god. White or black?”

“White or black what?”

“My shirt, duh.”

“White.”

“Fantastic, we’re gonna look like a chessboard. Love it.”

Atsumu in a white button-down and black slacks, Sakusa in a black T-shirt and white jeans. Upon cursory glance, it’s as if they’re attending two disparate events, especially with Atsumu sweating buckets. Sakusa cranks up the AC to its strongest setting as Atsumu freaks out about his sweat causing his shirt to be see-through. “My mother has seen you sweat, Atsumu, seeing you in a translucent shirt isn’t going to plant a new impression in her head.”

“Ya don’t understand, the most recent parents I met were Samu’s.”

“You have the same parents.”

“Exactly.”

“I didn’t inherit even an atom of my mother’s personality, don’t fret so much.”

“The heck, is she not nice or somethin’?”

Sakusa snorts. “You’re the only person who’ll ever say that.” He pinches Atsumu’s cheek, “You’re her type. She’ll like you.”

“She explicitly toldja that I’m her type?”

“No, she likes handsome faces in general. Stop blabbering now, you’re distracting me.”

The Sakusa residence is huge but homely. Atsumu gawks at the enormous willow tree in the backyard. “It was that tall since I was born,” says Sakusa. “Also, don’t touch the flowers. My dad is growing them.” Atsumu stares at the potted cream-white freesias. “His hobby is gardening.”

“Cool.”

When Sakusa punches the wrecked doorbell, Atsumu’s toes curl in his loafers. The wine feels like a thousand pounds in his grasp, and he’s suddenly hyperaware of his unfastened top button. He’s about to ask Sakusa whether he should fasten it, but he’s stopped mid-sentence as the door swings open with a violent ‘bang.’

Colorfully painted gel nails claw at the doorframe. There is a woman with long, curly hair draped over her chest hunched over with a nasty scowl. Atsumu does not miss the moles under her lip and right eye. “Oh, Kiyo,” She groans, “I thought it was the milk boy. The loud one.” Her piercing attention rests on Atsumu as she scrutinizes him. “Miya Atsumu?”

“Hello,” he squeaks.

“I didn’t hear we were having guests.”

“When do we ever?” Sakusa – well, they’re all Sakusa’s – Kiyoomi huffs, “Atsumu, this is Sakusa Kayu, my sister.”

Kayu scoffs as they enter (Atsumu freaking out about where to place his shoes), “What, you’re introducing me to him as if he’s your boyfriend.” Sakusa doesn’t respond, and Atsumu copies his boyfriend because he has no clue how to counter that. Kayu’s amused smirk morphs into that of bewilderment. “Wait, actually?”

“Can we just take this to the living room first?”

“Ohmygod, mom! Mom!” His sister has none of it and bulldozes to the living room.

“I’m sorry about her,” apologizes Kiyoomi, “she’s… eccentric.”

“So was yer brother.”

“I know.”

As they approach the living room, Atsumu can hear the thrilled screaming of Kayu and another chiding voice: “Yes, Kayu, I heard that he has a boyfriend, I told him to bring someone over if he liked.” More screaming, “When does Kiyoomi ever tell us things? He might as well have control over a cocaine ring, and we wouldn’t know.”

Said son knocks the table, ticked. “Good afternoon to you too, mom.”

A middle-aged lady in a frilly apron drops her spatula and flashes them a bright, welcoming smile, quickly wiping her hands with a sanitized towel. “Kiyoomi, welcome home!” Her daughter possesses many of her features, Atsumu realizes, but time must’ve tempered the fierceness existent in Kayu. Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out, yer freakin’ out but don’t freak out. “And you must be Miya-kun. I’m Sakusa Youko, Kiyoomi’s mother.”

“Miya Atsumu, ma’am.” He hands her the packaged bottle of wine, to which she receives with glee.

“My, a bottle of wine! Kiyoomi, you grabbed a well-mannered one, I’m surprised.”

“He’s the farthest thing from well-mannered, trust me.”

