Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Atsumu had always figured he was straight.

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk about it.

Not that night. Not the next morning. Not in the hotel lobby where Sakusa nursed a black coffee and Atsumu bounced his knee, looking anywhere but at Sakusa.

The silence between them didn’t crack. It just shifted—coiled tight. Nothing in Sakusa’s face gave anything away. His voice was the same, tone dry and measured. His posture relaxed. His eyes unreadable.

Meanwhile, Atsumu felt like he was fucking combusting.

Because he’d had Sakusa's dick in his mouth. Had tasted him, came in his damn sweatpants like some desperate, touch-starved idiot—and now they were back to being teammates?
Teammates who warmed up together. Sat next to each other on buses. Reviewed film shoulder to shoulder.

Teammates who made eye contact mid-drill and didn’t say anything but—

God. It was like being struck.

The first time it happened—just a glance across the court during serve practice—Atsumu’s spine straightened like someone had poured ice water down it. His grip on the ball fumbled, his eyes locked with Sakusa’s for half a second too long.

He turned so fast his neck cracked. And still, his dick stirred traitorously in his shorts like oh, we’re doing this again?

He hated it. Hated that Sakusa’s expression didn’t change. Hated that Sakusa was acting like it had meant nothing.

And now Atsumu was so aware.

Aware of Sakusa brushing past him in the locker room, a towel slung around his hips, steam still clinging to his skin. Aware of Sakusa standing too close during drills, hands on his knees, hair damp, lips slightly parted as he caught his breath. Aware of Sakusa sitting beside him at press conferences, knees brushing—just barely—but enough. Enough to make Atsumu’s breath catch in his throat. Enough that he had to shift his weight, pretend to scratch his leg, anything to stop himself from jumping out of his skin.

Sakusa never reacted. Not overly. 

But sometimes, Atsumu would catch the pink at the tips of Sakusa’s ears.

Especially when Atsumu’s accent got heavy—usually when he was pissed about a missed call or fired up after a win, words spilling out too fast for even the reporters to catch.
And Sakusa would look at him. Not with annoyance. Not with amusement.

Just look—quiet, unreadable, listening.

And Atsumu had to act like he didn’t replay that night in the hotel room every time he closed his eyes. Like he didn’t jerk off to the memory almost every fucking night.

Because fuck—

He couldn’t not think about it.

It started slow. Just once or twice that first week. Frustration, leftover adrenaline. No big deal.

But then it became routine. Lights off. Phone face-down. Head tilted back against the pillows. Hand wrapped tight around his cock while he bit back sounds - even though he lived alone.

And what killed him was how easy it was. Thinking about Sakusa’s hands. His mouth. His voice. The way he’d looked up at Atsumu. The way he touched him—controlled but not cold. The way he’d laughed when Atsumu came in his pants like a teenager.

He came harder than he ever had in his life. Every time. Without fail.

He’d finish with his face flushed, chest heaving, hand sticky and warm—and a sick, low ache twisting in his gut.

Because what the fuck was this?

And why did Atsumu want him. Not in some sort of locker-room dream kind of way. But really want him.

In the middle-of-the-day, can’t-stop-staring-at-his-hands, wondering-how-he’d-look-under-me-again kind of way.

One morning, Sakusa walked into the locker room while Atsumu was kneeling by his locker, tugging the laces tight on his training shoes - and Atsumu blushed.

Not just a little flush in his cheeks, either.

Full-body, gut-punch heat that made his ears burn and his hands fumble with the knot. He kept his head down, trying to act normal. Like his brain wasn’t suddenly playing a highlight reel of the last time he’d seen Sakusa half-dressed and panting underneath him. Like Sakusa hadn’t pulled his hair while he was coming. Like he hadn’t tasted him.

Sakusa didn’t say anything. Didn’t look twice. Just gave him a small nod, calm and flat as ever, before slipping off his jacket and moving to his own locker like it was any other morning.

But Atsumu felt it. Felt it in his stomach. In his throat. In the ache behind his eyes from how little sleep he’d gotten the night before, because yeah, he’d been thinking about it again.

Over and over and over.

He turned sharply, pretending to dig for something in his duffel bag. Anything to keep his hands busy, his eyes down.

And then, of course, Bokuto walked in—bright, loud, already mid-sentence with Hinata.

“—and I told him, ‘Bro, I don’t care how strong you are, you’re not lifting me like that.’”

Atsumu barely registered what he was talking about until Bokuto turned to Sakusa.

“You’ve got strong legs, right? You could probably squat Tsum-Tsum easy.”

Atsumu’s head snapped up. “What?”

Bokuto grinned. “You’re dense, but you’ve got the build. He could lift you.”

Sakusa, without even glancing over, muttered, “Not interested.”

Atsumu huffed, turning back to his bag like it might swallow him whole. He tugged his practice shirt on faster than he needed to, jaw tight, heart hammering even though none of this should have meant anything.

But Sakusa hadn’t looked at him once.

And that—that—was what was making him lose his damn mind. The complete lack of any acknowledgment.

And Bokuto—well-meaning, loud, oblivious Bokuto—kept making it worse without realizing it. “Tsum-Tsum, remember that girl from Sendai? The one you said was into, like, ropes and crystals or whatever?”

Atsumu choked. “Bokkun—do ya have to bring that up right now?”

“What?” Bokuto blinked, completely unfazed. “It was a funny story!”

“Not that funny.” Atsumu muttered, tossing a towel at his head, aiming more for distraction than punishment.

Sakusa hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t looked. Just kept taping his fingers with that same practiced rhythm like none of it mattered.

But Atsumu knew he was listening.

Felt it in the way Sakusa’s shoulders twitched slightly when Bokuto asked,

“You coming with us tonight? We’re grabbing ramen with Hinata.”

Sakusa didn’t look up. “No.”

Atsumu hated the way his stomach twisted at that. Hated that he even cared in the first place.

Because what was he supposed to do? Walk over and say, Hey, you know how we made out and I came in my pants humping you like a dog? Wanna talk about that before ramen?

There was no script for this. No playbook.

Just him, stuck in his own head, sweating through practice and laughing too loud and avoiding Sakusa’s gaze like it was going to burn.

And maybe it already had.

Because Sakusa was still so normal. So quiet. So unbothered.

Onigiri Miya was mostly quiet by the time Atsumu dropped in.

It was nearly ten—well past the dinner rush, just shy of close—and the place smelled like rice vinegar and grilled fish. The lights were low, the stereo playing something lazy and low. Osamu stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a rag in hand as he wiped down the last few trays.

Atsumu sat slouched at the bar, a cup of barley tea sweating against his palm. He hadn't said much since coming in. Just grunted a “yo” and slid into the seat like gravity was hitting him sideways.

Osamu didn’t press. Not at first.

He knew his brother well enough to know that when Atsumu went quiet, something was simmering under the surface. Always had been that way—kid ran hot with everything: energy, anger, affection, pride.

Silence? That was the real warning sign.

Eventually, Osamu leaned an elbow on the counter, tossing the rag into the sink behind him. “So,” he said, breaking the quiet, “ya gonna tell me what crawled up your ass today, or we just sittin’ here till close?”

Atsumu exhaled, slow and long through his nose. “I’m fine.”

Osamu snorted. “Yer the worst liar I know.”

“I’m tired,” Atsumu said, though his shoulders didn’t droop the way they usually did when he was actually worn out. “Practice was long.”

“That ain’t it.” Osamu reached for the stack of receipts next to the register, started sorting them into piles. “Yer tired all the time and still don’t shut up. Somethin’s on yer mind.”

Atsumu scratched his temple, dragging his fingers through his hair, then shrugged. “It’s nothin’ serious.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat passed.

Then, carefully—way too casually—Atsumu asked, “You ever liked a guy?”

Osamu froze mid-fold. Looked up. Eyebrows raised halfway to his hairline. “What?”

“I said—” Atsumu cleared his throat. “Have you ever liked a guy? Like, thought a guy was, y’know... good lookin’ or whatever.”

Osamu blinked at him. Then slowly went back to wiping the counter.

Atsumu scoffed, folding his arms. “Never mind.”

“Oh wait—” Osamu straightened again. “You were seriously askin’ me that?”

“No.” Atsumu grumbled, cheeks going red. “Forget it.”

Osamu leaned in a little, lips twitching with a barely-there smirk. “I mean, I guess I’ve thought some guys were good lookin’. Like, objectively. Doesn’t mean I wanna make out with ‘em.”

Atsumu slouched further, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well what do ya mean then?” Osamu asked, “Yer dancin’ around it. Just spill it.”

“It’s…” Atsumu started, then stopped. Jaw clenched.

Osamu waited, arms folded now, leaning on the counter like he had all night.

“It’s someone on the team.” Atsumu mumbled.

“Uh-huh.”

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“I’m not lookin’ atcha like anything,” Osamu said evenly, “I’m just waitin’ for ya to grow a pair and say what ya wanna say.”

Atsumu muttered something under his breath and dragged his hands down his face. “Don’t laugh,” he said, voice low. “Don’t say shit.”

“I’m already not sayin’ shit.”

“I’m serious. If you laugh, I’m gonna walk outta here and never tell you anything again.”

Osamu rolled his eyes. “Jesus, alright, I won’t laugh. What happened?”

Atsumu glanced toward the door—empty—and then muttered under his breath: “I mighta… kissed someone.”

“Mhm.”

“…And maybe did some other stuff.”

Osamu narrowed his eyes. “What kinda other stuff?”

“Stuff, ‘Samu, god.”

Osamu’s lips twitched. “Okay. Stuff.”

“With… a guy.”

Osamu blinked.

His face was impressively neutral for about three seconds.

Then—

“Pfft—”

Atsumu smacked his arm across the counter. “I said not to laugh!”

“I’m not! I’m—” Osamu swallowed it down, cleared his throat, wiping the smirk off his face. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Go on.”

Atsumu sighed. “It wasn’t planned. It just happened.”

“And you liked it.”

Atsumu didn’t answer.

Osamu tilted his head. “Did ya?”

“…Yeah.” Atsumu admitted after a second, voice smaller than Osamu had ever heard it. “I did.”

A silence settled between them. Then Osamu, voice low and even, said -

“Was it Sakusa?”

Atsumu's head snapped up, eyes wide. “How the fuck—”

Osamu snorted. “Ya think I don’t notice the way ya blush like a virgin every time he walks in a room?”

“I do not—”

“Ya do.”

Atsumu groaned, thunking his head gently against the counter. “I hate you.”

Osamu chuckled. “Nah, ya love me. I’m the only one who puts up with yer dramatics.”

“Fuck off.”

They were quiet for a moment longer, Osamu finishing with the trays, Atsumu slumped in defeat.

Then, Osamu said quietly, “Maybe you should try talkin’ to him instead of all this weird pining shit.”

Atsumu scoffed into his arms. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“It was just one time.”

“Sure,” Osamu said. “But yer actin’ like he lives rent free in your head.”

Atsumu mumbled, “He does.”

Osamu moved quietly, grabbing the rag from the sink, setting the chairs legs-up on the tables one by one. He disappeared into the back for a second, returned with the keys, and flipped the bolt on the front door with a dull click.

Atsumu didn’t move.

Osamu turned the little OPEN sign to CLOSED and flicked off the last overhead light, the room dimming into warm stillness.

Atsumu let his weight sag against the counter, cheek pressed to the wood, a pair of chopsticks slipping lazily between his fingers. He should’ve gone home. His body ached from practice. His shoulders were sore, and his quads kept threatening to seize every time he shifted too fast.

But he stayed.

He didn’t even know why. Something about the quiet of the shop, the soft rattle of trays being stacked in the back, Osamu moving around like he always did—steady, unfazed, predictable. It was a comfort. And Atsumu was in short supply lately.

And then—

A towel hit him square in the head.

“The fuck?” Atsumu jolted, nearly dropping the chopsticks as he twisted to glare at his brother.

“If yer gonna mope around,” Osamu said, “ya might as well earn yer keep.”

Atsumu groaned dramatically. “Ya don’t even pay me, y’know.”

“Good thing yer shit at moppin’.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him a headache. Still, he stood up and dragged himself toward the back to grab the broom. He started with the dining room—sweeping up bits of rice and dust near the windows, knocking a chopstick wrapper out from under one of the booths. His sneakers squeaked faintly against the floor. Osamu had already cleared the register, locking the drawer and moving onto inventory sheets. They worked in parallel, quietly, the way they always had when they weren’t yelling over each other.

Once the floor was clean enough, Atsumu trudged back to the sink, filled the mop bucket, and dragged it out front, sloshing water over the edge as he went.

They didn’t say much for a while. Just the swish of the mop, the shuffle of shelves. Familiar white noise.

Then—out of nowhere, like the thought had been clawing at the inside of his throat all night—

“You… uh,” Atsumu started, his voice low, a little awkward. “How do you feel about—y’know. Gay people?”

Osamu didn’t look up. Just let out a short, amused breath. “Is this a trick question?”

Atsumu frowned down at the mop head, pushing it into the corner. “No, I just…”

He trailed off, face a little hot. Regretting saying anything at all.

Osamu walked by, slapped him lightly on the back of the head with a laminated menu. “What other people do in their bedroom ain’t none of my business. Unless they’re doin’ it in my restaurant.”

Atsumu grunted. “Was a real question.”

“I gave you a real answer.” Osamu said, rounding back toward the front, wiping down the host stand with a dish towel.

He turned to look at Atsumu then, leaning one elbow on the counter, the dish towel still in hand. “Listen, idiot,” he said, voice a little softer, “I’ll love ya no matter who you kiss. Ya could bring home someone with two heads and a weird haircut, and I’d still feed ‘em.”

Atsumu let out a faint snort. “That’s a low bar.”

“I’m serious,” Osamu said. “Ya wanna date a guy? Fine. Ya wanna marry one? Fine. Ya wanna stay a dumb, emotionally repressed volleyball gremlin forever? Also fine—though deeply unfortunate.”

Atsumu mopped slower now, letting the words settle around him.

“I just want ya to be happy,” Osamu added. “That’s it. Doesn’t matter who it’s with. Just… make sure they make ya feel like a person, not a problem.”

Atsumu didn’t answer, just pushed the mop in long, even strokes, wiping the last of the soapy water into the corner.

Then Osamu asked, more gently this time, “Ya worried what people’ll say?”

Atsumu nodded without looking up. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice soft. “Not fans, really. Though, like… maybe them too. But it’s more teammates. Reporters. Coaches. I dunno. I worked so hard building a certain image..”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s clean. Sellable. Safe.”

Osamu hummed. “You think yer the only one on that court with a secret?”

Atsumu blinked at him.

“I guarantee yer not.” Osamu said. “And the ones that matter? They won’t care. They know who you are. They know how hard ya work.”

“And if they do care?” Atsumu asked, barely above a whisper.

“Then fuck ‘em.” Osamu said, deadpan.

Atsumu let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Ya make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Osamu replied. “But the math’s simple. Who do ya care about impressing? Strangers with hashtags, or the people who’d still come get ya outta jail at 3am?”

Atsumu tilted his head. “Aren’t ya legally obligated to do that anyway?”

Osamu scoffed. “I’d let ya rot just to make a point. Don’t test me.”

That made Atsumu laugh a little.

Osamu stood there for a second longer. Then he nudged him gently in the side on his way past. “I mean it,” he said. “Yer my brother. Even if you drive me insane, I love ya. No conditions.”

Atsumu went quiet again. Then murmured a quiet - “Thanks. Samu.”

Osamu shrugged. “Yer welcome. Now mop faster. This floor’s not gonna clean itself.”

“Slave driver.”

“Freeloader.”

Osamu flipped the lights off inside Onigiri Miya and locked the front door with one hand, the other holding a half-finished rice ball he’d been meaning to eat before closing.

“Ya good?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Atsumu nodded, tugging up his hood as the night air hit them. He didn’t say anything, but Osamu already knew. Atsumu had caught the bus over hours ago—when the sun was still up. Now it was dark, quiet, and the bus lines had long since stopped running.

Osamu motioned for his twin to follow. Atsumu didn’t protest. It was always a fair trade.

The car ride was quiet.

Not tense. Just… soft. The radio played low—some old playlist Osamu hadn’t updated in years—but neither of them really listened. Atsumu stared out the window, cheek pressed to the glass, watching city lights blur past.

Halfway to his place, he said, almost too quiet to hear, “Can ya not say anything?”

Osamu didn’t look away from the road. “Say anythin’ about what?”

Atsumu shot him a dry look.

Osamu smirked. “Yeah, I’m gonna go around tellin’ people yer gay for your teammate.”

“I’m not gay.” Atsumu muttered immediately, slouching deeper into the seat.

Osamu chuckled, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m not. It’s just a…it’s not that I…” Atsumu started.

“Relax, I’m not sayin’ shit.”

Atsumu let out a long breath and went back to watching the blur of lights outside.
A few minutes passed.

Then, casually, Osamu asked, “So… what’d ya two even do?”

Atsumu turned, slow as hell, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

“What? I’m curious.”

Atsumu groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “We didn’t get far, okay?”

Osamu raised a brow but said nothing, waiting.

Atsumu hesitated.

Then muttered, “I came in my pants.”

The car went dead silent.

Osamu’s mouth twitched.

“From dry humping,” Atsumu added, tugging at his hoodie strings. “Happy now?”

Osamu wheezed, “No fuckin’ way.”

Atsumu punched his arm. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not!” But he was shaking with suppressed laughter, eyes bright. “Y’seriously—?”

“Shut up, Samu.”

“Just—wow. Even for you, that’s impressive.”

Atsumu glared at him, face red hot.

They pulled up in front of Atsumu’s apartment a few minutes later, engine humming softly beneath them. Atsumu leaned into the backseat and grab his gym bag, slinging it over one shoulder with a tired grunt. As he stepped out onto the curb, Osamu rolled the window down with a low whirrr.

“Hey,' he called.

Atsumu turned, one brow raised.

“I mean it,” Osamu said, propping his elbow on the window frame. “I love ya.”

Atsumu glanced down at the sidewalk, scuffed his sneaker against the curb. Then nodded once. “Yeah… love ya too.”

He adjusted the strap of his bag, then leaned down slightly, lowering his voice. “I mean it. Don’t tell anyone, yeah?”

Osamu gave him a lazy salute, grin already pulling at his mouth. “Yer secrets are safe with me, dry humper.”

“God,” Atsumu groaned, cheeks flushing hot again. “I should’ve just walked.”

A couple nights later, Atsumu stared at the blank message field on his phone, one knee bouncing restlessly.

He chewed his lip and started typing.

yo u see that video bokuto posted?

He paused.

Backspaced.

Started again.

u remember that team dinner where hinata choked on a whole shrimp? just watched the rerun of that match and couldn’t stop thinkin abt it lmao

It wasn’t funny. Not really. But it sounded like something normal. Something safe.

He hit send.

Sakusa read it instantly.

Atsumu sat up a little straighter.

The reply came after a long minute.

[Omi]: Vaguely.

Atsumu stared.

Then rolled his eyes.

Of course. Dry as sandpaper.

Still, Atsumu tried again.

u ever think abt the early days? like when you first joined the jackals? i was such a pain in the ass huh lol

The bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Then:

[Omi]: Not much has changed.

Atsumu scoffed out loud, flopping back against his bed.

[Atsumu]: u r literally the worst person to text

[Omi]: Texting is inefficient.

Atsumu blinked at that one.

Then typed, slower this time:

[Atsumu]:i wanna talk. for real.

Sakusa didn’t respond right away. Atsumu could see the typing bubble flicker and disappear a few times. Then finally:

[Omi]: What do you actually want, Miya?

Atsumu let his head fall back against the couch. He stared at the ceiling for a second before typing:

[Atsumu]: i wanna talk

[Omi]: About what?

[Atsumu]: just… stuff

[Omi]: Be specific.

[Atsumu]: personal stuff. us.

Then after a second, he added.

[Atsumu]: the night in hotel room….

There was a pause. Long enough that Atsumu checked his Wi-Fi twice.