“Omi, yer s’posed to be helpin’ me!”

Takaomi barges in twelve minutes later and greets Atsumu. Sakusa Ryosuke (the source of his son’s fine appearance without doubt) shakes his hand politely. Soon enough, they’re eating dinner and chattering as if Atsumu has known them for years. It’s true that Kiyoomi does not take after Youko at all, with how she jokes around and nudges her husband for a reaction; Ryosuke merely hums or grunts, with the occasional, “this tastes delicious, Youko.”

“I can’t believe Kiyo has managed to snag such a hot one. I refuse to accept this.” Kayu glowers at Youko’s special pickled plums. “What does he have that I don’t? We share genes!”

“He has a twin brother,” supplies Takaomi.

Atsumu lifts his hand with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, he’s gay.”

“Darn it.”

“Kayu honey, language.”

It’s a cozy family. Nobody pries into how they met, how they got together, or where they are in terms of progress. Youko asks about Atsumu’s favorite food, the high school he graduated from, and other trivia he hasn’t shared with other people. He thinks he comprehends just a little bit, how Kiyoomi was able to endure the pressure and trauma he had to experience as a kid – there were people around him. The realization relieves him, though everything is now history.

Before departing, he volunteers to wash the dishes. “’M horrible at doin’ the laundry, but ‘m excellent at washin’ the dishes! Ya can check with Omi-kun if yer dubious.” Youko chuckles and delegates the task to him. He rolls up his sleeves and commences instantly, snatching the sponge on the sink. Kiyoomi is dragged by his mother to assist her with unloading some boxes from his dad’s car, and Atsumu is left alone in the kitchen.

“I have to say, I’m stunned.” He almost allows a pricey plate to shatter as he jumps and yelps. Kayu is leaning on the refrigerator, an orange-flavored popsicle between her glossy lips. He doesn’t know whether he should point out that her bra strap is loose; it doesn’t seem like she’d care much. “I was afraid that he’d never find someone. Taka-chan said that I was preoccupied over nonsense.” She spits out, “I hate how he’s always right. He never takes a woman seriously, that asshole.”

“Uh,” he picks up a dirty bowl, “yeah, sure.”

“Kiyoomi hasn’t been home in over five years or so.” Atsumu halts. “Doesn’t look like it, I know. Mom was acting all enthusiastic and hospitable because you were around, but she’s probably crying outside. Comforting people has never been Kiyoomi’s forte, so I wonder how that’s going.” He lowers his sponge and thins his lips. Kayu flaps her hand dismissively. “It’s alright, they’ll get over it. Taka-chan was telling me how he’s a little different now.” She shrugs, “I guess he is. I can see it.”

He swallows, “Ya can?”

“He was a kid who hurt himself more over the fact that he was hurting others.” Kayu sends him a crooked smile, “He’s not as smart as he pretends to be. An idiotic brother.” She lightly slaps Atsumu on his back. “I’m glad he’s found someone he can love without being concerned about hurting them first.”

Kayu wishes him luck and strides away with her popsicle.

When they reach their apartment, Atsumu kisses Sakusa. It’s a deep kiss – Atsumu nips at Sakusa’s plush lips and Sakusa tilts his head and closes the distance between them, joining their mouths together. They kiss for a while and Atsumu mumbles, “Are ya happy?”

Sakusa says, “The happiest I’ve ever been.”

At a game against the Adlers, they bump into Oikawa Tooru, the arising star of Argentina. Atsumu notices how Sakusa goes rigid at the sight of Oikawa in the audience. He frowns at the fellow setter who is seated next to a gruff man with a broad build and killer biceps. “Y’know him, Omi?” He inquires once the game is over, the Jackals winning the match by a set.

Sakusa gazes at the man who is signing autographs from surrounding females. After a couple of seconds, he replies, “No, not really.”

From the periphery of his vision, he thinks he sees Oikawa grin at Sakusa.

It must be his imagination.

“I thought you were going to talk to him.”

“Nah,” Oikawa cracks his knuckles and stretches, back on his feet. “I just wanted to see what he looked like. Besides, there’s no guarantee that he remembers me. I’m not that much of a lunatic, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi slings his sports bag over his shoulder and carries Oikawa’s belongings as well. “It’s been four hundred years. And you didn’t watch his games when he went to the nationals in high school.”

“We never made it to the nationals, I couldn’t give a shit.”

“Your personality is shit.”

“Meanie,” pouts the brunet, but he inhales and admires the glassy ceiling which reflects the expanse of the court. “Did you see, Hajime?”

Iwaizumi swivels to him, blinking.

Oikawa’s orbs contain the sky.

“He was flying.”

Chapter Text

Oftentimes, Sakusa forgets that he’s dating Miya Atsumu.

Being in a romantic relationship (or an intimate relationship of any kind) feels like a foreign, alien concept to him. Two years ago, he watched the Christmas special of About Time alone in his living room. Once the credits rolled, he switched off his TV and thought, that was terrible. In retrospect, he believes he was justified in his judgment. He still dislikes the film (for reasons he will not elaborate on to keep this concise), and he will never understand the beauty of a ruined wedding, even accounting for the ‘wonderful memories’ associated with one.

Now, as he rewatches the movie on his couch with Atsumu by his side, he remembers:

Right.

I’m in a relationship, too.

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu nudges him, “what’re ya gonna do if ya can travel back in time?”

He scans Atsumu, who has a bowl of popcorn between his thighs. “Make sure you don’t dye your hair, I guess.”

Atsumu self-consciously pats his blond mop of hair, “What, am I ugly? Am I ugly?” When he doesn’t reply, the setter whines and kicks the carpet. “Yer mean, Omi. I like my hair.”

“And you?”

“Me? Let’s see… oh, tell myself to grow a pair and stop bein’ in denial.” He snorts at Atsumu’s bluntness. It’s a respectable quality of his. “But y’know, ain’t that kinda nice?” Atsumu rests his head on Sakusa’s shoulder. “Gettin’ married and stuff. ‘Cause we can’t do that.”

He flits to Atsumu; he can’t see his expression, but there’s a shaky edge to how he reaches into the pile of popcorn. Sakusa hums and turns to the screen. They’re silent for a while as Tim and Mary burst into a fit of laughter in the rain.

“Want to move in?”

Atsumu’s hand freezes mid-air. Oh, he stopped, notes Sakusa, amused. The other lifts his head and gawks at him. “Sorry?”

“You practically live here, there won’t be much of a difference.” The rate of his pulse gradually picks up as he speaks. The nervousness radiating off Atsumu is affecting him as well. Crap. “Isn’t it around time to renew your lease? If the place is too small, we can just find a bigger house in this apartment, and,” he clamps his mouth as Atsumu just continues to stare at him. “It was just an idea.”

“I want,” Atsumu’s voice cracks. His forehead is red. Atsumu sometimes flushed from his forehead. It’s funny as much as it is interesting. “I want to. Yer a genius. I love ya.” The man is shining, glitter in his eyes as he grabs Sakusa’s hand with his buttery fingers. It’s gross, but Sakusa doesn’t pull away.

“Yeah,” he kisses his boyfriend, “I love you.”

About Time is an awful movie. His verdict will not change.

So are greasy fingers on bare hands, though.

It makes him want to say something corny, like, with you, it’s not so bad.

They end up moving to the twelfth floor of the same apartment building, one that is a couple of square meters larger than both Atsumu and Sakusa’s previous places. They decide not to purchase any new furniture and combine the cutlery and drawers they owned; most of the house is filled with Atsumu’s possessions due to Sakusa’s minimalist nature, but he doesn’t have complaints.

If there is a difference, it’s that there are many more photographs framed on the walls – photos of them. One taken after their game against the Falcons, one taken by a passing fan when they drove to the mountains, and another selfie (credits to Atsumu’s selfie stick) of them in Osaka, when they trained at MSBY’s main gymnasium. Atsumu was adamant that ‘in the end, pictures are what remain.’ Quite contrary to his high school motto: “We don’t need memories.”