Then:

[Omi]: So talk.

[Atsumu]: not like this. in person.

Another pause.

[Omi]: I can come to your place.

Atsumu blinked at the screen.

[Atsumu]: wait u wanna come to my place for real?

[Omi]: You’re the one who wants to talk. Might as well do it somewhere you’re comfortable.

[Atsumu]: wow. how thoughtful.

[Omi]: Send me the address.

[Atsumu]: u act like u have never been over? u came here for hinata’s birthday….

[Omi]: I deleted it. Send again.

Atsumu rolled his eyes, but his fingers were already moving.

The moment he shared his address, he started pacing. Aimless. The kind of pacing that looked like someone trying to physically walk their anxiety out of their body — opening a cupboard twice in a row with no reason, peeking in the fridge like he was going to cook something (he wasn’t), picking up a throw blanket and folding it before unfolding it again just to fold it better.

Talk. Just talk. That’s all they were going to do.

How hard could that be?

Except now he was pulling the corner of his fitted sheet off the bed.

And by the time he had a new set of sheets halfway on, he was red in the face.

Because — what the fuck was he doing?

He wasn’t planning to fuck Sakusa. That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t why he invited him over.

But he was still tucking the corners of the bed like his mom used to — neat, flat, perfect.

Just in case. Because, well… you never know, right?

And then there was a knock. One sharp, barely-there tap.

Atsumu moved — fast — smoothing his hoodie down, brushing his fingers through his hair, wiping his clammy palms on his sweats before finally opening the door.

Sakusa stood there, hoodie on, mask pulled up. Eyes calm. Borderline unreadable.

“Hey.” Atsumu said, voice a little too high.

Sakusa didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning his face like he was looking for proof this wasn’t some trap.

Then he stepped inside.

Atsumu shut the door behind him and awkwardly gestured toward the living room. Sakusa didn’t sit. Just stood near the edge of the couch, like he hadn’t decided if this was worth staying for.

The silence itched under Atsumu’s skin.

“You, uh… want somethin’? To drink or whatever?”

Sakusa’s gaze flicked over to him. “You don’t have to play host.”

Atsumu blinked. “I’m not—”

“I know why you invited me,” Sakusa said flatly. “You want to fuck.”

Atsumu practically choked on air. “I—what?! That’s not—”

“I bet you changed your sheets.”

Atsumu’s face went scarlet. “No - I did not.”

Sakusa raised a brow.

Atsumu was quick to talk to redirect his attention. “I just—okay - fuck, I’ve been thinkin’ about that night,” Atsumu said, tripping over his words. “The hotel.”

Sakusa nodded once, eyes unreadable. “Okay.”

“I—” Atsumu ran a hand through his hair, “I dunno, alright? I just—shit’s been weird. Between us.”

Sakusa didn’t move. Just watched him like he was waiting to see where it would land.

Atsumu kept going, even though he was talking too fast now, fingers fidgeting. “I didn’t know what it meant, and I didn’t wanna assume, but it’s been in my fuckin’ head, like—and it’s driving me insane. I can’t even jerk off like a normal person anymore without thinkin’ about you and—fuck, this is not how I meant to say any of this—”

“Stop.” Sakusa said.

Atsumu froze mid-ramble.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

Atsumu swallowed, breath catching. “I think yer not thinkin’ hard enough.”

Sakusa just blinked at him like he’d said something embarrassingly stupid. “You’re straight, remember?”

Atsumu groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t start—”

“You invited me over,” Sakusa said calmly, tugging his mask down and folding it into his hoodie pocket. “To talk. But let’s be honest—you just wanted a guy to kiss so you could see if it still made you hard.”

“That’s not—” Atsumu’s ears went red. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?” Sakusa’s eyebrow arched. “So I’m not your practice dummy?”

Atsumu flinched, just slightly. “Yer twistin’ my words.”

“I’m clarifying them.”

“Ya think yer so fuckin’ smart, huh?”

“Compared to you? Often.”

Atsumu stepped forward, frustration simmering, mouth parted like he had something sharp on his tongue—ready to defend himself again, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was defending anymore.

But then—Sakusa tilted his head, and said, “Come here.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes, but his feet moved anyway. Always did when Sakusa used that voice—low, unreadable, like a challenge that didn’t need volume.

He stood in front of him, arms still crossed, tension coiled tight in his spine.

They stared at each other for a long second. Quiet. Breathing the same air.

Then Sakusa’s hand lifted—slow and certain—and slid behind Atsumu’s neck. Fingers curled at his nape. Firm. Grounding. And Atsumu melted.

The kiss started soft—just the press of mouths, the slide of lips, the smallest tilt of Sakusa’s head—but Atsumu couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t hold still. Within seconds, he was pushing closer, hands braced on Sakusa’s sides, mouth hungry and wet, tongue greedy.

He kissed like a man dying of thirst. Like he’d been waiting since the moment Sakusa walked through the door.

Sakusa let him—for a second. Let him press close and sloppy, let him tongue his way into every inch of his mouth, let him breathe like he was choking on it.

Then Sakusa’s fingers tightened on the back of his neck and pulled—just enough to tug him back.

Atsumu blinked, lips kiss-bitten, cheeks flushed. “What—?”

“Slow down.” Sakusa murmured.

Atsumu let out a pathetic little whine, breathless. “I can’t.”

“Try.”

Atsumu surged back in anyway, lips dragging across Sakusa’s jaw this time, hands already slipping under his hoodie, fingers skating up warm, bare skin. Sakusa’s breath hitched when Atsumu ground forward—hips flushed, friction sharp and thick through cotton.

“You’re rutting like a dog again,” Sakusa muttered, though his voice cracked just slightly. “I’m barely touching you.”

“I’m tryin’ to get answers,” Atsumu said, nosing against Sakusa’s cheek, open-mouthed kisses sliding down toward his neck. “Scientific method. Or some shit.”

“Oh, that’s what this is. Research?”

Atsumu laughed low against his throat. “Don’t worry. You’re a great test subject.”

Sakusa huffed, but it ended in a moan as Atsumu sucked a hot, wet spot just under his ear. His knees bent slightly from the sensation, hands tightening where they gripped Atsumu’s waist.

Atsumu ground into him again, rougher this time, like he needed the pressure to think.

Then—“Bedroom’s that way,” he muttered, already walking them backward.

They stumbled down the hallway in a tangle of limbs and half-bitten insults, kissing like they were fighting for oxygen, teeth knocking, lips slick. Sakusa shoved him once—palm flat against his chest—and Atsumu stumbled a step back, grinning, before tackling him forward with equal force.

They entered the doorway to Atsumu’s bedroom, Atsumu nipping at the skin before sucking down hard—pulling a dark, blooming mark to the surface just below Sakusa’s ear.

Sakusa huffed. “That’s gonna show.”

“Good.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

“Keep talkin’. I like when yer mean to me.”

They tumbled inside all the way, still kissing, still clawing for control. Their hips pressed flush, the grinding urgent and uneven, like their bodies were too desperate to find rhythm. Sweatpants dragged low, boxers clinging damp between them.

Atsumu couldn’t stop kissing him. He kept chasing Sakusa’s mouth like he needed it to breathe—tongue darting, lips parted, almost panting with it. Every time Sakusa tried to pull back, even slightly, Atsumu surged forward again, hungry and messy and breathless.

“Fuck, wait—” Sakusa muttered, laughing low against his jaw, one hand pressing to Atsumu’s chest like it might slow him down.

Atsumu just groaned, mouth hovering close, eyes heavy-lidded. “Don’t wanna wait…”

Then Sakusa brought his hand up—slow, deliberate—and ran the pad of his thumb along Atsumu’s bottom lip.

Atsumu’s breath hitched. Then he opened his mouth and sucked. Warm and wet, tongue flicking soft against the skin. His eyes didn’t leave Sakusa’s, not for a second.

Sakusa arched a brow. “You do that with all the girls you sleep with too?”

Atsumu flushed. Pulled back just enough to mutter, “Shut the fuck up.”

“That a yes?”

“Yer so fuckin’ annoying.”

They got each other undressed in pieces—sweatpants shucked halfway down, boxers tented, thighs flexing. Sakusa’s hand slipped down the waistband of Atsumu’s sweats just long enough to tug them over his ass, letting them fall to the floor. Atsumu tugged Sakusa’s pants down in response, hands rough, knuckles brushing the heat beneath his boxers.

Both of them were hard now—aching for it. Their lengths strained against cotton, pressed between them every time their hips rocked forward.

Atsumu stepped back to toe his socks off—and promptly slammed his shin on the corner of the bedframe.

“Fuck—“ he hissed, nearly folding over.

Sakusa barked out a laugh, the kind of smug, low chuckle that made Atsumu’s face burn hotter than the pain. “You good?”

“I’m fine!” He mumbled.

“You’re acting like a virgin. Slow down.”

“I’m not—” Atsumu stood up fast, cheeks flushed. “I’m just not used to someone like you watchin’.”

Sakusa just raised a brow. “Someone like me?”

“Someone mean.” Atsumu muttered, grabbing him by the front of his boxers and dragging him down onto the bed.

Sakusa’s hands found Atsumu’s waist again, pulling him close, and their mouths met in another kiss—this one slower, messier, drawn-out.

Atsumu straddled Sakusa’s hips, pressed their cocks together through the thin fabric, and moaned softly into the kiss.

Sakusa hummed against his lips, fingers sliding up his spine. “Better,” he murmured. “Still desperate, but better.”

Atsumu just whined, rutting down harder. “I hate ya.”

“You don’t.”

And Atsumu—still moving, still kissing—didn’t argue.

Sakusa pulled back just slightly, eyes low-lidded and sharp.

“Do you wanna top or bottom?”

Atsumu blinked, lips kiss-swollen. “What?”

Sakusa’s hands were still firm on his waist. His voice didn’t waver. “I said, do you want top or bottom?”

Atsumu flushed so red it hit the tips of his ears. “I—what kinda fuckin’ question is that?”

Sakusa lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. “A necessary one.”

“I—I’ll top,” Atsumu said, a little too fast, a little too defensive. “That’s like… it’s like bein’ with a girl. Just… y’know. Stick it in.”

Sakusa blinked slowly. “You have such a way with words.”

“Shut up.”

Sakusa sighed—deadpan. “Do you have lube?”

Atsumu fumbled open his nightstand drawer. He pulled out a bottle and handed it over. Sakusa didn’t say anything. Just took it from his hand, calm as ever, before shifting back toward the center of the mattress.

Atsumu froze when Sakusa leaned onto his elbows, knees spreading.

And then—he watched. Watched as Sakusa slicked up two fingers, the soft squelch of the lube audible in the room’s thick silence. He dragged his hand down, between his thighs, and pressed one finger in slow, face calm, jaw tight.

Atsumu swallowed hard.

The breath caught in his throat when Sakusa added a second finger—breathing out through his nose, thighs parting further, arching just slightly against the mattress. His expression barely changed, but his lips parted. A quiet, controlled little moan slipped out.

And Atsumu couldn’t look away.

His cock throbbed in his boxers, painfully hard, the fabric clinging, wet at the tip. His breathing had gone shallow. Face flushed. He was watching Sakusa finger himself on his bed, his legs open, brows furrowed with slow concentration.

It was obscene.

Beautiful.

“You gonna just stare?” Sakusa asked quietly, not opening his eyes, fingers still working in slow, slick movements.

Atsumu blinked. “C-can I…?”

Sakusa finally looked at him—eyes dark, steady, almost amused. “Can you what?”

Atsumu licked his lips. “Can I do it?”

Sakusa didn’t say anything at first. Just studied him for a moment. Then—soft, dry, but not unkind:

“Don’t be an idiot about it.”

He shifted, parted his legs more, and let his hand fall away.

“Come here.”

Atsumu crawled forward, chest fluttering, nerves sparking hot under his skin. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the bottle.

Sakusa watched him—calm, patient, hands resting at his sides—as Atsumu coated his fingers and slid them down, guided by heat and instinct.

And when he slid the first one in, he swore his heart might actually stop.

Sakusa let out a soft breath, head tilting back against the pillow.

And Atsumu—wide-eyed, flushed, practically leaking in his briefs—could only stare in awe.

His fingers worked slow at first. Careful. Testing. He curled the first one, watching the way Sakusa’s thighs twitched—barely, just the smallest shift. Then he added a second.

Sakusa let out a breath. Not loud. Not strained. Just a low, barely-there exhale.

Atsumu paused.

“Y’okay?”

Sakusa opened one eye. “Why are you whispering?”

“I dunno,” Atsumu muttered, cheeks pink. “Feels like I should.”

He moved again—slowly, sliding both fingers deeper, twisting just slightly the way he thought might feel good.

Sakusa arched the smallest amount, hips lifting a fraction from the mattress. Then—softly, like it was involuntary—a moan slipped from his lips.

So quiet, Atsumu almost missed it.

He froze, blinking, heart kicking.

“Did ya just—”

“Don’t make it weird.” Sakusa muttered, even as he tilted his head back against the pillow, lashes fluttering.

Atsumu swallowed and bit his lip, his cock throbbing in his briefs at the sound. He’d never heard anything like it from Sakusa. Hell, he’d never heard anything like it from anyone.

He pulled his fingers back slightly. “Gonna try three.”

Sakusa just nodded, legs spreading a little more in invitation.

Atsumu slid the third finger in with a bit more lube, slow and focused, watching Sakusa’s face the whole time.

His breath hitched. His brows drew tight. Another sound left his mouth, quiet again—but there.

“Fuck…” Atsumu whispered, voice reverent.

Sakusa opened his eyes just enough to give him a look. “Don’t stare like that.”

“Can’t help it.”

Sakusa didn’t argue.

A moment passed, the air thick with slick sounds and tension and something dangerously close to awe.

Then—voice steady, low -

“Put a condom on.”

Atsumu blinked. “W-what?”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “You wanna fuck me, don’t you?”

Atsumu’s throat went dry. “Y-yeah. I mean. Yeah—yes.”

He scrambled for his nightstand again, practically elbowed the drawer open, grabbed the condom and fumbled the wrapper. His hands shook a little as he rolled it on, kneeling between Sakusa’s open thighs. His cock ached—red at the tip, slick, twitching as he settled himself in place.

He cleared his throat, awkward. “Okay, I—uh. I’m nervous.”

Sakusa didn’t even blink. “You’re the one who said it was just like being with a girl.”

Atsumu groaned. “Why are ya like this?”

“Just stick it in, right?” Sakusa mocked, voice dry.

“I’m gonna actually murder ya”

“Mm.”

Atsumu grumbled, lining himself up, and—god—just the tip pressing in was enough to make his breath catch.

Then he started to push. Slow. Careful.

Sakusa’s body was tight around him—hot, slick, squeezing down with a pressure that made Atsumu’s brain white out.

“Fuck—” he moaned, louder than he meant to, hips faltering.

He pushed in further, inch by inch, until he was halfway in—and Sakusa muttered under his breath, “You’re big.”

Atsumu blinked, blinking again. “Yeah?”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just adjusted slightly under him, breath catching.

Atsumu grinned, dizzy with ego. “Say it again.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“C’mon,” Atsumu drawled, panting. “Just a lil’ compliment while I rearrange yer guts—”

Then he bottomed out—and froze.

Eyes wide. Body stiff. Everything in him locked up like someone had flipped a switch.

Because he felt it. That surge. That pulse of heat racing up his spine, tight and fast and dangerously close.

“You going to move or are we going to be here all night?” Sakusa asked flatly.

“I—” Atsumu’s face went red. “I just need a sec.”

Sakusa tilted his head. “Are you seriously about to—”

“No!” Atsumu barked, voice high. “Shut up! I just—I need to breathe.“

Sakusa smirked, smug even with his face flushed. “Am I too much for you?”

Atsumu glared. “I hate ya.”

“Sure.”

Atsumu groaned, forehead dropping to Sakusa’s shoulder. “Can we switch positions?”

Sakusa blinked. “Seriously?”

“I can’t do this lookin’ at ya.”

“Why, because I’m a guy?”

“No. Because yer you.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes but shifted anyway, sliding out from under him with practiced grace, moving onto his knees, elbows braced on the mattress, ass lifted in the air.

Atsumu stared for a second—gulped.

Sakusa looked over his shoulder. “Well?”

Atsumu groaned, steadying himself. And then—he pushed in again. And this time, he didn’t stop.

The angle was better. Deeper. Tighter. And without Sakusa’s eyes on him, without that sharp look pulling his thoughts apart—he let himself lose focus. Let the pleasure take over.

His hips snapped forward hard.

Then again. And again.

And soon he was pounding into Sakusa, thighs slapping, vision blurry, the drag of his cock so hot and perfect he thought he might black out from it.

Sakusa’s back arched with each thrust, low grunts punched out of him with every roll of Atsumu’s hips.

Atsumu’s hands gripped Sakusa’s waist tight, fingertips digging in, using him for leverage like his body was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

And in his head—

In his head, Atsumu kept repeating it.

Still straight.

He was still straight.

Even though Sakusa’s ass was perfect.

Even though his cock throbbed every time Sakusa’s back flexed, muscles shifting beneath pale skin, shoulder blades catching the soft light.

Even though he was inside him, buried to the hilt, twitching with every muffled groan Sakusa let out into the mattress.

Still straight.

Even though this—this—felt better than anything he’d ever felt before. Better than girls. Better than quick flings and half-hearted blowjobs and whatever the hell he used to chase.

Sakusa moaned softly again—barely a sound, breathy and low, muffled by the sheets.

And Atsumu lost it a little.

His words started tumbling out—vulgar, unfiltered, hot against the skin of Sakusa’s shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Omi—ya feel so good, shit—I didn’t know it could feel like this—didn’t know anyone could feel like this—fuck—ya makin’ me crazy, holy shit—I’m gonna lose it—”

Sakusa groaned and half-laughed, breathless. “Shut up.”

“Can’t,” Atsumu gasped, voice slurring, drunk on it. “Can’t shut up, you feel too good—baby, fuck—”

Sakusa turned his head slightly, enough for Atsumu to see the pink flush on his face, the edge of his mouth slack and wet, eyes lidded.

He didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t stop him, either.

Atsumu leaned down, one hand skimming up Sakusa’s side, over the sharp slope of his ribs. Then he grabbed his jaw, gently but firm, guiding his face around until he could reach his mouth. Atsumu kissed him over his shoulder—messy and deep, their mouths finding each other blindly, spit-slick and panting. Sakusa groaned low into the kiss, and Atsumu moaned into his mouth.

His cock throbbed at the sound, at the heat of Sakusa’s lips, at the way his body gripped him so tight it felt like they were fused together.

Atsumu broke the kiss only to gasp out—“Ya feel good?”

Sakusa’s eyes fluttered. “Yeah.”

Atsumu groaned, like the sound alone was enough to make him lose control. “Say it again.”

“You feel good, Miya.”

He thrust harder—deep and fast, hips smacking against Sakusa’s ass with each punishing roll. His bed creaked, the headboard thudding softly against the wall, rhythm loud in the otherwise breathless room.

And it was so good.

Not just the tightness, the heat, the friction—but the freedom.

Atsumu could use his strength. Could drive into Sakusa as hard as he wanted. Could hold his hips down, pull him back, fuck him deeper without fear of being too rough.

Sakusa could take it.

He lifted more than Atsumu in the gym, no matter what anyone thought. His thighs were strong. His core could probably crush steel. And right now—bent over, groaning, taking Atsumu’s thrusts like he was built for it—he looked fucking divine.

Atsumu had never done this with a girl.

Couldn’t have. They were soft. Smaller. He always had to be careful.

But not with Sakusa.

He could manhandle him. Use his whole body. Fuck him like he was meant to. And Sakusa didn’t break. He bit back moans, pushed into it, wanted more.

Atsumu shifted his angle with another snap of his hips—and that’s when it happened.

Sakusa’s breath hitched. His arms trembled slightly. And then—

“Ah—”

Not loud. Not obnoxious. But it was a moan, no mistaking it this time—thicker than the rest, pulled straight from the base of his throat.