It’s Sunday, and Sakusa wakes up earlier than Atsumu (nothing new). Atsumu is not a morning person, and when Sakusa’s alarm screeches, he groans, “Kiyoomi, turn that fuckin’ demon off.” Sakusa doesn’t think he realizes that he’s using Sakusa’s given name when he’s drowsy. Either way, he complies and ensures that the blinds are closed without a single ray of sunlight peeping through the gaps (a sleep-deprived Atsumu is a short-tempered Atsumu, leaving no winner).

He finds it quite comical how Osamu now has two mouths to feed. Their refrigerator is packed with Osamu’s homemade dishes and onigiris; the twin said he didn’t expect his future to be so bleak, taking care of two fully grown adults who can’t cook for shit. Sakusa should learn sometime to reduce his burden. He is more sensible than Atsumu, after all.

For this morning, however, he removes Osamu’s seasoned rice balls and heats them lightly in the microwave.

The two rice balls rotate in under the dim orange light and Sakusa stifles a yawn as he stands around. He notices his shirt from last night crumpled on the floor, from the shenanigans of Atsumu ripping off his last article of clothing as he rambled on about how horny he was. A horny Atsumu is an invincible Atsumu.

Fifteen seconds before breakfast is ready, the doorbell chimes.

It’s nine in the morning on a Sunday, and he doesn’t recall Atsumu ordering something online. That means it’s either 1) Osamu with a new breakfast delivery or 2) a conman. Sakusa balances the likelihood of each and grudgingly walks towards the entrance and unlocks the door. “Osamu, you don’t have…” he blinks.

One, it’s not Osamu.

Two – plot twist – it’s not a conman.

Three, an unexpected turn of events, it’s a woman who eerily resembles his boyfriend.

His brain goes full-on two hundred percent, the sound of his inner cogs creaking practically audible in real life.

The lady’s bob cut is dark, but otherwise, she shares many of Atsumu’s features. Or Osamu’s, whichever works. The sharp nose rounded at the tip, the shape of her parted mouth, the glint of her orbs – Sakusa Kiyoomi, you have definitely seen this person before, and if you haven’t that’s because it’s a genetic thing.

“Um,” double-checking the placard, the woman studies him shortly, “this is… well, it is.” Hyogo dialect. There’s no way out of this one. “Are you a…” she gazes at his abdomen.

Right, he’s shirtless.

He has never blanked out this hard, ever.

“Never mind,” she massages her temples, “I think I understand. My goodness, this is all pointless then.” A brown paper folder is ripped into clean halves. “I’m Miya Fuyumi, Atsumu’s ma. Will ya let me in? Oh, wear somethin’ while yer at it, yes?”

“Of course.” Sakusa trips to grab his shirt with unprecedented speed and urgency. “Atsumu is –“

“Tsumu! What kind of lazy ass doesn’t wake up this late, hm? C’mon, eat yer breakfast quickly so we can talk! Ma’s a busy person, I can fuss around with ya here.”

Atsumu is dragged out of the bedroom with an expression of horror and dread.

They have a rather tense conversation at the dining table, Atsumu and Sakusa sitting across an evidently pissed Fuyumi. Through years of experience, he can sense that what is arriving after that lengthy sigh is a blown-out tirade.

“I was hopin’ ya’d settle down with a nice girl for once,” ‘nice girl,’ Atsumu drawls, “what? What’s so wrong about me wantin’ to see adorable grandchildren? Just who d’ya think ya got all yer superior genes from?” ‘I dunno, pa.’ “Don’t be stupid, ya both look exactly like me. Anyway, I didn’t bother to pester Osamu after I saw him suckin’ face with Rintarou, but ya dated girls in high school, Atsumu! That’s why ma assumed- and ya never mentioned a thing about likin’ boys!”

“I sucked face with plenty of boys ma, I just never toldja.”

“Well, don’t make an idiot outta yer ma and tell me! All these portfolios I brought; they were for nothin’! They’re all very distinguished girls –“

“And my boyfriend is a very distinguished man, ma.”

Fuyumi inhales a deep breath and snaps to Sakusa. “Yes, the one who shoved ya out of that damned truck, I know.”

That’s certainly a better first impression than plain shirtless.

“His brother’s a doctor and his sister’s a prosecutor. He’s a popular athlete who earns as much as I do. Ain’t that enough to meet yer standards? And he’s like,” Atsumu wiggles his brows and ogles him in a totally not PG-13 manner. Sakusa suppresses the boiling urge to smack him. “Y’know.”

“I saw him without a shirt, Tsumu, I believe I do know.”

The non-PG-13-ness must be encoded in their DNA somewhere.

“He’s a really good guy, ma.” Atsumu grins encouragingly, “really.”

Miya Fuyumi scowls at him and Sakusa feels like he should apologize. For what, he’s not too sure. That’s not the problem when you’re in front of your boyfriend’s mother.

And then out of nowhere, Fuyumi bows her head.

“Thank you very much,” her hands are joined together tightly, “for savin’ my son.” If anything, that was not a line he was anticipating. Belatedly, he rises slightly from his chair and attempts to interject, that it’s unnecessary, but she lifts her chin and smiles. It’s a dazzling smile, extremely familiar. “I wouldn’t have visited with the portfolios had I knew.” She glares sideways at Atsumu momentarily, “Yer in for a journey of pain, Sakusa boy.”

“Ma!”

“I do realize that.”

“Omi-kun, this is treason.”

“But,” he holds Atsumu’s hand under the table, “I’m sure there’s more to it as well.”

Fuyumi nods approvingly.

“I’m sure.”

(He dreams his last dream of “Omi.”

He’s standing, and so is Omi, unlike all the other dreams. The geisha is dressed in a snow-white kimono he doesn’t recognize, his braided curls loose. He’s admiring the sky above them, which isn’t quite blue, but also not any specific color. It’s the hues of a rainbow palette, a shade he cannot identify. There are no clouds, and there is no sun nor moon. Only the sky, the ticklish blades of grass, and them.

“Are you going?” He questions, and the geisha turns to him.

“It’s about time, don’t you think?” He draws his kimono upward to unveil his legs, “I can walk on my own now.”

Kiyoomi flashes him a gentle smile. “I’m glad.”

The other swivels to the sky once more. “I forgot what the sky used to look like.” It’s been such a long time, he hears Omi whisper under his breath. “Do you think it’ll be blue anytime soon?”

“Not when you’re with me, I suppose.”

“Very well.” The geisha strokes his shoulder. “This is goodbye, then.”

“Is it?”

“You’ll forget eventually.”

He clenches his fists. “I don’t think I’d be able to.”

“Not immediately. In five years, though, you’ll forget the flavor of those apricots. In seven, you’ll confuse the words. In ten, your thinnest scars will heal. And in fifteen, you will not be able to remember the nightmares that haunted you.” Omi’s soothing touches calm him. He smells like plum blossoms. “It was not your pain to bear, to begin with.”

“Where are you going now?”

Omi hums, “To him, I guess.”

“Will he still,” he doesn’t finish that sentence; Omi merely shrugs.

“He told me to come flying. I’ll try my best.”

Kiyoomi squeezes his hand. “You’ll make it.”

“Thank you.”

They detach from each other. The pasture of grass seems to widen between them, Omi shifting farther and farther away from him. They’re both unmoving as they face each other for the final dream.

“I love you, Kiyoomi.”

There is a budding warmth.

“I love you too, Kiyoomi.”)

“When do ya think spring will come?”

“Not anytime soon,” Sakusa extends his palm; snowflakes land and melt on the surface. “It’s still snowing. The flowers won’t blossom until March, at least. Maybe April. They said it’s unnaturally cold this year.”