Atsumu stilled for half a beat, eyes wide and so smug.

“There it is,” he said, grinning. “Knew ya had it in ya.”

Sakusa groaned, breath sharp. “Don’t.”

“C’mon,” Atsumu teased, hips rolling again just to hear it. “Don’t hide it now.”

“Your voice is making it worse.”

“I think ya like my voice.”

“I hate your voice.”

“Liar.”

Sakusa turned his head to glare back at him, cheeks flushed, sweat at his temples, breath ragged. “Shut up and keep doing that.”

Atsumu’s grin deepened. “What—this?” He angled his hips again, snapping forward just right, watching the way Sakusa’s back arched, his fists tightening in the sheets.

“Fuck.” Sakusa muttered under his breath, jaw tight.

Atsumu leaned over him, voice low and hot by his ear. “That mean it feels good?”

Silence.

Then, begrudgingly:

“Yes.”

Atsumu felt like he could come from that alone.

But instead, he reached around, hand sliding down Sakusa’s stomach—slick and damp—until he wrapped his fingers around Sakusa’s cock.

He started stroking—firm, slow at first, in rhythm with each hard thrust of his hips. Sakusa cursed softly, his thighs trembling.

“God—” Sakusa’s voice cracked, hips jerking. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

Atsumu felt it before Sakusa even said the words—the sudden twitch, the clamp of muscle around him. Then Sakusa groaned into the mattress, body going tight, and spilled hard into Atsumu’s fist and all over the sheets, the mess soaking warm between them.

The second he clenched, Atsumu saw stars. His rhythm faltered, breath punching out of him as he swore, voice thick and slurred with his accent.

“*Fuck—fuckin’ hell—shit—Omi—”

His hand braced between Sakusa’s shoulder blades, fingers digging in as he fought to stay upright. His hips stuttered once, twice—then he came hard, groaning through gritted teeth, cock pulsing deep as he spilled into the condom.

They were both gasping. Bodies stuck together by heat and friction, the room thick with the smell of sex.

Sakusa dropped his head to the mattress, trying to shift slightly—carefully—to avoid the mess cooling beneath him. Atsumu didn’t move at first, just breathing heavy against his spine.

Then, finally, he pulled out with a soft groan, the condom slipping off easily. He tied it, tossed it into the trash across the room, and stood up on wobbly legs.

“Towel.” Sakusa said, voice flat.

“Christ,” he muttered, hands on his knees for a second. “Gimme a sec.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just stayed still, chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

Atsumu returned a moment later with a damp washcloth and handed it over. Sakusa accepted it without a word, wiping himself down—arms, stomach, thighs. But before he could reach for his cock—

Atsumu dropped to his knees between Sakusa’s legs again.

“What the fuck are you—”

Atsumu leaned in, tongue licking a slow stripe over the flushed tip. Sakusa hissed, one hand flying to the blonde's hair.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Shh.”

Sakusa let him—just for a moment, eyes fluttering shut at the overstimulation. Then he tugged sharply on Atsumu’s hair and shoved the washcloth into his hand.

“Clean up, freak.”

Atsumu grinned, wiped his mouth, and tossed both cloths into the hamper across the room like he was shooting a three-pointer.

Then—

Silence.

For a second, they just stared at each other, the energy shifted again. Heavier. Slower. Something unspoken hanging thick in the space between them.

And then Sakusa stood.

Atsumu blinked. Still naked, still half-hard from the aftershocks, he sat back on the bed and watched in disbelief as Sakusa started pulling on his clothes—boxers, sweats, hoodie.

“What are you—what’re ya doing?”

Sakusa grabbed his phone from the nightstand. “We have conditioning in the morning,” he said simply. “It’s late.”

Atsumu sat up straighter, defensive all over again. “So yer just—leavin’?”

Sakusa glanced at him, unbothered. “Was I supposed to sleep in your cum-stained sheets?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“You’ll see me in the gym in like seven hours.”

“Ya always this fast to get dressed after sex?” Atsumu asked.

“Yes,” Sakusa replied, stepping into his pants. “Because some of us actually care about sleep.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes. And Sakusa sighed, reaching for his shirt—but before he could pull it over his head, Atsumu was suddenly behind him, chest pressed to his back, fingers grabbing the hem and holding it in place.

Sakusa groaned. “Miya…”

Atsumu kissed between his shoulder blades, slow and warm. “Don’t go yet.”

“You’re clingy.”

Atsumu spun him around without warning, and Sakusa barely had time to roll his eyes before Atsumu dropped to his knees again.

Atsumu’s hands curled around his hips, warm palms dragging up under the hem of his shirt, thumbs teasing along the waistband of his boxers. He leaned in without hesitation, kissing Sakusa’s abs—slow, reverent—then lower, letting his lips brush along the thin cotton stretched over Sakusa’s cock.

His breath was hot. His mouth, even hotter.

Atsumu mouthed at him through the fabric, slow and deliberate. His tongue traced the shape of him. His lips pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses at the head, and then lower. Wet and slow, like he had all the time in the world.

Sakusa exhaled hard through his nose.

“Miya—”

But Atsumu looked up at him then—eyes wide, pupils blown, flushed lips brushing his boxers.

And fuck—

Those eyes.

Big and brown and soft, lashes still damp with sweat, mouth glossy from spit.

It made Sakusa’s knees wobble a little.

He reached out, braced a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder without even thinking.

“I want another round.” Atsumu whined.

Sakusa exhaled, long and tired. “You’re so clingy.”

“What d’you expect?” Atsumu said into his skin

“I expect you to chill the fuck out.”

“Yer killin’ the mood.”

“I’m trying to preserve my ability to walk, Miya.”

Atsumu looked up at him, pouty. “Then you do it this time. You top.”

Sakusa’s face went visibly pink.

Just a little. Just enough.

Atsumu’s grin grew sharp. “Oh? That got yer attention.”

Sakusa narrowed his eyes and ran his fingers slowly through Atsumu’s hair—more to distract him than to soothe.

“Next time.”

Atsumu blinked. “Wait—so you’re sayin’ there’s gonna be a next time?”

Sakusa didn’t answer at first. Just looked down at him like he was calculating risk. Or amusement. Maybe both.

Then—soft, dry:

“Don’t push it.”

Atsumu’s grin broke into something brighter. “Yer the one who said it, not me.”

Sakusa finally pulled his shirt on, shaking his head as he gathered the last of his things. He paused in the doorway. Looked back.

And without warning, stepped forward and kissed Atsumu.

Soft. Not hot. Not teasing. Just warm. Gentle. Quiet.

Atsumu blinked when it ended, lips still parted like he didn’t understand what just happened.

Then Sakusa pulled back, mask tucked in his pocket, voice back to its usual bored murmur. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He let himself out without another word.

Atsumu stayed right where he was—naked, dazed, still sitting on the edge of his bed like the wind had been knocked out of him.

He blinked once. Twice.

Then muttered to no one, “What the fuck just happened.”

Chapter Text

Over the next couple weeks, they settled into a rhythm.

Not that anything actually got talked about. God no.

That would’ve required a level of emotional maturity Atsumu wasn’t equipped for and Sakusa would have refused on principle.

Instead—they just acted like they always had. Bickering at practice. Arguing over reps during conditioning. Rolling their eyes whenever Meian paired them together for drills.

Atsumu still annoyed the hell out of Sakusa at practice. Still muttered shit under his breath during weights, just loud enough for Sakusa to hear.

And Sakusa?

He still glared at Atsumu like he was mentally committing a homicide. Still told him to shut the fuck up halfway through warm-ups. Still snapped, deadpan, "You’re breathing too loud," like Atsumu existing was personally offensive.

But underneath all that...something buzzed.

The kind of tension that made Hinata squint sometimes across the court. The kind that made Bokuto elbow Shinon at a water break and whisper, "You see that? They’re totally flirting, right?"

Because it wasn’t just arguing anymore. It was something else.

It was in the way Sakusa would slam a perfect serve across the net and glance — just glance — at Atsumu, like daring him to fuck up the receive.

It was in the way Atsumu would shove a set a little too sharp during drills just to make Sakusa work for it, just to watch the flex of his calves and the line of his jaw when he crushed the spike anyway.

It was in the way they locked eyes after a point. Too long. Too intense. And the air would go thick, like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the gym.

And of course their friends noticed.

Bokuto said it first, naturally, because subtlety wasn’t exactly his thing.

"Y'know, you two argue like you’re about to rip each other's clothes off.” He said around a mouthful of protein bar.

And then another time during weight lifting, Bokuto flat out blurted -

"So. You two gonna fuck or what?"

Atsumu choked so hard he nearly dropped the bar on his chest. "The fuck, Bokkun?!"

Bokuto shrugged, easy. "I’m serious, man. You and Omi are, like, eye-fucking during drills. It's weird."

"We always fight." Atsumu snapped, too fast.

"Yeah, but now it’s like... fighting with foreplay." Bokuto insisted, wiping his face with his towel.

Atsumu glared at him. "Yer fucked in the head."

Bokuto just grinned. "You say that, but you're the one practically undressing him with your eyes during serve and receive."

Atsumu flipped him off. Hard. And stalked to the showers before Bokuto could say anything else.

Hinata was quieter about it. Just watched them sometimes. Squinting a little.

Especially during partner drills—when Sakusa would step in front of Atsumu sitting on the bench - and Atsumu would spread his legs just slightly wider. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to make room. Just enough that Sakusa’s eyes would flick down—barely, quickly—before snapping back up.

Hinata caught it. The twitch of Sakusa’s fingers, like he was thinking about touching and decided against it. The way Atsumu’s mouth curved, faint and smug, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then, eventually Hinata said something. One night, while eating cheap sushi on Atsumu’s living room floor, he glanced up between bites and said—

"You and Sakusa... You’re not like, hooking up or anything, right?"

Atsumu coughed. "Shoyo, c'mon."

Hinata just shrugged, popping another piece of tuna into his mouth "Just asking. You two make it weird sometimes."

"We're always weird," Atsumu grumbled, stabbing at his takeout container with chopsticks.

Hinata didn’t argue. Just let the conversation drift into safer waters.

None of them knew how deep it ran, though. No one knew that after practice, when Atsumu’s body ached and his brain wouldn’t shut up, he would text Sakusa the filthiest shit he could think of.

Full-on nudes. Sweaty, low-angle shots. Selfies from his bed — dick hard, hand wrapped around the base, captioned "thinkin of you 😇".

Videos, too, if they had a day off. Slow, nasty ones of Atsumu palming himself through his boxers, groaning low in his throat like he didn’t know how to be quiet. Videos where he’d mouth Sakusa’s name while jerking himself off, breathless and desperate, just to watch Sakusa leave him on read for hours, the fucking sadist.

And sometimes — when Atsumu pushed a little too hard, when he was a little too mouthy at practice, a little too cocky — Sakusa would punish him for it. Late at night, behind closed doors, Sakusa would shove him back against the mattress and jerk him off slow. Hold him down by the wrist when Atsumu squirmed.

Whisper against his ear — "You act like a brat, you get treated like one." Stroke him to the edge, pull back, do it again. And again. Until Atsumu was panting, back arching, thighs trembling.

Sometimes Sakusa would just stop altogether. Make Atsumu beg. Make him whimper. Hold him there, sweaty and desperate, until Atsumu's chest hitched and tears prickled at the corners of his eyes.

And Atsumu fucking loved it. He’d never admit it out loud — not in a million years — but god, he craved it. Craved the control, the bite, the heat that simmered just underneath Sakusa’s cool exterior.

They still played sharp. Sharper than before, somehow.

Their sets and spikes cleaner, their rallies longer. Like the tension between them sharpened everything — cut out the bullshit, honed them into something better, something deadlier.

They fought, sure. But when it mattered — during matches, under the lights, on the court — they clicked. Two halves of something.

It was stupid how easy it was to fall into it. How natural it felt to be pissed at each other one second and breathing in sync the next. How Sakusa would catch a dig and Atsumu would be there, ready, setting him up like it was inevitable. And Sakusa would slam it down like it was breathing.

But off-court? The tension leaked out everywhere.

No one knew that late at night, after the gym lights shut off, Sakusa was starting to have a habit of coming over. No one knew Atsumu changed the sheets before bed, just in case. No one knew he was constantly restocking the lube in his drawer, getting noise complaints from his neighbors.

No one knew that when they traveled — when they were crammed two to a hotel room — they fought just to keep up appearances. Bitched about sharing space, glared at each other across beds —only to spend half the night muffling their sounds against each other’s mouths, getting each other off with slow under the sheets.

And they weren’t planning on telling anyone.

Because for now — this worked.

And Atsumu — for all his big mouth, for all his stupid pride — would’ve burned a thousand times over if it meant he got to keep feeling Sakusa’s mouth on his skin, Sakusa’s hands in his hair, Sakusa’s drool on his sheets.

A couple nights later, Atsumu tried to hold out. He really did — but boredom and the low, restless ache in his gut got the better of him.

He blew up Sakusa’s phone.

Texts like:

what’re u doin

gym’s closed rn. u comin over or what

am horny btw

No answer.

Just the cold slap of “Read” receipts.

Which only pissed Atsumu off more. Because fuck Sakusa and his stupid self-control.

So Atsumu turned it up a notch.

Sent a picture from his bed. No shirt. Sweats dangerously low. Hand tucked just enough under the waistband to hint at what he wasn’t showing.

Still no answer.

Fine.

He dropped his sweats to mid-thigh, snapped another picture. This time, full-on nude — cock thick and flushed, hand wrapped around the base, precum glistening at the tip.

Captioned it simply:

thinkin abt u

And that did it.

Five minutes later, his phone buzzed.

[Omi]: 20 minutes.

Atsumu grinned into his pillow, smug.

Sakusa showed up without knocking, as usual. Just pushed inside, pulled his mask down, kicked his shoes off with sharp, impatient movements.

Atsumu barely got the door shut before Sakusa was on him — kissing him hard, hands yanking at his hoodie, shoving it up his chest like he couldn’t get enough skin fast enough.

They fumbled their way down the hall, stripping as they went. A trail of clothing hitting the floor — hoodie, socks, sweats.

Atsumu tugged Sakusa’s shirt over his head, dropped it somewhere, and they stumbled into the bedroom.

He was just about to climb onto the mattress — already hot, already leaking a little — when he hesitated.

“Wait—” Atsumu breathed, heart hammering.

Sakusa paused, hand on Atsumu’s hip, fingers digging into warm skin.

Atsumu swallowed, cheeks flushing red, voice going low and rough -

“Can I… bottom?”

Sakusa froze for a second. Looked at him. Really looked. It made Atsumu shift a little under the weight of it.

Sakusa’s fingers flexed. His jaw tightened. But his voice was steady when he asked, “You sure?”

Atsumu nodded again. “Yeah.”

Something flickered in Sakusa’s eyes — hunger, maybe.

He finished stripping Atsumu the rest of the way, slow now, peeling the briefs from his hips.

“Lay back.” Sakusa said, voice low.

And Atsumu listened. Breath shivering, heart pounding, he sprawled onto the mattress, legs falling open naturally.

The air hit him — cold compared to Sakusa’s touch — and it made his stomach clench with nerves. Made his cock twitch against his own thigh, already leaking.

Sakusa, for his part, looked fucked already. Flushed pink to his ears, cock hard and twitching, a fat bead of precum smearing across his abs as he knelt between Atsumu’s thighs.

Without a word, Sakusa grabbed the lube from the nightstand, popped the cap, and slicked up his fingers — fast, practiced, impatient in a way that made Atsumu’s whole body tighten.

“Spread more.” Sakusa said.

And Atsumu did, thighs falling wider apart, his heart in his throat.

He gasped the second he felt the first press of Sakusa’s fingers. Not painful — just strange.

His hand flew out, catching Sakusa’s wrist instinctively.

Sakusa stilled immediately. Eyes dark, patient. Waiting.

“You okay?” 

Atsumu blinked up at him. Face hot, breath quick. Then he nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Keep goin’.”

Sakusa didn’t rush. Pushed in slow, patient, letting Atsumu breathe through it, get used to the stretch.

And fuck, his fingers were thick — calloused and strong from years of volleyball, pressing into Atsumu like he owned him.

Atsumu’s head tipped back against the mattress, eyes fluttering.

“It feels… weird.” He mumbled.

Sakusa huffed a quiet breath — almost a laugh — then ducked down and pressed his mouth to Atsumu’s chest. Kissed a line up to one nipple. Licked a slow, hot stripe over it before closing his mouth around the peak and sucking.

Atsumu moaned. Loud. Spine arching, thighs twitching.

And Sakusa just kept working his fingers deeper, scissoring them gently, prepping him in slow, devastating strokes that made Atsumu’s cock drool against his stomach.

By the time Sakusa pulled his fingers out, Atsumu was panting — legs trembling, sweat slick at the back of his knees.

“Can I keep going?” Sakusa asked, voice hoarse.

His cock was flushed dark, leaking against his thigh as he rolled the condom on with shaking hands.

Atsumu swallowed hard. Nodded.

“Can I—” He cut himself off, embarrassed suddenly.

Sakusa tilted his head. “Spit it out.”

Atsumu glanced away, cheeks burning. “Can I do it on my knees?” He asked. 

For a second, Sakusa just stared at him. Expressionless. Then he exhaled — soft, almost fond — and muttered, “Fine.”

Atsumu scrambled awkwardly onto all fours, pressing his chest to the mattress, lifting his hips up, thighs spread wide. The sheets wrinkled under him, cool against his flushed skin.

He heard the bed creak. Felt the heat of Sakusa moving in behind him.

And then—

One strong hand wrapped around his hip. The other braced at the back of his neck, holding him down firm, not cruel, just grounding.

And Sakusa pushed in.

Atsumu’s mouth fell open.

The stretch burned, but it was good. Sharp at first — teeth-gritting, eye-squeezing — but then the pressure softened into something hot and deep and so fucking full it stole his breath.

Sakusa didn’t move for a second. Just held him there, one hand gripping his hip tight enough to bruise, the other steady at his nape.

Atsumu’s arms shook. His breath came in short, harsh pants.

And behind him, Sakusa groaned — low, like he was barely holding it together.

“Fuck, Miya,” he rasped. “You feel…so tight.”

Atsumu tried to answer — tried to say something cocky — but all that came out was a broken, needy whimper.

He turned his face into the mattress, thighs trembling, back arching to take him deeper.

And Sakusa pulled out an inch and slammed back in, hard enough to make Atsumu’s whole body jolt forward.

The noise Atsumu made was humiliating. High, choked, desperate.

Sakusa didn’t give him time to catch his breath. He pulled out halfway before slamming back in with a force that rocked Atsumu forward on the bed, sheets bunching under his fingers.

And fuck— Atsumu saw stars.

Sakusa’s cock was thick, stretching him open perfectly, filling him so deep he swore he could feel it in his chest. Every sharp thrust hit harder, faster — Sakusa’s hips snapping forward with an urgency he usually never showed.

And the noises—

Sakusa was moaning.

Not the soft, barely-there exhales he usually let slip. Not the muffled sighs pressed against a pillow or buried in Atsumu’s neck.

No — real, broken moans, thick with breath and curses muttered against Atsumu’s shoulder.

“Fuck—tight,” Sakusa gasped, hips snapping hard. “God, fuck, you’re—”

Atsumu nearly sobbed. It felt so good it was almost too much.

His cock throbbed uselessly against the sheets, leaking, smearing sticky wetness across the mattress with every bounce of Sakusa’s hips.

His mouth ran without permission—

“Fuck, Omi, fuck, s’good, fuck, fuck, fuck—” He bit the sheets, whimpering. “Gonna fuckin’ cry, feels so good, holy shit—”

And then Sakusa shifted his angle— and hit that spot.

Atsumu’s whole body jerked. His vision went white.

And he came.

No warning.

Just full-body, gut-wrenching orgasm, spilling all over the sheets under him, shaking through it, gasping brokenly into the mattress.

Sakusa cursed — a low, stunned sound. He paused for half a beat to look down at the mess. Then let out a short, breathless laugh — almost mocking.

“Didn’t last long, did you?” He muttered.

Atsumu tried to curse back at him, tried to say something smart — but all he could do was whimper as Sakusa slammed back into him even harder, chasing his own orgasm now with brutal, punishing thrusts.

Atsumu gasped, fingers clawing at the sheets.

His whole body felt wrecked, stretched and slick and twitching with oversensitivity, every snap of Sakusa’s hips making him moan helplessly.

Sakusa’s rhythm faltered - once, twice. And then he drove deep, cursed under his breath again, and spilled into the condom with a long, broken groan.

They stayed there like that for a second.

Both panting.

Sticky.

Sweaty.

Sakusa’s hand loosened from the back of Atsumu’s neck — finally — fingers dragging slow and lazy down the curve of Atsumu’s spine.

The kisses that followed were almost…sweet.

Soft presses of Sakusa’s mouth to the nape of his neck, the dip between his shoulder blades, the sensitive skin just above the small of his back.

Atsumu shivered, the touches almost too gentle after how rough he had been. Almost tender.

Almost dangerous, if he thought about it too long.

Then Sakusa shifted, chest still pressed to Atsumu’s back, mouth hovering by his ear.

Voice low—

“How’d it feel?”

Atsumu swallowed thickly. Nodded once against the mattress.

“Good,” he mumbled. “Real good.”

Sakusa hummed — the sound vibrating low in his throat.

Atsumu snorted into the sheets after a second, still breathless. And added, “Felt gay as fuck, though.”

Sakusa scoffed. “You are gay, dumbass.”

Atsumu started to twist like he was going to protest — but Sakusa leaned over instead, crowding into his space. Then — softly, unexpectedly — he cupped Atsumu’s chin, the pad of his thumb across Atsumu’s bottom lip.

Slow. Careful. Almost sweet.

Atsumu froze. His mouth parted without thinking. And for a moment, their eyes locked over Atsumu’s shoulder— silent and sharp and steady.

Then Sakusa pulled back a little — sitting up, the heat between them cooling just slightly — and shifted to move. He was just starting to ease out, slow and careful, when Atsumu’s hand shot back and caught his wrist. 

“Can we—” Atsumu’s voice cracked for a moment. “Can we go again?”

Sakusa opened his mouth — probably to say no, probably to make one of his usual excuses.

But Atsumu was quicker. Bit back all the rebuttals before they could come.

“No,” he muttered, “we don’t have fuckin’ conditioning tomorrow, yer cousin ain’t in town yet, and it’s not even that fuckin’ late, so save it, Omi.”

Sakusa stared down at him, unmoving.

Silent.

Then — quietly, reluctantly — he huffed out a breath.

“Fine.”

Atsumu grinned into the sheets, smug and already arching back like he was inviting it.

“New condom.” Sakusa muttered, peeling off the used one, tying it off, tossing it into the bedside trash.

Atsumu stayed right where he was — chest pressed to the mattress, ass lifted, thighs spread shamelessly.

When Sakusa turned back, rolling another condom on, he cocked his head.

“Roll over.”

Atsumu blinked. “What?”

“On your back.”

Atsumu flushed. Fidgeted. “I like it this way.”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Atsumu shrugged — a little too fast, a little too defensive. “Just do.”

Sakusa tilted his head, slow and deliberate. “You don’t wanna have to look at me, is that it?”

Then he added,

“Don’t wanna face the fact it’s a dude fuckin’ you?”

Atsumu scoffed, cheeks going pink. “Yer so fuckin’ dramatic,” he muttered, pushing his face into the mattress. “It’s just easier like this.”

“Yeah?” Sakusa said, dry as hell. “Sounds like coward shit.”

Atsumu grumbled something under his breath — something halfway between fuck you and shut up — but before he could get comfortable again, Sakusa’s hands gripped his hips hard and flipped him.

Atsumu yelped, landing flat on his back, legs still spread, blinking up at Sakusa with wide, startled eyes.

“Quit being an idiot.” Sakusa muttered, settling between his thighs.

Atsumu opened his mouth to argue —

But then Sakusa pushed in, slow and deep, and all the words shriveled into broken gasps.

“Fuck.” Atsumu hissed, head tipping back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut.

Sakusa filled him so perfectly it hurt a little, the stretch making his whole body buzz.

Sakusa didn’t move right away. Just leaned down, crowding into Atsumu’s space, one hand braced against the mattress by his head, the other curling around his hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“Stop being a cocky little denying asshole.” Sakusa said.

Then he started fucking into him — deep, relentless — like he had something to prove.

And Atsumu, stubborn idiot that he was, still couldn’t shut his mouth.

“I still like girls.” He gritted out between thrusts, nails clawing at Sakusa’s arms

Sakusa scoffed — a harsh, breathless sound — and slammed his hips forward, hard enough to punch a gasp out of Atsumu’s throat.

“Yeah?” Sakusa muttered, voice low. “When’s the last time you even looked at a girl?”

Atsumu’s face flushed deep, hot to the tips of his ears. He jerked his face to the side, jaw tight.

“Fuck off.” He muttered.

Sakusa shifted his grip, grabbing under Atsumu’s knees — and with a rough shove, folded him in half.

Atsumu yelped, his knees shoved practically to his chest, thighs spread wide and exposed, completely pinned under Sakusa’s weight.

“F-Fuck, Omi—”

Sakusa didn’t stop. Just drove into him harder, faster, balls slapping against Atsumu’s ass, sweat dripping down his spine.

“Still straight, huh?” Sakusa muttered, thrusting deep enough to make Atsumu’s voice break into a high, breathless whine.

“Still love girls, even with your legs spread for my cock?”

“Shut—shut up…” Atsumu gasped, face burning, head tipping back against the mattress.

“Tell me you’re straight again,” Sakusa murmured. “Go on.”

Atsumu’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. But all that came out was a desperate, choked whimper as Sakusa’s cock hit that spot inside him, hard and dead-on.

“You don’t even look at girls anymore because you’re too busy….fuck…” Sakusa bit out, voice cracking now too, hips hammering forward. “Too busy looking at me.”

Another thrust — brutal, deep — made Atsumu’s toes curl, his fingers scrabbling helplessly at Sakusa’s forearms.

“You fucking beg for my attention.”

Atsumu shook his head weakly. “I could—” he gasped, voice breaking, “—I could go fuck a girl if I wanted.”

Sakusa barked out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh yeah? You mean like the last time you tried? When you couldn’t even get it up?”

Atsumu’s face went scarlet. “F-fuck you.” He spat, defensive.

“Little straight boy can’t even come from pussy anymore.”

“Ya sound…ah shit…bitter.” Atsumu growled, trying to glare up at him, sweat dripping down his temples. “Ya bitter ya ain’t the only one I could be fuckin’ if I wanted?”

“You can’t even make yourself cum without thinking about me.”

Atsumu choked on a moan at that.

Sakusa just smirked, leaned down, breathing hard against Atsumu’s mouth —

And that was it. Something snapped between them.

Atsumu surged up, grabbing Sakusa’s face rough, shoving their mouths together, tongue forcing its way between Sakusa’s teeth. All teeth and spit and bruised mouths, like they were fighting to eat each other alive.

Sakusa kissed back just as rough, growling low in his chest, one hand fisting in Atsumu’s sweaty hair, the other bruising his hip, grinding him down hard onto his cock with every vicious thrust.

Atsumu broke the kiss for half a second, gasping, “Fuck, Omi, ’m gonna—”

“I know.” Sakusa growled against his mouth.

They came at the same time.

Atsumu first, cock twitching, spilling between them in hot, messy spurts across his own stomach, his mouth falling open in a silent, wrecked moan. Sakusa barely lasted another thrust before he was groaning low, hips grinding in deep, spilling into the condom with a sharp gasp against Atsumu’s throat.

Their bodies stayed locked together, trembling, sweat-slick, gasping. Mouths brushing — breathing into each other’s lungs, hearts hammering wild and uneven in their ribs.

Atsumu blinked up at Sakusa, dazed, lips kiss-bitten, skin flushed red.

“Still straight.” He croaked, weak as hell.

Sakusa let out a short, wrecked laugh. He pressed a messy, biting kiss to Atsumu’s jaw before muttering, “Keep telling yourself that.” 

Then he nipped his ear hard enough to make Atsumu yelp and shove at him, half-hearted.

They laid there for a while. The air thick and humid with sweat and the lingering, low ache of overstimulation.

Sakusa’s full weight rested on top of Atsumu, heavy, cock still buried deep inside him, breathing slow and uneven against the crook of his neck. Atsumu shifted a little — not enough to push him away, just enough to let his fingers find the damp curls at the nape of Sakusa’s neck. He ran his fingers through them absently, slow and lazy, curling strands around his knuckles before letting them fall.

It was quiet.

Atsumu’s throat worked around a breath. Then — almost too soft to hear…

“Ya ever, uh… slept with other people?”

Sakusa exhaled against his shoulder — slow and long — like the question didn’t catch him off guard, but it still made him think.

He didn’t answer right away. Then muttered against his skin, “Not recently.”

Atsumu nodded — small, almost imperceptible — like he understood even if he didn’t know what he wanted to do with that information.

They were quiet again for a second.

Then -

“I’m gay, Miya. If that’s what you’re actually trying to ask.”

Atsumu didn’t say anything. Didn’t argue or deflect or crack a joke. Just nodded once, still tugging gently at Sakusa’s curls, fingers smoothing over his scalp.

“Okay.” He whispered.

Sakusa stayed there for a moment longer before finally pushing himself up. The motion made them both wince — overstimulation flaring white-hot between them — and Atsumu sucked a sharp breath through his teeth as Sakusa carefully pulled out.

Sakusa didn’t go far, though. Still kneeling over him on the bed, sweat dripping down his flushed chest, condom slipping off into his hand to be tossed lazily toward the trash.

And then— Sakusa bent down again. Pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along Atsumu’s abs, his ribs, the center of his chest.

“You know being bi’s a thing.” Sakusa said between kisses — matter-of-fact, not unkind.

Not patronizing. Just stating.

Atsumu huffed a small, breathless laugh.

“I know that.”

Sakusa kissed along his sternum, slow and steady.

“It’s just…” Atsumu said, voice rough, “feels fuckin’ intense, tryin’ to stick myself in a box like that.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just kept kissing the salt-slick skin over Atsumu’s heart, patient, steady.

Eventually, Sakusa sat back on his knees again, thighs flexing, posture casual in a way only he could pull off after fucking his teammate.

Atsumu sat up, slow and wincing a little, thighs still trembling from being folded in half earlier. He reached out without thinking, arms looping around Sakusa’s waist, pressing his face against his stomach.

Sakusa’s muscles jumped under the touch, taut and warm, but he didn’t pull away.

Atsumu’s hands slid up slowly, rough palms skimming over the defined muscles of Sakusa’s back — across the dips of his spine, the edges of his ribs, the sharp points of his shoulder blades.

Just feeling him.

And then — voice barely above a whisper…

“Just… gimme a little time, yeah?” He swallowed thickly. “A little grace.”

Sakusa’s hand came up, slow, threading into the messy hair at the back of Atsumu’s head.

Then he just nodded once.

“Okay…sure.”

And Atsumu exhaled.

It started to mess with his head. Worse than he thought it would.

Because what the fuck was he doing?

Hooking up with a guy — no, not just any guy — his fucking teammate.

And it wasn’t like it was just some one-time drunk mistake he could bury and never talk about again. It was a pattern now. A habit. A thing.

A thing he liked. Liked way too much.

So what the fuck did that make him?

Because yeah — sure — when a pretty girl walked into Onigiri Miya while he was hanging around - his eyes lingered. Maybe a little too long at her chest, maybe caught himself wondering what her mouth would feel like, how her laugh would sound if he flirted.

Or when he mindlessly scrolled Instagram after a long day, and there were influencers in bikinis on his explore page — yeah, his cock twitched.

Old habits. Instincts.

And yeah, he could still shoot the shit with Suna on the phone, laughing over some girl they both thought was hot once at a party two summers ago. Could still flex and talk big about tits and tight dresses and long legs.

But none of it made him feel the way Sakusa did. None of it made his chest hurt the way it did when Sakusa laid there after they fucked — sweaty, flushed, biting at Atsumu’s stupid compliments with his deadpan mouth but letting Atsumu kiss him anyway.

None of it made Atsumu drunk the way Sakusa did. Drunk on the way Sakusa praised him in bed — filthy, mocking words whispered into the curve of Atsumu’s ear.

Good boy, Sakusa had murmured once, dragging his nails down Atsumu’s spine just as Atsumu came.

And even on the court — God. It was worse.

Now, every time Sakusa muttered "good set" during practice or a match — it felt like it meant something else. Something that made Atsumu’s whole body light up, flush pink from the neck down.

Like Sakusa wasn't just talking about volleyball anymore.

But still…Atsumu wasn’t gay, right?

He just liked fucking a guy.

He could still appreciate a nice ass, a good rack, a pretty smile on a girl if he saw one.

Right?

And it didn’t help that Sakusa still had a fucking wall up.

Yeah, he let Atsumu fuck him senseless sometimes. Yeah, he let Atsumu kiss him, bite him, manhandle him until his voice broke in Atsumu’s mouth.

But outside of that?

Sakusa kept his distance. Kept everything controlled. Contained. Manageable.

He wasn’t sweet about it — not really. He wasn’t asking Atsumu on dates. He wasn’t telling him he liked him.

Sometimes, sure, he'd kiss Atsumu’s chest a little slower after sex. Sometimes, he'd thread his fingers through Atsumu’s hair while they caught their breath. Sometimes, his hands lingered longer than they had to when they helped clean each other up.

But it never meant anything.

Not that Atsumu could tell. Not enough for him to be sure.

Were they just sleeping together? Were they friends who occasionally fucked like it was nothing? Did Sakusa even want more? Did he even think about it? Did he even think about Atsumu the way Atsumu was starting to think about him — at night, on the court, between sets, walking past him in the locker room or weight room?

Atsumu didn’t know. And he didn’t know how to ask.

So he joked.

He flirted with the female photographer at his brand shoot — cracked a smile, winked a little too obviously, laughed when she blushed. He teased the reporters during his interviews — still rattled off that same tired line about "his ideal woman" being "cute, patient, and willing to put up with his bullshit." He bantered with the team in the locker room about girls they’d love to makeout with.

All the while, Sakusa haunted the back of his mind. Lingering under his skin like a goddamn bruise he couldn’t stop pressing on.

It was late one night when Atsumu finally brought it up to his brother.

He hadn’t planned to. Not really. He’d just invited Osamu over to eat — leftovers, beers sweating on the coffee table, mindless sports reruns playing low in the background.

But somewhere between the second beer and Osamu absently stacking their plates in the sink, it just... slipped out.

"I’ve been feelin’ all fucked up lately.” Atsumu muttered, slouching on the couch. 

Osamu shot him a look over his shoulder — patient, waiting — as he ran the tap and started rinsing the plates off.

"I dunno," Atsumu went on, frowning at nothing. "It’s like... my head’s all over the fuckin’ place. Can't stop thinkin' about shit."

Osamu hummed low under his breath, scrubbing at a pan. "Like what?"

Atsumu shrugged, restless. "Just... everything. Girls. Dudes. What the fuck it means. If it means anything. If it means I'm—"

He cut himself off.

Osamu didn’t push. Just flicked water off his hands and waited.

Finally, Atsumu let out a frustrated breath, raking a hand through his hair. "It’s like... I still look at girls sometimes, right? Still think they’re hot. But then it’s like…" His mouth twisted, pained. "I’m fuckin’ around with a guy. And it feels... good. Like, good good."

Osamu just nodded, calm.

"And I keep thinkin'," Atsumu said, voice getting quieter, "does that mean I’m not straight? Am I bi? Am I... fuckin’—I dunno."

Osamu turned back around and rinsed the last plate, stacked it neatly on the rack, wiped his hands off on a towel. Then he walked over, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and tossed it to Atsumu — who caught it on reflex.

"Yer thinkin' too hard.” Osamu said simply.

Atsumu scowled.

Osamu popped his own can open with a hiss and leaned against the counter. He took a sip, exhaled like he’d been waiting for that first drink all day.

"Listen," he said, "ya don’t gotta slap a label on yourself just 'cause it’s makin’ you squirm."

Atsumu frowned, peeling at the edge of the beer label, shoulders hunched.

"Seriously," Osamu went on. "Ya like girls? Cool. Ya like guys? Cool. Ya like one specific guy so much it’s makin’ your brain leak out your ears? Still fine." He shrugged. "Ya don’t owe anybody in the fuckin’ league an explanation about who ya let in your bed."

Atsumu looked up.

Osamu continued, "Ya owe 'em a good set. Ya owe 'em a sharp serve. That’s it." He held up two fingers. "Not a press release. Not a sexuality PowerPoint. Who gives a shit if ya like tits or dick or both or neither?"

Atsumu huffed. But it was a softer kind of sound — like he was trying not to let that sink in too far. It did anyway.

“Also — and I mean this with my whole chest — ya are definitely not the only dude in the league who kisses guys.”

Atsumu blinked, surprised. “Wait what?”

“Y’heard me. I could name a few right now that are about as subtle as a brick through a window.”

Atsumu snorted. “Name ‘em.”

Osamu just took a sip of his beer and raised an eyebrow. “Nice try.”

“C’mon, just one.”

“Nah, I’ll let ya figure it out. Try and pick ‘em out.”

Atsumu shook his head, but he was smiling now — a little, at least. The twist in his stomach had eased just slightly.

Osamu watched him for a second, then added, more serious this time, "Ya don’t gotta rush to figure it out. And ya sure as hell don’t gotta figure it out for anyone else."

Atsumu nodded slowly.

The silence stretched between them — quiet, but not uncomfortable.

Atsumu tipped his head back against the couch and muttered, almost too low to hear.

"...He never stays."

Osamu's brow lifted slightly. "Who? Sakusa?"

Atsumu shrugged — defensive, bristling a little. "Yeah."

Osamu waited.

"He fucks me," Atsumu said flatly. "Then he leaves. No stayin’ the night. No talkin’ about it. Nothin’."

A pause.

"I mean, it’s not like I expect... I dunno." He waved a hand, frustrated. "It just gets fuckin’ confusing sometimes."

“Ya like him.” Osamu said, easy as anything.

Atsumu immediately scowled. "Nah."

Osamu hummed, noncommittal, taking a slow sip of his beer. "Sure, sure."

"I don’t!" Atsumu insisted, a little too fast, a little too loud. "He’s just... good in bed, y’know? And maybe sometimes it’s... nice. Or whatever. But it’s not like—"

He clamped his mouth shut.

Osamu raised an eyebrow but didn’t call him on it. Didn’t have to.

He just went back to drying the dishes, the soft clatter of ceramic filling the kitchen.

Atsumu stared at the ceiling, heart hammering louder than he wanted to admit. After a long beat, he shoved himself up from the chair, muttering under his breath,

"Whatever. I don’t care anyway."

Osamu didn’t even look up from drying a pan. Just let out a soft, almost amused hum — like he knew better.

Because he did know better.

Atsumu cared. Cared too much.

Atsumu had been loitering around Onigiri Miya for the better part of the afternoon.

Not that Osamu minded. He liked having the company, even if that company was loud and occasionally useless. And truthfully, having a pro athlete leaning over the counter with his hoodie sleeves pushed up, casually charming the hell out of customers? It didn’t hurt business.

Some high school girls giggled behind their hands when Atsumu handed them their change. A salaryman in a suit recognized him halfway through a tuna mayo order and asked for an autograph on the back of his receipt.

Atsumu obliged every time — scrawling his name like it was second nature, tossing out a wink, a joke, a too-big smile.

If Osamu asked him to sweep, he swept. If he told him to restock the bottled tea fridge, he did that too — grumbling, sure, but still doing it.

He didn’t have anything better to do anyway. Training had been early — him and Bokuto got in an extra weight lifting session, and his brand meeting got rescheduled.