“Bleh. I don’t like winter.”

Atsumu is wrapped in his arms as they huddle together in the balcony, observing the snowfall of late November. Sakusa breathes in his scent; they use the same shampoo, but Atsumu still smells a little bit distinct. It’s an indescribable scent, but it has recently become his favorite – more than the candles he has stored in his cabinets. Neither of them has touched them in months since going out. “But you like White Christmas.”

“That’s different, I toldja White Christmas is about the miracle quality.” Atsumu snuggles into his embrace, shivering. “Hey, Omi, what d’ya think will happen if we drop the news that we’re datin’ to Sports Daily?”

“Pandemonium.”

“Touché.” Atsumu laughs, “’S fine, ‘m not gonna do it.”

Sakusa holds him closer. “I don’t mind.”

“Nah, I don’t wanna tell the world just yet.” The blond twists and pecks his jaw, “I wanna keep ya to myself for as long as I can.”

He snorts, “You might as well grab a marker and write your name on me.”

“Huh.”

A pause. “Don’t consider it, Atsumu.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t, I swear. Pinky promise.”

He shakes his head and places his own atop Atsumu’s.

It’s a pleasant feeling, being so close to a person. You can sense their temperature seep into your bones during chilly nights like this, the goosebumps on their skin brushing against yours. The proximity would’ve terrified him in the past; well, to be honest, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to do this with someone else. It’s possible because it’s Atsumu.

“Y’know,” Atsumu abruptly speaks up, “don’t take this the wrong way, but ‘m glad I hated ya first.”

“Why?”

“Because I know how fuckin’ dumb that is,” he knocks his forehead against Sakusa’s chest fondly, “hatin’ ya is the dumbest thing I could ever do in my life.”

He doodles random shapes on Atsumu’s back. “A refreshing perspective, I see.”

Hating Miya Atsumu – he ruminates on the idea – hating Miya Atsumu.

Ah, yeah.

That is fucking dumb.

He couldn’t possibly squander such energy and time doing that when he could be spending that same energy and time loving him like this – loving tenderly, loving in late November, loving with a centimeter apart, loving in pajamas out in the balcony, barefoot. Loving how Atsumu is stepping on his feet because he doesn’t like it when his feet are cold.

“You’re right about that one.”

“Aren’t I?”

They freeze, then kiss. It’s an automatic reaction, as if the action is geared into both of their hearts – a reflex of emotion. Sakusa doesn’t think it’s too horrible. In fact, he can get used to such things, reflexes of emotions, and whatnot.

It’s weird. He’s always been afraid of feeling even the barest twitch of joy because then he’d despair over how the fullness of that brightness would never be attainable for him. Now, joy is in his arms, squashing his feet and kissing him in the frigid snow.

Joy – what a strange feeling.

“Want to go in?”

“Mm,” Atsumu sighs in bliss, “I like this.”

“My feet are on the verge of becoming pancakes, so I’m certain you’re liking this.”

“Aw, what happened to yer stamina, Omi?”

“This isn’t really about stamina, is it?”

“Fine, fine.” The setter gives in – and then cranes his neck towards the sky. “Hey, d’ya think I can catch a snowflake?”

Sakusa mimics him. “What, you want a snowflake?”

“They’re kinda like flowers; they’ll suffice.” Atsumu hops off Sakusa’s flattened feet and struggles to catch a fluttering snowflake. He flails and staggers, losing his balance as he slips on a tile. Sakusa tugs the hem of his pajama shirt and hisses:

“Careful.”

Atsumu pouts, “But I almost had one, Omi.”

“You won’t ever get one at that rate. See,” he stretches his clothed arm – his pajama top is indigo. A snowflake lands on the fabric, a translucent flower blossoming on the canvas of dark blue. “There you go.” The other twinkles upon spotting the tiny snowflake. “Happy?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu interweaves their fingers. “Let’s go in.”

The snow blossom melts away as they vanish into the brimming, golden-lit home of theirs.

Spring – is Here.