And Sakusa — well, Sakusa hadn’t texted him back. Something about his PR team eating up his whole day.

Whatever. Atsumu wasn’t pressed. He was being normal about it. Totally normal.

He was halfway through swiping a rice ball off the tray cooling behind the register when the doorbell chimed.

Osamu glanced up, eyes already brightening. “Kita-san.”

Atsumu turned -

Sure enough, their old captain. Boots wiped clean on the mat, canvas tote over one shoulder, casual in a pale linen button-up with the sleeves rolled. Laid back. Put together. Calm as ever.

On his day off, no less — probably came into the city just to deliver a shipment and check on Osamu.

“Afternoon,” Kita said, voice low, sun-warmed. “Hope it’s not a bad time.”

“Never is,” Osamu said, already stepping out from behind the counter to greet him. He gave Kita a half-hug, followed by a quick bow — casual but respectful. “Wasn’t expectin’ ya 'til later.”

“Wrapped up early.” Kita said, setting his tote down neatly on the nearest chair. “Figured I’d drop by in person.”

Atsumu stood up a little straighter — completely unintentional. His pulse picked up, a warm flicker crawling up his neck.

“Hey, Kita-san.” He said, his voice a little too even.

Kita smiled at him, that soft kind of smile that made you feel like you'd done something right just by existing. “Good to see you, Atsumu.”

Then — casually, like it was no big deal — Kita reached into his tote and pulled out a small brown bag.

“Brought these for you,” he said, holding it out. “Figured you might be here.”

Atsumu blinked and took the bag, opening it quickly.

Pickled plums.

“Shit— I mean— thank ya, Kita-san.” He said, voice cracking a little halfway through.

He cleared his throat quickly. His ears were burning.

God, what was he, fourteen?

Kita just gave him that calm, steady look. “No trouble. You always liked them.”

Osamu started prepping Kita’s usual order — meanwhile, Kita leaned casually against the counter and asked Atsumu about his season.

Not in that generic way people sometimes did, like they were fishing for bragging rights.
No — Kita asked about the team. About his training. About how he felt.

And Atsumu lit up. Talked too fast. Talked with his hands. Babbling about Bokuto’s reverse spike, Hinata’s ridiculous speed, how setting for Sakusa was going. He talked about how much he’d grown. How sometimes he heard Kita and Aran’s voices in the back of his head on the court sometimes.

And Kita listened — eyes steady, nodding in the right places, not once looking bored or distracted. He made Atsumu feel like none of it was too much. Like he wasn’t too much.

Atsumu didn’t even realize he hadn’t looked at his phone in twenty minutes. Hadn’t even thought about Sakusa not texting him back.

Because Kita was here.

Talking to him.

Listening.

When Kita’s order was done, Osamu bagged it and handed it over with a smile. Kita gave another polite bow, promised to be back soon and stepped out into the street with that calm, unbothered grace he always had.

The door jingled shut behind him.

Atsumu sat back down at the counter like someone had just let the air out of him.

Osamu wiped down the prep station with one hand and chuckled. “Ya realize you looked like you were about to cream your pants the minute he walked in, right?”

Atsumu snapped his head up. “What the fuck?”

Osamu didn’t look up. “Just sayin’. Yer like a blushy schoolgirl.”

“I wasn’t blushin’.”

“Sure.” Osamu laughed.

Atsumu groaned and slouched down the counter. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“I’m not the one gettin’ flustered over a man handin’ me plums.”

“They’re my favorite! He brought ‘em ‘cause he remembered—”

“Ya’ve always got weird around Kita.”

“No, I have not.”

“Yeah? Then explain the hard-on energy radiatin’ off ya every time he asks ya a question.”

“I swear to god, ‘Samu—”

“He was definitely yer unspoken gay awakening.”

Before Atsumu could fire back with a response, Osamu went into the back with a stack of trays - the door swinging shut behind him.

Atsumu sank lower in his seat, flipping the bag of plums in his hand and muttering, “Fuckin’ asshole,” under his breath.

But later that night, lying in bed with his arm slung over his eyes, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The calm in Kita’s voice. The quiet weight of his attention. How Kita looked at him like nothing he said was annoying. Like he wasn’t too much.

And yeah.

Yeah, okay.

Maybe Osamu had a point.

Maybe Atsumu had spent his high school years pretending that the weird, fluttery feeling he got every time Kita corrected him was just "respect" and not something worse.

Whatever. None of it mattered now.

Still —

His thumb hovered over the screen for a long second before he finally tapped Kita’s contact.

Not the group chat — he wasn’t about to get roasted by Suna and Aran if they saw him being weird.

Just a private message. Something normal. Casual.

He typed:

[Atsumu]: thanks again for the plums kita-san. it made my day.

He stared at it. Debated deleting it. Felt like a fuckin' teenager again, second-guessing himself over a damn thank you text.

Kita was probably already asleep anyway. Man woke up at the ass-crack of dawn to check irrigation lines and count seedlings or whatever farmers did.

Still — he hit send.

Then he dropped his phone face-down on the bed and flopped back against the pillows.

But a minute later —

Buzz.

Atsumu practically sprained something lunging for the phone.

[Kita]: You’re welcome. It is always nice to see you.

Atsumu felt his face go hot.

He stared at the text. Swore under his breath. Pressed the back of his hand to his forehead like that would do anything to cool down the sudden wave of heat flooding him.

What? Did he just blush every time a dude gives him attention now?

It was stupid. Kita was just being Kita.

Still, before he could stop himself, Atsumu typed back:

[Atsumu]: when’s the next time ur coming to the city?

He regretted it immediately. It sounded needy.

Kita’s reply came a few minutes later:

[Kita]: Not for another several weeks, I’m afraid. But if you’re free, you’re always welcome to visit the countryside. I’ve got a guest room open anytime you want to come by.

Atsumu’s stomach flipped over itself.

He sat with the message balanced in his lap, thumb tapping slow, restless circles along the back of his phone case.

He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. He didn’t even know if Kita was gay.

And it’s not like he liked Kita like that.

Not really.

He just… got warm around him. Like he was sixteen again, showing off at drills, glancing toward the sideline just to see if Kita had noticed. Like something old and safe. 

Finally, he texted back:

[Atsumu]: yeah that would be nice actually. thanks kita-san.

No emojis. Just that. Safe. Normal.

But still — when the message sent and the screen dimmed, a dumb little smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.

He sat there for another minute, then opened his message thread with Sakusa.

The last message was from earlier that day.

Dry. One word. Short.

[Omi]: sure.

That was it.

He sighed. Loud. Frustrated. Because fuck, it was such a contrast.

He locked his phone again then turned over with a quiet exhale, arm slipping under the pillow, ready to finally settle into sleep—

But his phone lit up again.

[Omi]: Are you awake?

His eyes flicked to the nightstand drawer. He cracked it open.

Three condoms left. One half-full bottle of lube.

He stared at the drawer for a second. Then reached for his phone and typed:

[Atsumu]: yeah. u can come over if u want.

Atsumu rubbed both hands over his face and exhaled slow. He tried to gather his thoughts — or shove them somewhere quieter — but they scattered the second he stood.

Whatever. This was fine.

He liked Sakusa. Liked him too much, probably. Even if he was dry. And annoying. And rude as hell.

So this — whatever this was — it’d do for now.

He padded down the hall, barefoot and a little too warm, and unlocked the front door.

Then sat back on the couch, silent, waiting.

Waiting for Sakusa to show up and ruin his whole night — in a way that somehow made him feel better.

And worse.

At the same time.

Chapter Text

It started innocent.

A text here. A reply there.

Atsumu had always been loud in groupchats—spamming memes, whining about weights, sending blurry videos of Bokuto doing stupid shit in the locker room. But this—this was different.

Private. Just him and Kita.

It wasn’t anything flirty. Kita wasn’t that type. His messages were clean, thoughtful, a little dry in a way that made Atsumu grin stupidly at his phone. Nothing romantic. Nothing heavy.

Just... nice.

Kita would ask about matches. About recovery. About how Bokuto’s shoulder was holding up. Sometimes he’d send pictures from the farm—a morning sky so wide it made Atsumu’s chest ache.

And Atsumu would reply. Would ask dumb questions just to keep the conversation going. Would ramble about drills or Hinata's new jumping record or how Sakusa had gotten pissy over a botched toss.

It was stupid. It was harmless.

And still—he liked it. Liked the attention.

Even if Atsumu didn’t even know if Kita was into guys. Probably wasn’t. And even if he was, he probably wouldn’t go for someone like Atsumu. Not that he wanted Kita to be into him. That would be weird. That would be wrong.

It didn’t matter. Atsumu still felt good.

Sakusa noticed.

Not right away.

But he noticed the way Atsumu sat sprawled in his locker stall after practice, one leg stretched out, towel low on his hips, head bent over his phone with a focused little frown. Not the usual frantic tapping Atsumu did when arguing with Bokuto in the groupchat. Not the usual stupid selfies sent with the tongue out, flipped off camera.

No—this was different.

Sakusa looked away. Then looked back.

He noticed it on the team bus too. Atsumu hunched over his phone, screen angled toward his thigh, laughing quietly under his breath.

Sakusa sat right next to him. Close enough their knees touched every time the bus bumped. Close enough he could’ve said something, anything—could’ve poked his side or asked about the match or dropped a snide comment about…anything. Anything to get his attention.

Instead, Sakusa reminded himself that it wasn’t his business.

They weren’t exclusive. They didn’t even talk about what they were.

He wasn’t jealous.

Just… curious.

Definitely not jealous.

Atsumu didn’t notice. Didn’t notice the way Sakusa’s eyes flicked to his phone every time it buzzed. Didn’t notice how Sakusa’s jaw tightened slightly when Atsumu smiled too long at the screen.

Mainly because he was also too busy trying—maybe a little too hard—to still like girls.

He flirted with the new social media intern, smiling a little too wide when she asked him to pose, flashing just enough teeth to make her stammer when she checked the preview on her tablet.
He made eye contact with the reporter interviewing him after a match—long, lingering eye contact—just to see her face flush pink behind her notepad.

And at Onigiri Miya, when he was loafing around like usual, he definitely stared too long at the college girls that came in—skirts short, laughter loud as they waited for their orders. His eyes dipped instinctively, tracing curves he was supposed to appreciate, cataloguing tight jeans and bouncing ponytails.

Because yeah— even though he was texting Kita. Chasing attention from someone so mature, so balanced, so goddamn kind it made Atsumu ache in places he didn’t know he could. Even though he was fucking Sakusa any chance he could get—

He was still trying to like girls.

Still trying to convince himself that he could.

That he should.

That all of this was just a phase. A blip. Some stupid, horny chapter that he could write off when it was over.

But it didn’t matter how many pretty girls laughed at his jokes. Didn’t matter how many sweet glances or fluttery lashes he collected.

None of it stayed lodged in his brain longer than it took to blink.

Not when Sakusa’s thighs flexed under the strain of heavy squats, compression shorts clinging so tight Atsumu had to snap his head away and pretend he was checking the clock. Not when Sakusa’s hand fisted absently at the hem of his practice jersey during water breaks, dragging it up just enough to flash the deep, defined V of his hips. Not when Sakusa peeled his jersey off in the locker room, body gleaming with sweat, briefs clinging too well, the front of them practically stuffed even when he wasn’t hard.

It was ridiculous. Embarrassing, even.

How Atsumu kept getting pulled back like he was on some fucked-up string.

It was starting to eat at him.

Because yeah—he was sleeping with Sakusa.

But what did he even know about him?

Other than the obvious—

That Sakusa kissed like he was trying to steal air from Atsumu’s lungs. That he sounded unfairly pretty when he was about to come, voice cracking against Atsumu’s ear. That he folded his shirts into impossibly crisp squares and always re-laced his sneakers even if they weren’t loose.

That he never stayed the night. Never stayed long enough to talk. Never stayed long enough to let Atsumu learn anything real about him.

And it made Atsumu's head feel messy. Stupid.

Because even when Atsumu made a girl blush across a counter, even when he stared at a tight ass walking by, even when he tried to remind himself this was normal, this was easy, all he could think about was Sakusa.

Atsumu didn’t mean to say it.

Like most things that came out of his mouth, it happened without a warm-up. No preamble. Just him, sweaty and loose-limbed on top of his own sheets, half-hard and still catching his breath, watching Sakusa wipe down with the damp washcloth from the bathroom.

The thought bubbled up — hot and thick in his throat — and then, before he could stop himself:

“Hey.”

Sakusa didn’t look up. “Hm?”

“Who was yer gay awakening?”

Silence.

Then Sakusa’s hand stilled. His eyes lifted, slow and dry. “I’m not gay,” he deadpanned. “So I didn’t have one.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes so hard it made his temples throb. “Fuck off.”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “What? That’s what you always say, isn’t it?”

“God, yer annoying,” Atsumu muttered, dragging a pillow under his head. “Ya never wanna talk about anything.”

“I talk.”

“Bullshit.”

Sakusa blinked. Then turned away to dig through the mess of clothes on the floor for his hoodie. “I’m not answering that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a stupid question.”

“It is not.”

Sakusa exhaled, then muttered, “Someone we went to high school with.”

Atsumu’s head snapped up. “Who?”

“No.”

“C’mon!”

Sakusa grabbed his shirt, didn’t answer.

Atsumu sat up, eyes sharp. “I’m gonna guess.”

“Don’t.”

“Was it Iwaizumi?”

“No.”

“Oikawa?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Kuroo?”

Sakusa made a face. “No." 

“Osamu?”

Sakusa gave him a flat look. “He’s your brother.”

“That ain’t a no.”

“That’s a fuck no.”

Atsumu wheezed. “Alright, alright—wait, what about Daichi?”

“No.”

“Are they in the league now?”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Which was an answer enough.

“Was it Bokkun?”

Sakusa’s eye twitched. “Do I look like I want to be tackled mid-sentence all the time?”

“Shoyo?”

“God, no.”

“Is it someone I know?”

“Yes.”

“Sunarin?”

“No. Can we stop playing this stupid game?”

“Ushijima?”

The silence was thick.

Sakusa didn’t respond. But his ears—just the tips—flushed a very specific, very pink kind of pink.

Atsumu sat up so fast the sheet fell off his lap. “NO FUCKING WAY.”

Sakusa turned, expression neutral, tugging on his hoodie with unnecessary focus.

“Wakatoshi?!” Atsumu howled, laughing like he couldn’t breathe. “Guess ya both have some shit in common. Don’t say a lot, emotionally constipated.”

“Your taste is worse.” Sakusa muttered.

“I’ve got great taste,” Atsumu shot back, smug. “Clearly. I let you climb on top of me, didn’t I?”

“Pity, really.”

“Asshole.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes and turned the question back at him. “Who was yours, then?”

Atsumu blinked.

And just like that, the grin died.

His brain went there immediately — to Kita. Of course it did.

To crisp uniforms and quiet confidence. To how Kita always remembered everyone’s birthdays. To the way he’d watch Atsumu struggle through extra drills and never yelled, just fixed him with that sharp, calm gaze and said, “Again.”

To how Atsumu wanted to be good when Kita looked at him.

Yeah. It had been Kita.

But now? Admitting that out loud felt stupid. Weird. Too vulnerable in a way that didn’t fit the post-sex haze still hanging in the air.

Kita was…organized. Calm. Clean-cut and methodical. He was everything Atsumu wasn’t.

So instead—Atsumu shrugged. Looked Sakusa dead in the eye and lied.

“Probably you,” he said, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Obviously.”

Sakusa paused.

Just looked at him.

No smirk. No retort. Just… looked.

Then he nodded once, expression unreadable. “Of course.”

And turned away.

Atsumu watched him pull his pants on, watched the muscle in Sakusa’s jaw shift like he was thinking something, holding something back.

The air went heavier for a second. 

Atsumu laid back again, dragging a hand over his face. He felt warm. Confused. Slightly stupid.

And worse—still buzzing.

Not from the sex. From the silence that followed.

Because for all his teasing, he’d meant it.

Not the gay awakening part — though Sakusa was responsible for turning Atsumu’s sexuality into something complicated and sleepless — but the rest of it. The wanting. The proximity. The fact that even now, with his body sore and his chest still heaving slightly, he just wanted Sakusa to stay.

But Sakusa was tugging on his clothes. Getting dressed.

Like always.

And Atsumu just watched, chest tight, still pretending it didn’t sting.

“…Hey,” he blurted before Sakusa could finish pulling the hoodie over his head. “What’s yer favorite food?”

Sakusa froze halfway through the motion. Glanced at him, eyes narrowed. “…Why are you so full of questions tonight?”

Atsumu shrugged, eyes darting toward the ceiling, then back. “Dunno. Just realized I… don’t really know that much about ya. Not really.”

He scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “I mean. We’re teammates. We fuck. But like—what else?”

Sakusa sighed, slow and measured. Then muttered, “Pickled plums.”

Atsumu bolted upright. “Wait—really?”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting the reaction.

“I have some.” Atsumu added quickly, already reaching for a pair of boxers at the foot of the bed.

Sakusa watched with a strange, quiet expression as Atsumu padded out of the room, barefoot, boxers riding low on his hips. Then he followed Atsumu into the kitchen, finding the blonde digging into his fridge before holding out a container - half-full.

“Kita-san gave ‘em to me,” he said casually, not even realizing the way Sakusa’s eyes narrowed at the name. “Couple weeks ago.”

Sakusa stared for a second. Then took one. “Thanks.”

They stood in the kitchen, eating in silence. The room was quiet, but not awkward. Just… quiet.

Sakusa exhaled after a moment, then glanced sideways. “What’s yours?”

Atsumu blinked, swallowed a mouthful of plum. “My favorite food?”

Sakusa nodded.

Atsumu grinned. “Tuna.”

Sakusa nodded again. “Figures.”

“Hey, what the hell’s that mean?”

“Nothing.” Sakusa deadpanned. “Just… you’re loud. Like a fish market.”

Atsumu scoffed. “Yer the worst.”

Sakusa took another bite of plum, unbothered.

A beat passed.

“What’s yer favorite color?” Atsumu asked, voice a little softer now.

Sakusa didn’t answer right away. Then: “Dark green.”

Atsumu smiled a little.

Sakusa arched a brow. “Yours?”

“Yellow.” Atsumu said.

Sakusa finished the last bite in slow silence, fingers clean, mouth pressed into a line like he was holding in something. Then, without a word, he stood. Grabbed his gym bag from beside the door where it had slumped earlier that night.

Atsumu watched him—but didn’t say anything, but the slope of his shoulders said enough. Something deflated in him.

Sakusa walked past him, then paused. And with one hand, reached out and grabbed Atsumu’s face—squishing his cheeks together so his lips puckered like a fish.

“Fuckin’—I hate when ya do that.” Atsumu grumbled through squished lips, voice muffled and indignant.

Sakusa didn’t say anything. Just looked at him for a long second. Then leaned in and kissed him. Slow. Soft. Too careful for how rough his fingers were pressing into Atsumu’s jaw.

Atsumu didn’t move. Didn’t kiss back at first. Then, slowly—he did. Mouth parting just enough. Chin tipping slightly. Eyes fluttering shut for a second too long.

But by the time he opened them, Sakusa was already pulling back. Already grabbing the strap of his bag again. Already heading for the door.

Atsumu stayed in the kitchen.

The door opened. Then shut.

Atsumu sighed, dragging a hand down his face, the leftover taste of plums and Sakusa still on his tongue. He stared at the closed door for a moment longer, throat tight, then went back to his bedroom.

The buzz of Atsumu’s phone was barely audible over the wet slap of skin against skin.

But Sakusa heard it.

Felt it, really—the faint vibration rattling the nightstand. He should’ve ignored it. Should’ve kept his focus on the slow, rolling grind of his hips down onto Atsumu’s cock. The way Atsumu was gasping under him, sweaty palms dragging up and down Sakusa’s back, nails scratching lightly before sliding down to grab his ass—squeezing so hard it stung, hard enough to leave bruises Sakusa would find days later.

But Sakusa’s head turned. Just slightly. Just enough to catch the screen lighting up.

Kita-san: New message.

Another notification slid across the top of the screen—some bright, smug-looking dating app logo he didn’t even recognize.

Sakusa’s stomach twisted.

Without thinking, he grabbed Atsumu’s face—fingers rough, squeezing his jaw painfully tight—and kissed him hard. All tongue and spit and teeth clashing.

Atsumu moaned, loud and desperate, hips jerking up helplessly. Didn’t even notice Sakusa’s sudden aggression. Didn’t even feel the tension vibrating off him. Just kept kissing back, messy and eager, panting into Sakusa’s mouth, chasing it.

Sakusa pulled back just enough to glare down at him—eyes dark, chest heaving—before slamming himself back down. Atsumu choked on a cry, hands flying up to grip Sakusa’s waist tighter, nails digging crescents into his skin.

Their chests pressed close, sweat slicking their skin, sliding together—Atsumu’s phone still flashing on the nightstand, just out of reach but not out of sight.

And Sakusa glanced again.

The message from Kita, still sitting there.

An old classmate. A longtime friend. Someone Atsumu respected. Admired.

Sakusa knew Kita. Not well, but enough. Enough to know Kita was steady. Calm. Exactly the type Atsumu probably thought he needed.

And those other notifications— more dating apps.

A punch to the gut.

Sakusa’s throat burned. His hips snapped harder—sharper—grinding Atsumu into the mattress, pounding down so viciously the bed creaked and moaned with every movement.

Atsumu cried out again—high, breathy—his face flushed dark, his hands sliding up Sakusa’s sides before grabbing at his ribs, trying to pull him closer. He sucked kisses into Sakusa’s neck, mouthing at his jawline, nipping at the sensitive skin under his ear. Rambling breathlessly between kisses. Slurring out nonsense.

"Ya feel so good—fuck, Omi, ya feel so good—'s so good, please—"

Sakusa twitched, leaking slick over Atsumu’s abs without meaning to, panting hard against the shell of Atsumu’s ear.

But his eyes kept flickering back to that phone. That damn screen.

And Atsumu—idiot—was just thinking how pretty Sakusa looked like this. How he could see the way Sakusa’s thighs flexed with every bounce, how the muscles in his shoulders strained, how there were little dark moles scattered across his chest and arms like constellations.

And Sakusa— also an idiot — ground down harder, deeper, pounding him into the mattress like he could erase that fucking phone. Erase every single person Atsumu was still looking for even though he was right here.

"Fuck, Omi," Atsumu gasped, voice cracking. "Fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna—"

Sakusa snapped his hips harder, forcing a broken, desperate sob out of Atsumu.

And then Atsumu came. His whole body shuddered, jerking under Sakusa, cock twitching, sticky heat spurting in messy, helpless bursts. Even through the condom, Sakusa could feel it—the warmth, the sheer amount of it. It always surprised him, every time they hooked up—how much Atsumu came. Like he couldn’t help it. Like it was always for Sakusa, no one else.

Sakusa watched the way Atsumu’s face flushed a soft pink, lips parted, eyes dazed and unfocused as he rode it out.

Beautiful, Sakusa thought, half-bitter, half-helpless.

He barely lasted another second— especially when Atsumu jerked up into him mid-orgasm, trying to chase more friction, trying to hit that spot deep inside Sakusa that made his vision white out at the edges.

Sakusa ground down, rode the wave, and came hard. His thighs trembled, muscles locking for a second before he finally collapsed forward, bracing himself on the bed with one shaky hand, forehead pressing into Atsumu’s shoulder.

Atsumu's arms immediately curled around him—loose, lazy—like it was instinct. Like he didn’t even realize what just happened. Like he didn’t realize what had been boiling under Sakusa’s skin.

Neither of them spoke for a minute. Just panted in the thick, humid air of Astumu’s room. The smell of sweat and sex clinging heavy to the sheets, to their skin.

Eventually— Sakusa shifted. He slid off of Atsumu, both of them hissing quietly at the sudden loss of warmth, of connection.

Sakusa stumbled a little, steadying himself with a hand against the wall, before making his way to the bathroom, looking for a washcloth.

Their stupid little ritual. Clean up. Wipe down. Pretend none of it meant anything.

When he came back, Atsumu was still spread out like a goddamn offering—skin flushed, cock softening against his thigh, little lazy pants still escaping his swollen lips.

Sakusa ignored the way his own stomach twisted.

He moved quietly, wiping himself down first—quick, clinical, his body still half-hard and aching—and then, without a word, he knelt onto the bed.

Atsumu watched, breath caught somewhere in his throat. Sakusa stripped the condom off him with steady hands, tossing it into the trash. Then—so gently it almost didn’t match anything they’d just done—he cleaned Atsumu up. Careful sweeps of the cloth down his stomach, his thighs, the inside of his legs.

Like some fucked-up form of aftercare they’d never talked about but somehow fell into every single time.

Atsumu licked his lips, eyes heavy, chest heaving a little as he stared down at him.

It wasn’t fair— how Sakusa could be so fucking careful. So fucking gentle. It wasn’t fair how much Atsumu wanted him to stay.

The room was too quiet.

Then—blunt, a little breathless:

"Hey..." Atsumu swallowed, voice cracking slightly. "Ya wanna stay the night?"

Sakusa paused mid-wipe. Stared down at the cloth for a beat before picking his head up and glancing over at Atsumu.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Why?"

Atsumu shrugged, dragging a lazy hand down his own stomach. "Dunno. Just kinda annoying how ya bounce so quick after."

Sakusa said nothing at first. Tossed the used cloth into the hamper with sharp, tight movements. His mouth was a hard, thin line. Then—after a long, strained pause—he muttered, "I sleep better in my own space."

Atsumu snorted, sitting up on his elbows. "God, yer such an old man."

Sakusa rolled his eyes, yanking his briefs up, ignoring the way Atsumu kept watching him.

"Seriously," Atsumu went on, tone half teasing, half biting. "We don't always gotta hook up here. We could go to yer place sometime."

At that, Sakusa froze—mid hoodie pull. His neck flushed. His fingers fumbled slightly against the fabric.

"No." He said, sharp. Too sharp.

Atsumu blinked. Then scoffed, a little hurt slipping into his voice. "Oh, so it's fine if ya come over 'n invade my space—but I can't invade yours?"

Sakusa exhaled—slow, heavy. Like dragging air through molasses. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what do ya mean?" Atsumu snapped, heat rising behind his words. "Because it sure fuckin’ sounds like yer fine fuckin' me but heaven forbid I see what color yer fuckin' curtains are."

Sakusa’s jaw worked. Finally—gritted through his teeth: "It would feel like a lot."

"A lot?" Atsumu echoed, voice sharp with disbelief.

"Yeah." Sakusa muttered. "Too personal."

The words landed heavier than they should’ve.

Atsumu stared at him—something tight curling up in his chest—before snapping, "Right. Too personal. God forbid we act like human beings ‘n not just a pair of fuckin' bodies.”

Sakusa clenched his jaw tighter.

It was messy. It was spiraling fast.

"Why do you even want me to stay? Why do you want me to cuddle you to sleep so bad when you're obviously busy texting other people?"

Atsumu stiffened. His mouth opened—then snapped shut.

Sakusa wasn’t looking at him, he was shoving things into his gym bag with sharp, unnecessary force.

It clicked a second later.

Atsumu’s lips twisted into a slow, smug grin. "Ohhh," he said, voice lilting, cruel in that lazy, bratty way he knew drove Sakusa insane. "Yer jealous."

"I'm not jealous.” Sakusa said immediately, defensively.

"Ya went through my phone."

"I didn't go through it," Sakusa snapped. "It was right there. Lightin’ up like a fuckin’ Christmas tree."

"Christ, yer a baby," Atsumu muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. "Gonna throw a tantrum because I talk to other people?"

Sakusa turned then—real annoyance flickering behind his eyes. "You said you needed time. Grace. That you didn't know what you were yet. So excuse the fuck out of me if I assumed maybe you weren't lining up your next fuck."

Atsumu flinched, mouth twisting. "I am still figuring it out, ya asshole," he bit out. "I told ya to fuckin' give me some grace instead of projecting yer perfect little gay label onto me."

Sakusa froze.

The words hung there, heavy.

And Atsumu knew he went too far even before Sakusa’s face shuttered off completely.

"You’re right," Sakusa said, voice flat. "I'll stop projecting."

He yanked the drawstring of his bag tight, slinging it over his shoulder with one rough jerk.

"Find a new sex dummy to experiment with," he muttered, stepping into his shoes. "There’s plenty of other guys who’d be interested. Maybe other confused idiots. Ones that aren't too gay for you."

The door opened with a sharp pull. And when it slammed shut—loud, jarring in the quiet of the night—Sakusa didn’t bother to catch it. Didn’t bother to soften it even though it was nearly midnight and the whole apartment complex would probably hear.

Atsumu sat there, still naked on the bed. Still catching up, still blinking like maybe if he blinked hard enough, he could rewind the last two minutes and pull the words back into his mouth before they shredded both of them open.

He dropped his head into his hands with a rough, muffled groan.

Goddamnit.

The win had been solid. Straight sets. Clean play. A couple of blocks Atsumu was proud of, and a final set that left his arms burning, calves tight, shirt clinging wet to his back.

The adrenaline buzzed low in his chest as he jogged off court, high-fiving Bokuto, slapping Hinata on the ass, catching a towel from one of the staff members as he ducked into the player zone. His heart still thudded like a drum against his ribs.

But the minute the post-game formalities ended, it was time for fan interactions—part of the job, part of the show. Atsumu didn’t mind it. He was good at it. Knew how to flash a grin, sign a volleyball, sling an arm around a shoulder for a photo.

He could put on charm like a jacket. Could wear it until it felt like skin.

Outside the venue, the fenced-off meet zone was already thick with people—mostly fans, mostly girls, a few little kids hoisted up on their parents’ shoulders waving paper fans with Atsumu’s name spelled out in glittery hiragana.

He started with the younger fans first - always preferred to interact with them, the future of volleyball teams. He crouched for pictures, ruffling hair, pretending to be blown over by a particularly shy six-year-old who squeaked out “Go Jackals!” before hiding behind his mom.

He signed posters. Tossed a towel over a kid’s shoulders like a medal. Took photo after photo, holding up peace signs, tilting his chin down so the shorter fans could fit in the frame.

Then came the girls.

Not the screaming hordes kind—though Atsumu had seen his fair share of those too—but coordinated little clusters of them. Lip gloss shining, jackets cropped and matching, some in skirts with knee socks and team badges pinned to their purses.

They giggled. Whispered. One dared to step forward and ask for a photo. Then a second. Then a third.

He smiled through all of it. Arms slung around shoulders, polite thanks, light teasing. Told one she had great taste for choosing him as her favorite. Winked at another who asked if he was always this charming.

He was mid-signature on a blue and white volleyball, silver Sharpie gliding across the panels, when a girl on his left—phone tilted just slightly for her feed—asked, light and playful -

“Miya-san, what kind of girl is your type?”

It was a softball. A classic.

Atsumu grinned a little, distracted by the curve of the marker in his hand, and said without thinking—without even really hearing himself—

“I dunno,” he laughed, tossing the ball back gently, “guess a pretty girl who’s got a good laugh and can keep up with me.”

The girls squealed and Atsumu moved on. Kept signing. Kept smiling. Took another ten pictures before he was finally ushered back toward the venue doors.

It wasn’t until later that night—after the drive back, after the gym bags were dumped and the shower steam had faded from his skin—that he saw it.

It started as a DM. Then three. Then ten.

Then Bokuto texted him with an all-caps “YOURE A HEARTBREAKER” and a link.

He clicked it.

And there it was.

Atsumu Miya: “I couldn’t imagine being with anyone other than a pretty girl who’s got a good laugh and can keep up with me.”

His face was everywhere. Screen-capped from the match. A photo of him laughing, towel around his neck. A training shot from last year’s Nike campaign—shirt off, abs sharp, expression cocky.

Another headline:

“Volleyball’s Most Eligible Bachelor Melts Fans With Ideal Girl Confession”

And another:

“Cute, Athletic, and Single—Atsumu Miya Reveals His Type (Sorry, Girls Who Can’t Keep Up!)”

His mentions were a dumpster fire.

Fangirls quote-tweeting the clip with heart emojis and thirst posts. A couple of idol stan accounts retweeting it with edit montages. The kind of social media buzz that would probably thrill his PR manager.

Atsumu stared at the screen. Read it once. Then twice. Then turned his phone face down on the kitchen table.

It was just the answer they expected, right? The one that sounded clean. Sellable. Safe. The kind of thing that wouldn’t make a scene. That would let him smile and move on and not think too hard.

Why couldn’t they ask about the match? About his sets to Hinata? About how the Jackals had crushed the second set with perfect synergy?

Why the fuck was it always about girls?

He let his head fall back against the chair. He thought it was harmless, just a stupid little thing he said without thinking.

Sakusa found about it later - when he opened Twitter and saw Atsumu’s face on three different trending tags. When he clicked the video and heard the words—I couldn’t imagine myself with anyone other than a pretty girl—come out of Atsumu's mouth.

It didn’t matter that the answer had been offhand. It didn’t matter that it was a joke. It didn’t matter that Sakusa should’ve known better.

Because it still fucking hurt.

He stared at his screen long after the clip ended. Long enough to see the threads explode. The way fans screamed in the replies about how perfect Atsumu was. How dreamy. How obviously straight.

It shouldn’t have mattered. But it burned anyway.

It burned because they had just had that fight—ugly and unresolved. Atsumu accusing Sakusa of projecting onto him. Of rushing him. Of asking Sakusa to stay the night and Sakusa panicking like a fucking coward.

And still—they hadn’t talked about it. Just acted like everything was fine for the team’s sake.

And the worst part?

On the court, they played fine. Better than fine. It was almost fucking bizarre how well they still synced up. Perfect sets. Perfect kills. Perfect reads off each other's bodies like nothing was wrong.

But off-court?

Sakusa felt like an idiot. Because here was Atsumu—smiling and posing with girls, talking about the kind of girl he wanted.

After weeks of fucking Sakusa.

He knew what he was signing up for. Knew he was the experiment. Knew it was supposed to be casual.

But it still sucked.

Meanwhile, Atsumu?

Atsumu felt rejected.

Rejected by the person he thought about when he scrolled his phone in the dark. The person he wanted to sync with—not just on the court. Off the court too. The one he wanted to text when something good happened. The one he wanted to keep close, even when he was too much of a coward to say it out loud.

But if they weren’t on the court, there was a massive crater between them.

The conference room smelled like coffee and new leather.

Atsumu slouched deeper into the chair, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, the heels of his sneakers braced against the legs of the table. He'd been sitting there for almost two hours now—talking logistics, campaign calendars, bullshit about brand alignment and fan engagement.

“By the way,” his PR manager said, tapping the side of her tablet with her stylus, “your little ‘pretty girl with a good laugh’ comment? Total goldmine.”

Atsumu blinked at her.

She grinned. “Jersey sales spiked like fifteen percent after that clip. Probably a bunch of girls running out to buy one before you get snatched up.”

She said it like a joke. Light. Teasing.

Atsumu just managed a huff of a laugh, tipping his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling like maybe he could float away from the conversation altogether.

He stayed quiet a beat too long.

His PR manager’s grin faltered slightly. She flicked her stylus once, twice. Then, more gently, “You good?”

Atsumu shrugged. Shifted a little in his seat. “I just don’t… really care about the relationship stuff, y’know?”

He surprised himself a little saying it out loud.

But it was true.

He didn’t give a shit about the image, the fantasy, the idea of him that got slapped onto posters and TikToks and trending tags.

He cared about playing. About getting better. About one day pulling on that red and white jersey for real—Japan across his chest—Olympics, podium, everything.

That was it. That was all that ever fucking mattered.

His PR manager nodded, easy. Not pushing. “I know.”

She didn’t say it like she was humoring him. She said it like she meant it.

The silence stretched a second longer.

Then Atsumu blurted—almost without thinking, almost casual—“Would it…fuck me up that bad? If I had a relationship or whatever.”

His PR manager tilted her head. “Depends.” She said honestly.

Atsumu swallowed. Looked down at the sleeves of his hoodie, picking at a loose thread.

She went on, voice steady, “If you find yourself some wild international model who likes scandal and yacht parties and blackmailing you, maybe yeah. Could get messy.”

She smiled a little. “But if you find someone normal? Someone who doesn’t throw shit online for clout? You’ll be fine. Most people respect athlete privacy. Especially if you’re winning.”

Atsumu nodded. Forced another little laugh out of his chest.

Because she wasn’t saying what he really wanted to ask.

What if it’s a dude? What if it’s not a scandal because of who she is, but because there’s no ‘she’ at all?

But Atsumu didn’t say it.

he words just... stuck. Tangled somewhere between his ribs and throat and heart.

So he stayed quiet.

Signed the last few contracts. Nodded when he was supposed to. Smiled when the PR team said he was “killing it.”

But the whole time—through the last minutes of the meeting, through the elevator ride back down, through the walk across the parking garage—he was thinking about Sakusa.

About how he hadn’t texted. Hadn’t said anything outside of practice.

Sure—they acted normal around the team. Practiced clean. Worked drills clean. Traveled clean. Sat next to each other at the airport, earphones in, legs brushing now and then by accident.

But something underneath was wrong.

Atsumu hated it. Hated how every time he opened their chat, the last text was still from him—a dumb meme he sent a week ago. Left on read. Hated how Sakusa still passed him water bottles at timeouts without looking him in the eye. Hated how he had to be the one thinking about it, wanting to fix it, wanting something.

Why couldn’t Sakusa say something for once?

He was the emotionally constipated one anyway.

(Atsumu didn’t even bother admitting to himself that he might be just as bad.)

By the time Atsumu got home that night, he was half tempted to throw his phone across the room.

Instead, he flopped onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling until his eyes burned.

And yeah—

He thought about Sakusa.

It started with Bokuto.

Because of course it did.

One minute they were wrapping up some light drills after their physicals—Hinata chattering away, Bokuto trying to rope Atsumu into practicing serves—and the next, Bokuto was practically hanging off Atsumu’s shoulder, begging, loud and desperate.

“Come on, 'Tsumu! Let’s go to Onigiri Miya! I’m starving!”

Atsumu scrubbed the towel over the back of his neck, giving Bokuto a flat look. “Ya just ate.”

“Not real food!”

Hinata bounced on the balls of his feet beside them, nodding eagerly. “C’mon, man. Your brother always gives us extra when you are there. ”

“I’m not hungry.” Sakusa muttered, already edging toward the locker room.

Bokuto didn’t even blink. Just reached out, threw a heavy arm around Sakusa’s shoulders, and physically dragged him back toward the group like he weighed nothing.

Sakusa’s glare could’ve melted concrete. Bokuto didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

Atsumu considered it for a second—considered begging off, making an excuse, saying he had shit to do.

But then Hinata gave him this big-eyed, hopeful look, and Bokuto squeezed him so tight it almost hurt, and Atsumu sighed, defeated.

“Fine.”

The whoop Bokuto let out echoed down the hall.

Sakusa muttered something vicious under his breath, but he came along anyway—stiff-backed and sulky—following them out into the cool evening air.

Atsumu’s heart thudded, fast and stupid, the whole way there.

They found a booth easily, cramming in without even glancing at menus.

Osamu clocked them immediately from behind the counter, dramatically rolling his eyes. He didn’t even have to ask what they wanted—just waved them off and disappeared toward the kitchen with a martyred sigh.

Atsumu and Bokuto sat on one side of the booth, Hinata and Sakusa on the other—Atsumu and Sakusa directly across from each other, knees brushing under the table more than once.

It wasn’t on purpose. But every time Atsumu’s shin bumped Sakusa’s, Sakusa tensed like he’d been shocked—sharp, stiff, glaring at the laminated menu like it had personally offended him. Atsumu, for his part, just muttered a half-assed “sorry” and shifted an inch away. Then two inches closer without realizing.

The tension crackled low between them—quiet, heavy, sharp-edged. Neither one of them looking at the other for too long. Neither one of them daring to bring it up.

An employee appeared with four miso soups without being asked.

Sakusa wrapped his hands around his bowl and stayed quiet, letting Bokuto and Hinata carry the conversation—talking about a new jump technique, some ridiculous TikTok trend Bokuto was obsessed with, a video Hinata wanted to film later.

Atsumu watched them, laughing here and there, but mostly quiet. Mostly stealing glances across the table.

When Osamu finally came over with their food, he wasted no time “So,” Osamu said casually, too casually, “how’s it feel being volleyball’s favorite little heartthrob?”

Atsumu froze mid-bite. “Fuck off.”

Hinata and Bokuto lit up like Christmas trees.

“Ohhhh yeah!” Hinata crowed, laughing, slapping the table. “I saw it! Everyone saw it!”

“‘Pretty girl who can keep up with me’—you’re such a little softie!” Bokuto added, practically howling.

“I’m not a—” Atsumu started, flushing red.

Osamu leaned closer, the smirk sharpening. “What’s next, Tsumu? Signing bras after matches?”

Atsumu groaned, dragging his hoodie up over his head like it could shield him from the humiliation. “Can ya'll just shut the fuck up?”

“Aw, c’mon,” Bokuto said through a mouthful of rice. “It was cute!”

“I’m gonna die.” Atsumu muttered, sliding down the booth dramatically.

“Drama queen.” Osamu fired back easily.

Atsumu nudged Bokuto beside him, “Move yer ass. I gotta piss.”

Osamu laughed as Atsumu wriggled out of the booth and headed toward the bathrooms, flipping the bird over his shoulder as he went.

The second Atsumu was out of earshot, Hinata leaned across the table, stage-whispering, “Okay but for real. When's the last time he even talked to a girl?”

Bokuto cackled immediately, smacking the tabletop. “Yeah! I haven’t seen him with anyone in months!”

“He’s a fuckin’ wreck,” Osamu said bluntly. “PR team’s done a good job makin’ him look like he’s Mr. Smooth, but off camera? Dumbass couldn’t flirt his way outta a wet paper bag.”

“Seriously?” Bokuto gasped.

“Most of the ‘dates’ ya ever heard about? I set 'em up. Or Ma did. And any hookups? Sunarin basically shoved girls at him when they were out drinkin’.” Osamu said.

“I thought he was dating that dark-haired girl?” Hinata mentioned.

"That fizzled out fast," Osamu said, casual, tossing his rag over his shoulder. "She realized he was useless without a volleyball court under his feet."

Sakusa stayed quiet, tracking every word. After a minute, he spoke up—voice even, like he wasn’t thinking too hard about it.

"He’s never been serious with anyone?"

Osamu glanced over. Shrugged. "Not really. Not that I’ve seen."

"And the girls?" Sakusa asked, casual, threading the words through the laughter. "Did he actually... like any of them?"

"Liked 'em enough, I guess. Not enough to keep 'em 'round." Osamu replied.

Bokuto snorted. "Man, Tsum-Tsum really is bad at this!"

Sakusa tapped his thumb lightly against the side of his water glass. Barely a sound. And that was the moment Sakusa caught it—the tiniest shift. The slight tightening of Osamu’s jaw. The faint twitch near his eye. Barely there, but sharp if you knew how to look.

Protective.

Osamu smiled easy, lose, ike nothing was wrong. But his voice—low, easy—had a different edge when he said:

"Why’re ya so interested, Sakusa?"

Hinata and Bokuto didn’t notice. They were too busy trying to piece together how Atsumu had fooled the world into thinking he was smooth.

But Sakusa—

Sakusa caught it.

Straightened just slightly where he sat. He shrugged—casual, controlled. A lie already building on his tongue.

"Just curious.” He said.

Osamu hummed, like he didn’t buy it.

Atsumu returned a second later, smacking Osamu’s shoulder on his way back into the booth. “Go do yer job or somethin’, old man.” Atsumu grumbled, sliding back into his seat.

Osamu snorted, "Meal is on the house, Mr. Heartthrob."

Atsumu flipped him off, but he was smiling again, slipping back into conversation with Bokuto and Hinata easily, like nothing had shifted. Like he didn’t notice the weight of Sakusa’s stare lingering on him. Didn’t notice the way Sakusa looked away—just barely—when Atsumu’s eyes flicked toward him too fast.

Or maybe he noticed.

And just didn’t know what to do with it.

The walk from Onigiri Miya to Atsumu’s place wasn’t long. They moved in a loose pack—Bokuto and Hinata bouncing ahead, arguing over who had better reflexes. Sakusa and Atsumu trailed behind. Not side-by-side exactly, but close enough to catch the shuffle of each other's sneakers against the sidewalk.

The night was cool. Crisp. Osaka’s skyline blinked soft against the dark.

And for once—no match tomorrow. No training. No media. Three whole days off. A rare break.

They were mostly talking about that—Hinata throwing out plans about a trip to Tokyo, Bokuto loudly suggesting an overnight hike somewhere even though nobody took him seriously.

Atsumu shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, listening. Half in it. Half not.

And then—

He got brave. Braver than he probably should’ve been with the way Sakusa’s hands were stuffed stiff into his jacket, shoulders hunched like he wanted to be anywhere but walking next to Atsumu.

Still, he asked.

"What're ya doin’ over the break?"

Sakusa didn’t even look at him. Just kept walking, kept his gaze forward. "My parents want me to visit." he said flatly.

Atsumu nodded. Bit the inside of his cheek.

The silence after that stretched long enough that Atsumu felt stupid.

So he filled it.

"Prolly gonna see my Ma." He said, scratching the back of his neck. 

Sakusa only nodded in return. One short dip of his chin. Like it was acknowledgment enough.

The conversation stuttered out again. The streetlamps buzzed overhead. A gust of wind whipped a piece of trash down the road in front of them.

Then—finally—at the next crosswalk, Sakusa shifted his weight. Pulled one hand free from his pocket just long enough to gesture stiffly toward the bus stop ahead.

"I’m tired," he said, voice low. "Gonna head home."

Bokuto immediately spun around, nearly tripping over the curb. "Nooo! We were gonna play cards!"

"Yeah!" Hinata echoed, "We don’t have training in the morning -"

Sakusa shook his head once. Firm. "Next time.” He said, a polite lie they all recognized instantly. He lifted a hand in a lazy half-wave, already stepping toward the bus station.

Atsumu didn’t move. Just watched Sakusa’s back as he climbed onto his bus—steady, mechanical, like he didn’t even have to think about it.

The doors hissed shut behind him.

Atsumu exhaled slow. Shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

Of course he didn’t wanna hang out.

Why would he?

Bokuto’s hand clamped around Atsumu’s shoulder, nearly sending him stumbling. "C’mon!" Bokuto crowed, dragging him into motion. "Beers and cards at your place, remember?!"

Atsumu barked a weak laugh. Let them pull him along across the street, back toward his building.

His mind, though, stayed back at the bus station.

Chapter Text

After a few too many rounds of cards—and a few too many beers—Hinata crashed first, half-snoring already by the time Bokuto dragged out one of Atsumu’s spare futons and tossed it onto the living room floor for him.

They stayed up longer—just him and Bokuto—bullshitting about high school, about their first tournaments, about old matches they should’ve won and ones they were still mad about.

Eventually, Bokuto got up with a grunt, "Gonna raid your fridge.”

“Help yerself.” Atsumu said.

Bokuto wandered off, rummaging through the kitchen like he lived there. Atsumu stayed slumped against the couch cushions, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles overhead.

It was stupid. But maybe it was the beer—or the loneliness—or just the fact that Bokuto always made everything seem easier than it was. 

Either way, before he could stop himself, Atsumu blurted it:

"Hey, you ever...like...liked a dude?"

It was quiet for a moment, then Bokuto popped back into view, holding a banana. "Yeah," Bokuto said casually. "I’ve liked plenty of dudes."

He started listing, counting off on his fingers. "You, Hinata, Kuroo, Tsukki—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Atsumu sputtered, scrambling upright. "Not like that."

Bokuto blinked at him, chewing on a mouthful of banana. "Then what?"

Atsumu fidgeted. Rubbed the back of his neck. Then, desperate for something to do with his hands, pushed himself off the couch and wandered into the kitchen too—pretending to dig through the fridge like he wasn’t dying of secondhand embarrassment.

"Like..." he said, voice muffled behind the door, "Y'know. Wanted to—date 'em."

There was a beat of silence.

And then - 

"Oh! Like Akaashi!"

Atsumu smacked his head so hard against a fridge shelf he nearly knocked over a jar of pickles.

"Fuck—" he groaned, rubbing the back of his skull.

Bokuto just laughed, leaning back against the counter and finishing his banana with no urgency.

Atsumu peeked at him from behind the fridge door, "Ya answered that…way too easy."

Bokuto shrugged, peeling the last of the banana. "Because Akaashi’s the person I’ve felt that way about."

They stared at each other for a second.

Atsumu’s mind reeled. “You—but you—" He stammered. "You’ve talked about girls. Tits. Ass. All that shit—"

"Yeah. Don't all guys?"

Atsumu opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Bokuto pushed off the counter, tossing the banana peel in the trash. "Doesn't mean I don't like women too. But Akaashi's...Akaashi. That’s different."

Atsumu just stood there, mouth a little open, watching Bokuto like he was speaking a language Atsumu barely understood.

"And," Bokuto added, casual as anything, "doesn’t mean I gotta pick a side. I like who I like."

Atsumu swallowed thickly, leaning his forehead against the cool fridge door for a second.

God, Bokuto was way too good at this. Way too casual. Way too...not miserable about it.

Finally, Atsumu scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "So like...you and Akaashi are...?" He trailed off, making an awkward little hand motion.

Bokuto shrugged. "Sure, yeah!"

"Since when?"

"Since...forever, really. On and off. Just kinda made sense. Always has."

Atsumu gaped. "And ya never mentioned it?"

Bokuto shrugged. "You never asked."

Bokuto settled onto the other futon, adjusting the pillow behind his head. "Akaashi’s my best friend first. Always has been. Whether I’m loud about it or not...he knows."

"And yer family?" Atsumu asked after a minute. "They know?"

Bokuto nodded. "Yeah. But it’s not something I gotta shout to the world if I don't feel like it."

Atsumu stared.

Then, before he could say anything else, Bokuto yawned, stretching until his toes pointed and his back popped. Then, like it was nothing:
"Why’re you askin’, anyway? You got a dude you like?"

Atsumu nearly swallowed his own tongue. "No," he said way too fast. "No, no. Was just—curious."

Bokuto gave him a long, slow look that said he didn’t believe him at all. But he didn’t push. Instead, he just grinned, flopping back on his futon and tossing a hand lazily over his eyes. "Night, Tsum-Tsum. Thanks for lettin’ me crash."

Atsumu grunted back. "Yeah. ‘Night."

Then he dragged himself to his bedroom. Peeled off his sweats, tossed on clean briefs, and collapsed face-first onto his mattress. He just laid there, staring at the ceiling, Bokuto’s words replaying over and over and over in his head.

The whole thing was...messing him up.

Because Bokuto had joked about girls plenty. Still did. But he hadn’t actually been with anyone since he came to MSBY, now that Atsumu thought about it. Hadn't really brought girls around. Hadn’t bragged about dates. Hadn’t even mentioned anything.

Only Akaashi.

Always, always Akaashi. Akaashi this. Akaashi that. Akaashi and I ate here. Akaashi and I did this together.

And suddenly, Atsumu felt stupid. So stupid he wanted to punch himself.

Then, eventually, with a sigh, Atsumu rolled over and grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

First, he opened Akaashi’s page. Scrolled.

Yeah—there were pictures of Bokuto. Plenty of them. Posed next to each other at some gym, a group shot with Kuroo and the others from high school, a random candid where Bokuto had his arm thrown over Akaashi's shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But...nothing explicit. Nothing that screamed more than friends. Just quiet little moments tucked into the seams.

Atsumu’s chest ached a little.

He clicked out of it.

Then he was stalking other pages—Hinata’s, Kageyama’s, Hoshiumi’s—half-mindlessly, half-desperately, as if he was going to find some secret manual tucked between posts of match wins and dumb training videos.

Finally, he ended up on Ushijima’s profile.

He stared at it longer than he meant to.

Because yeah—this was the guy Sakusa had admitted, however grudgingly, was his gay awakening.

And what did Ushijima’s page look like?

Volleyball. Volleyball. More volleyball.

The occasional photo of some chocolate place in Paris, usually tagged with a red-haired guy Atsumu vaguely remembered from high school—Tendou or something. Always neat captions. Always simple.

No selfies with guys in bed. No sloppy grins pressed cheek to cheek. No rainbow flags. No signs. No labels. No roadmap.

Atsumu exhaled hard through his nose, dropping his phone onto his chest.

What the fuck was he even looking for?

Some kind of validation? Some kind of proof? Some neon sign that said, It's fine. Look. Other people do this too.

He didn't know.

All he knew was that his chest hurt a little.

After a minute, he unlocked his phone again. Thumb hovering.

He opened his texts with Sakusa. Still nothing since their fight. The little “Read” receipt just sat there. Mocking.

Atsumu stared at it. Typed something. Deleted it. Typed something else. Deleted that too.

His throat felt tight. His fingers felt too heavy.

He could text first. He could. He could just apologize again. He could just say he missed him. He could just—

No.

He tossed his phone down harder than he meant to, running both hands over his face.

Instead— he opened a new chat.

To Kita.

His chest squeezed even tighter, guilt gnawing at the edges, but he forced his fingers to move.

[Atsumu]: Sorry it’s late. Planning on taking a break for a few days to see my Ma. Wondering if you’re around too. Would love to visit if you’re free.

He stared at the message for a second longer. Then hit send before he could chicken out.

Kita wouldn’t respond until morning. Atsumu knew that. Knew he was probably tucked up in bed already, early riser that he was.

Atsumu let the phone slide from his fingers onto the mattress. Then he rolled onto his side, and stared at the blank wall for a long, long time. Then eventually—because there was nothing else left to do— he closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep.

The train ride outside of Osaka was short.

Atsumu spent most of it with his forehead leaned against the window, hood pulled low, earbuds in, watching the city blur out into fields and clusters of old houses, rooftops dusted with early spring pollen.

Home looked the same. Quiet. Unchanged in a way that made something in his chest unclench for the first time in what felt like months.

He showed up at his ma’s door in sweats, a lazily packed duffel thrown over one shoulder, hair still damp from the quick shower he took in the morning after Hinata and Bokuto left.

She opened the door before he could even knock, wiping her hands on her apron, smiling so wide her whole face lit up.

“My baby.” She beamed, and Atsumu grumbled a soft Ma, even as he let her pull him in for a hug.

He slipped his shoes off. Stopped at the small altar tucked near the entryway—the one dedicated to their grandma—and bowed his head.

When he straightened again, he found his ma in the kitchen, busy setting out a fresh pot of tea. He wandered over, kissed her cheek, and exhaled a little.

The house smelled the same. A little like citrus, a little like fried rice, a little like the herbs she kept in the window.

Comfortable.

He helped her with a few things—nothing big. Fetching down a box from the pantry. Fixing the loose hinge on the screen door he’d broken when he was twelve. Moving a planter she swore she was going to do herself but then smiled when he did it instead.

But mostly he lounged.

Sprawled across the old couch, dozed under the weight of a quilt that smelled like home. Let himself drift in and out of a light sleep to the sound of the television murmuring and the birds outside.

It was the most relaxed he’d felt in weeks. Maybe months.

Later, over tea, his ma asked about volleyball—how the team was doing, how Hinata’s new attack was coming along.

He told her about the drills. About Bokuto’s constant noise. About how, yeah, he and Sakusa were still syncing like no one else, even if—

He didn’t finish the thought.

She nodded through all of it, beaming proud. The same way she had when he made the starting lineup for Inarizaki. The same way she had when he signed for the MSBY.

They talked about Osamu, because yeah - the restaurant was keeping him busy. But he’d come out and see her soon. Atsumu complained that sometimes Osamu makes him pay for his food - and he swears it’s a ripoff.

It was easy. Comfortable.

And then— because she was a mother, because it was in her blood to pry, she tilted her head and asked, "An’ what about yer love life?"

Atsumu groaned immediately, slouching back in his seat. "Ma, c’mon."

"What?" She said, voice all faux innocence. "I’m yer mother! It’s my job to ask. Ya think I raised ya just ta see ya die alone?"

He shook his head, laughing low and helpless into his tea.

"There's a couple nice girls ‘round town. Real sweet. Good families. Cute too. You want me ta set ya up?"

He grumbled under his breath, something noncommittal.

"Yer picky," she said, clicking her tongue. "Always have been. Ya need a good girl. One who’ll support ya on and off the court. Someone who won’t put up with yer dumbass moods, but still cheers for ya."

He smiled thinly. Nodded like he agreed. Inside, though—inside something twisted.

"Actually," he blurted, before he could stop himself, "can I... tell ya somethin’?"

Her smile softened immediately. "Course ya can, baby."

The kitchen felt too small for a second. The clock ticked too loud. The air felt heavy and strange, like it might crush him if he breathed too deep.

Atsumu stared at her. At the tired wrinkles around her eyes, carved from years of late nights and early mornings. At the pure, unfiltered love on her face—so steady it almost hurt to look at.

He wanted to tell her. Wanted to tell her how maybe, at the end of the day, he wasn’t gonna end up with a girl at all.

That maybe, the person he kept thinking about wasn’t some sweet thing in a pretty dress, but the hitter on his team—the one she always called dark and moody when she caught glimpses of their games on TV. That maybe his future wasn't some church wedding to a nice girl with good manners, but messy mornings and team road trips and fights about drills and dinner with someone who knew what it meant to lose a set at the last second.

Maybe he'd end up with a girl who didn’t cheer from the sidelines, but a guy who played right alongside him.

Maybe he already had feelings for that guy, stupid and hot in his chest, making him feel seventeen again and helpless.

The words stacked up in his throat.

He thought about saying it—about crushing the careful little dream she kept in her heart. About shattering the image she must’ve built of him marrying one of the sweet girls from their neighborhood.

And he couldn't do it.

Not right now.

So he swallowed it all down.

"Nothin’ big, Ma," he said, forcing the words out like they were easy. "Just...missed ya, is all."

She crossed the kitchen and ruffled his hair like she used to when he was ten. "Drama queen," she teased, laughing. "Yer always actin’ like ya been gone twenty years."

He ducked his head, letting her fuss over him, letting her fill his tea again even though he hadn’t finished the first cup.

Atsumu slouched further in his chair, the ceramic cup warming his palms. Then he glanced around, half-distracted—and that’s when he noticed them.

A glass vase sitting at the end of the kitchen counter. Full of bright, fresh flowers. Simple. Neat. Cheerful little yellow and white blossoms he didn’t recognize by name, but that looked clean and thoughtful, tucked neatly beside the mail pile.

He tipped his chin toward them. "Who brought those?"

His ma didn’t even glance up from where she was scooping matcha powder into a fresh teapot. "Shinsuke-kun."

Atsumu blinked. "Kita?"

She hummed. "Mmhmm. He tries ta bring some by when he’s got the time."

Atsumu smiled a little despite himself. Then scoffed under his breath, shaking his head.

Course it was Kita.

Atsumu cleared his throat, "Uh. Was thinkin’ about visitin’ him tomorrow. Just fer a little bit." He explained.

"That’s good, baby. Shinsuke-kun's a good boy. Good influence ta have ‘round." His mom nodded.

Atsumu nodded. Pretended it was nothing. Pretended it didn’t mean something to hear her say it out loud.

After a bit, Atsumu stood eventually and padded up the narrow staircase. Same old creak on the third step. Same little catch in the banister rail where Osamu had once rammed his head into when they were wrestling for the bathroom.

Their bedroom was exactly the same. Old volleyball posters still tacked up. An old, sun-faded school pennant drooping over the closet door. Their old desk, dusty and cluttered, shoved under the window.

Atsumu dropped onto the bottom bunk with a heavy, tired sigh. It was a bit more cramped, fitting into this bed. But he never minded, never complained to his ma. Because it was comfortable. And when he stared at the bars of the top bunk, it sometimes felt like Osamu was up there sleeping too.

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning low into his palms.

Maybe visiting Kita would clear his head a little. Maybe figure out whatever the fuck was going wrong in his chest.

The drive out to Kita’s place was longer than Atsumu remembered.

Town turned into open stretches of green and narrow two-lane roads, the air getting clearer, quieter with every mile. By the time he pulled up to the familiar gravel drive, he could smell the earth, the water, the rice.

Kita’s home sat on the edge of the farm. Modest, clean. A pale, simple structure that looked freshly swept, a small line of potted plants along the porch, neat like everything Kita touched.

Atsumu sat in the car for a second, bag of baked goods resting on the passenger seat—an assortment his Ma had insisted he take. Don’t show up empty-handed, idiot, she’d said, batting the back of his head with a dish towel.

The porch steps creaked under his weight. He stared at the door for a long beat, nerves rattling stupidly in his gut, before finally balling up a fist and knocking.

It took a few moments, then the door swung open. Kita stood there in a linen shirt and pressed, comfortable pants—casual but still neat. His black and silver hair was a little mussed at the crown, like he’d been resting before Atsumu showed up.

"Atsumu," he said, smiling softly, stepping back to let him in. "Come on."

The house smelled clean. Like fresh wood and green tea.

Atsumu slipped his shoes off at the door, trailing after Kita into the kitchen, setting the bag of sweets on the counter.

"Brought ya somethin'.” He said, scratching the back of his neck.

Kita peeked inside the bag, and he gave a slight smile. "Your Ma’s?"

"Yeah."

"Tell her thank you."

Kita set a kettle on the stove without fuss. Pulled down two cups. In a few minutes, he had tea poured, a small plate of the sweets out, and they made their way to the porch—settling into the low wooden chairs that faced the wide, open fields.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that got inside your bones if you let it.

They talked at first about nothing. About the weather. About how the crows were getting bolder this season, stealing rice from the edge of the fields.

Then Atsumu started rambling. Like he always did. About volleyball. About the new combo he and Hinata were working on. About Bokuto’s new obsession with plyometric drills. About Meian being on their ass lately for serving inconsistencies.

Kita listened. Patient. Thoughtful. Letting Atsumu run himself in circles, letting him burn off the nerves that clung to the back of his throat.

Eventually, Atsumu caught himself. "Ah—shit, sorry," he said, laughing a little, rubbing the back of his neck. "I’m monopolizin’."

Kita shook his head. "It's good to hear yer doin’ well."

Atsumu ducked his head a little, smiling.

Kita sipped his tea, looking out over the fields. "Life's been good here. Quiet. But I like it."

Atsumu nodded. He remembered the funeral. The way Kita had stood straight even when the grief shook his frame.

"You doin’ okay? Since... ya know."

"Yeah." Kita said, simply. "I miss her. But she's with me still."

Atsumu hesitated. Then—half joking, half not—he said, "When're you gonna find yerself a girlfriend, huh?"

Kita tilted his head, smiling just slightly. "When the time is right. Love finds ya, not the other way around."

Atsumu grunted. "Yeah, well, hope it finds ya faster than it’s findin’ me."

Kita just looked at him. Patient. Waiting.

Atsumu shifted in his seat, tapping his cup with his thumb.

The silence stretched too long. It felt like it might break something if he didn’t fill it.

So he filled it.

Blurted, fast and clumsy:

"I dunno about datin’. M’confused."

Kita’s brows furrowed slightly. "Confused about what?"

Atsumu’s face went hot. He dropped his gaze to the tea in his lap, ears burning. He shifted again, restless. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Fuck it.

"Maybe I like guys."

The cicadas buzzed in the distance. A dog barked once, somewhere far off. 

Kita finished his tea calmly. Set the cup down on the porch rail. And said, evenly:

"You should date whoever makes you happy."

Atsumu blinked. Stared.

Kita tilted his head slightly, like he was waiting for Atsumu to catch up.

Atsumu cleared his throat roughly. "Yeah," he said, voice cracking just a little. "Yeah, I... I guess."

A beat passed.

Then Kita asked, "Do you feel uncomfortable with yourself?"

Atsumu opened his mouth to say no. Closed it again. Thought about it. And then nodded. "I dunno what to call myself," he said, voice low. "And...I don’t wanna disappoint people. Ma. The team. Coach. The fans. Anyone."

He let out a rough breath. "I just wanna play volleyball and not...care so much."

Kita leaned back in his chair, considering him. Then, "You are not obligated to fit into anyone else's box, Atsumu," he said. "And ya don't owe anyone a label if you don't want one."

Kita paused, letting that sink in. "But," he added, steady, "you do owe yourself honesty."

Atsumu scrubbed his palms over his face, feeling too hot, too exposed.

Kita reached out and squeezed his shoulder—firm, grounding.

"Breathe a little.” He said quietly.

Atsumu nodded. Sucked in a breath like it hurt.

They went about the rest of the afternoon like nothing had been said.

Not because it didn’t matter, but because that’s how Kita operated—gentle, steady, giving space like a gift rather than silence like a punishment.

Atsumu helped make lunch, mostly getting in the way until Kita handed him a knife and told him to slice cucumbers. He peeled them too thinly, cut the slices uneven, grumbled about it the whole time while Kita stood beside him, quietly assembling rice balls with practiced ease.

They ate on the porch, like they had earlier, but the air felt lighter now. No pressure to explain or elaborate. Just steam rising from their bowls and the soft hum of the countryside.

Afterward, Atsumu did the dishes—didn’t even wait for Kita to ask. He rolled up his sleeves and clumsily scrubbed at the few plates, talking the whole time. 

Kita stood off to the side, drying each plate as it came out of Atsumu’s hands. Humming now and then, nodding here and there. But he didn’t interrupt. 

Eventually, Kita glanced over. “Can I ask you a prodding question?”

Atsumu blinked, immediately going warm in the face. “…Yeah.”

Kita’s voice was gentle. “Who’s the guy?”

Atsumu stammered. “There—there ain’t a guy.”

Kita didn’t move, just looked at him. Waiting. 

Atsumu coughed and looked away, waving his hand. “It ain’t like that. Just... was curious. Y’know. Just thinkin’.”

Kita didn’t press. Just kept drying the final bowl, setting it neatly on the rack before folding the towel.

Atsumu cleared his throat again, voice quieter. “Have ya ever… liked a guy?”

Kita paused, considered it. Then shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

Atsumu immediately went hot in the face again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, yeah—sorry. That was—dumb. I shouldn’t’ve—”

Kita stood, stepped close, and gently placed a hand on the small of Atsumu’s back.

“Relax.”

Atsumu’s whole body went hot. He stepped back without thinking, creating space between them. Then, with a huff that felt like it cracked something open, he muttered, “It’s Sakusa.”

Kita blinked once. Then nodded.

Atsumu laughed—dry, a little bitter. “Fucker drives me insane. He’s so… difficult.”

“He’s a thicker personality.” Kita agreed.

“Thicker than molasses.” Atsumu muttered, arms crossed now.

“Maybe he’s confused, too.”

Atsumu stilled.

Kita went on. “You said you’re confused. That ya don’t know where you land. Maybe he doesn’t either. Or maybe he’s not as comfortable as ya think.”

Atsumu dragged a hand through his hair. “God, don’t give him that much credit." But his voice cracked a little. 

There was a pause. Then, softer, Atsumu said, “Thanks for talkin’ with me.”

Kita gave another small nod. “Anytime.”

Atsumu hesitated, then asked quietly, “Can ya, uh... not tell anyone?”

“Of course.”

They looked at each other for a second too long, something heavy and understanding hanging in the air.

Then Atsumu fidgeted and moved toward the entryway, grabbing his shoes.

Kita walked him to the door, silent beside him.

Atsumu's fingers fumbling with the laces, and when he glanced up—just for a second—he caught himself staring.

Kita looked... good. Calm, sure, the way he always had been. But something was different now. His frame was broader than Atsumu remembered—filled out from long days in the fields, from hauling rice and working the land with his own hands. His linen shirt clung softly to his shoulders, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sun freckles dusted across his nose.

And Atsumu—dumbass that he was—leaned in.

It wasn’t on purpose. It wasn’t even a thought. Just instinct. Just... a pull. He didn’t even realize he was doing it—so focused on how good Kita looked that he tilted forward, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and throat.

It was Kita who stopped it.

Who gently, so gently, leaned back just enough, hand lifting between them, not pushing but cautioning. His voice soft, steady - 

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu blinked—like coming out of a daze—and felt heat slam into his face so hard it made him dizzy.

“Shit—shit, sorry—” He stammered, jolting back so fast he nearly tripped over his own shoes, hands fumbling to brace himself against the wall.

Mortified didn’t even begin to cover it.

But Kita just smiled. Patient. He reached out—caught Atsumu’s wrist lightly—and brushed a careful hand through Atsumu’s messy hair, fixing a few strands without a word.

“Any man or woman would be lucky to be with you.” Kita said simply. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Atsumu’s chest squeezed tight. He ducked his head, bowing low—awkward, stiff. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “For, uh. All of it.”

Kita let his hand fall back to his side. "You’re welcome."

Atsumu shifted awkwardly, about to turn to leave, when Kita’s voice stopped him one more time—low, thoughtful:

“And, Atsumu—”

Atsumu froze, half-twisted toward the door.

“Try talkin’ to him.”

Atsumu blinked. “Who?”

Kita’s smile deepened, the faintest tilt of amusement in his mouth. “You know who.”

Atsumu swallowed thickly. Then he nodded.

“Get home safe.” Kita said, voice light.

Atsumu nodded again, too quick, muttered another thank you under his breath, and practically bolted out the door—nearly tripping down the steps in his rush to escape his own embarrassment.

His heart didn’t stop racing until he was halfway back to his car.

Try talkin’ to him.

Maybe it wasn’t the worst advice after all.

Atsumu spent the rest of his break sticking close to home. Helping his mom clean out the back shed. Watching old TV dramas on the couch and getting roped into hanging her new curtains. 

It was nice. It was simple.

But when he got back to Osaka, practice started up like nothing had changed.

Except...it had.

Sakusa was there. But different. Off.

Not that he wasn’t normally quiet—he was—but this was worse. Tighter. More clipped, more hollow. Sakusa kept his eyes down most of practice. Took extra reps even when Meian told them to ease into the week. Left immediately after cooldown, barely muttering a goodbye.

Atsumu heard Kita’s voice in his head—Talk to him.

But he couldn’t. Especially when Sakusa didn’t look like he wanted to be talked to.

The days blurred together fast after that. Matches. Busy schedules. Little moments where it would’ve been easy to say something—and Atsumu didn’t.

But even with the off-kilter energy radiating off Sakusa like static, he was playing out of his goddamn mind.

Atsumu couldn’t stop watching him—how sharp his footwork was, how clean his blocks, how vicious his spikes looked coming down. There was something almost furious about the way Sakusa moved, like he was channeling whatever the hell had been weighing him down all week straight into the floorboards.

And Atsumu adjusted. Matched it. Set for it.

Ball after ball, he curved them into Sakusa’s wheelhouse with pinpoint precision. Fast and low when Sakusa surged from the back row. A perfect arch at the net when Sakusa called for it with that sharp glint in his eye, the kind of silent demand that didn’t need words. They synced without speaking—like muscle memory. Like instinct.

And then—third set, match tied—Sakusa landed a block so clean it echoed. Stuffed it right back into the other team’s front row.

The opposing player—a tall, sharp-jawed outside hitter with Green Rockets colors smeared across his jersey—straightened, shook the sting out of his hands, and stared across the net at Sakusa. Then, under his breath he said —

“Shame all that talent’s wasted on a faggot.”

It was quick. Fast enough most wouldn’t hear.

But Atsumu heard.

And the second those words slipped out, something in Atsumu snapped.

“The fuck did ya just say?” He barked, shoving himself up against the net. 

The ref’s whistle blew instantly—sharp and shrill. But Atsumu was already moving to duck under that net and put his fist in the guy’s face. But then—

Sakusa’s hand was on the back of his neck.

Firm. Not hard. Not painful. But grounding. Hot against his skin.

“Calm down.” Sakusa growled into his ear. 

Atsumu froze.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he wasn’t still furious. But because Sakusa’s voice—right there, right against the shell of his ear—was so fucking steady. So familiar. Like something heavy and permanent that anchored him down to earth.

So instead, he let out a sharp, heavy breath. Shoulders stiff, eyes still blazing.

“Let it go.” Sakusa murmured.

“But—”

“Let. It. Go.”

The ref blew the whistle again. Their coach barked from the sideline. Atsumu wanted to throw the whole fucking net off the court.

But he didn’t.

They rotated.

Atsumu’s hands shook slightly on the next toss. But he still gave Sakusa a perfect set. And Sakusa hammered it down the line so hard the other side didn’t even have time to move.

Atsumu smirked.

The post-match conference was the usual blur of bright lights and too many microphones.

Atsumu stood beside Sakusa in front of the backdrop, jersey damp and clinging to his back. Sakusa looked as put-together as he always did—stoic, expression unreadable, his hands folded behind his back. 

They’d just wrapped another question about blocking strategy when the reporter leaned forward, tilting her mic slightly.

“Sakusa-san,” she began, “if I may—there seemed to be some kind of disagreement on the court during the third set. What was said?”

There was a pause.

Atsumu shifted his weight—one foot sliding slightly back, his jaw ticking. He felt it rising already—the heat, the annoyance. 

But Sakusa, standing calm as ever beside him, just blinked. “Just standard trash talk,” he replied evenly, voice flat. “It’s part of the game.”

The reporter raised an eyebrow like she didn’t quite believe him.

So, of course, because Atsumu Miya never learned when to shut up—he leaned in toward the mic. “Yeah, well—some people get a little too comfortable talkin’ shit when they’re losin’. Guess that’s just part of the game too, huh?”

Sakusa didn’t look at him. He just reached out—without even glancing—and gripped the back of Atsumu’s neck again. A sharp squeeze. Enough to make Atsumu stiffen, straighten.

A silent message.

Stop antagonizing.

Atsumu let out a breath through his nose, lips twitching. He didn't apologize, but he didn’t say anything else either. Just adjusted his stance, eyes forward, like he hadn’t just let the entire press pool know there was more to the story.

The reporter blinked, then glanced down at her tablet. “Right. Well. Moving on—congratulations on the win. Sakusa-san, your blocking was excellent tonight. Was there something you focused on going into this match?”

Sakusa exhaled slowly. “Just playing clean,” he said. “And staying sharp on their outside hitter. We prepped for him all week.”

The questions moved on.

But Atsumu could still feel the ghost of Sakusa’s hand on the back of his neck, burning. 

It stayed there, long after the conference ended.

They traveled for another match the following week, all while the pit in Atsumu’s stomach got heavier.

And when they arrived at the hotel - 

“Room 415—Miya and Sakusa.”

Atsumu opened his mouth to protest—couldn’t he room with Bokuto or Hinata instead?—but Sakusa was already grabbing the keycard and stalking toward the elevator, duffel swinging hard at his side.

Atsumu sighed and followed.

For once, he kept quiet.

They moved around the room in stiff silence. Divided the beds without speaking. Took turns using the bathroom to shower. Ate the protein bars they'd stuffed into their bags.

The air conditioner hummed low, covering up the worst of the awkward.

Eventually they both climbed into their separate beds, backs to each other, the glow of their phones the only light in the room.

Atsumu scrolled blindly for a while. Scanned stats on the opposite team. Thought about tomorrow’s rotations. Tried not to think about how heavy everything felt.

Why’s he so pissed still? Is it 'cause of our fight? 'Cause I didn’t text first? 'Cause I still haven't said anything? Is it because of what that guy said? 

He tossed.

Turned.

Adjusted his pillows.

Shifted again.

Pulled the blanket up. Then down. Then up again.

Shifted again.

Finally, with a heavy, frustrated sigh, Sakusa sat up and chucked a pillow across the room—nailing Atsumu square in the back.

“Lay still,” Sakusa snapped, “You're driving me insane.”

Atsumu whipped around and threw the pillow back just as hard. “Maybe I would if the fuckin’ bed wasn’t shit! Quit bein’ such a princess!”

They glared across the room at each other in the dark.

Then—because Atsumu couldn’t help himself—he barked, “What’s yer problem, huh? You’ve been in a shittier mood than usual all week. I don’t wanna deal with it tomorrow, and if ya keep it up, I ain’t settin' you a single ball.”

Sakusa scoffed, sharp and mean. “Real mature, Miya. Threaten your teammate right before a match.”

Atsumu sat up fully, sheets pooling at his waist. “Jesus Christ, Omi, just say whatever's crawlin' up yer ass already.”

Sakusa’s breathing was heavy. Choppy.

Atsumu swore—swore—he saw his throat bob like he was holding back something—tears?

But before Atsumu could even figure out what to say, Sakusa shoved up from the bed and stormed toward the mini-fridge, yanking out a bottle of water.

“My break was shit,” Sakusa snapped, cracking the cap open hard enough the plastic squeaked. “My shoulder’s already acting up. Everything fuckin’ hurts.”

Atsumu stared at him. “Why was it shit? Thought your folks wanted to see you?”

“They did.” Sakusa said bitterly, back still to him.

Atsumu sat there, stunned.

Sakusa continued -

“They spent the whole time trying to set me up with some family friend's daughter. Cute girl. Sweet girl. Perfect for appearances.”
He drank hard from the bottle. “Dad told me to grow the fuck up. Said it’s a phase. Said I need to fix it before I ruin my own career.”

The words dropped into the room like a bomb.

Sakusa chuckled dryly, like there was anything funny about it. Then he tossed the empty bottle into the trash and dropped back onto his bed—staring hard at the wall, arms crossed, face blank.

“There,” he muttered. “Happy now? I said it. Parents are what’s botherin' me. Bein’ gay’s botherin' me.”

Atsumu swallowed hard. He hesitated only a second before climbing out of his bed. Quietly crossing the room. Sitting down carefully beside Sakusa, on the edge of his mattress.

He spoke low, rough, because he meant it: “I’m sorry they make ya feel that way.”

Sakusa didn’t move.

Atsumu exhaled, fingers digging into the blanket between them. “And...I’m sorry 'bout what I said before the break. I didn’t mean to—to throw that at ya.”

Still no answer.

So Atsumu, after a beat, kept going.

“I’m scared too,” he said, voice cracking a little. “Like...yeah, Osamu’s supportive. My friends seem fine. Maybe my Ma would understand.”

He let out a breath, thick and tired. “But it’s scary. Like it shouldn’t matter but it does. I just—I only ever dreamed about volleyball. About makin’ it. Olympics, y’know? Bein’ great. That was always it. That was all I ever wanted.”

He paused. Swallowed hard.

“And now it’s messy...because of my feelin’s. And I hate when my feelin’s get in the way.”

Sakusa shifted a little—almost imperceptible—but Atsumu felt it. Felt the way the air in the room grew tighter, heavier.

He hesitated. Then, slowly, carefully, climbed into the bed behind Sakusa. The mattress dipped under his weight, sheets whispering between them. He slipped an arm around Sakusa’s waist—warm, firm, anchoring—and tugged him back, until Sakusa’s spine met his chest, until they were slotted together like they’d been made for this.

Sakusa stiffened at first—just for a second. Just enough for Atsumu to feel the resistance in his shoulders.

But Atsumu didn’t let go.

He pressed his face gently into the crook of Sakusa’s neck, breathing slow, letting his nose brush against the soft edge of Sakusa’s jaw, his voice quiet again, but real.

“I know it makes me sound like a jerk,” he murmured. “Worryin’ about image. About what people’ll say. But...it’s not just about volleyball anymore. It’s about me. What people expect of me. Who they want me to be. Who they already think I am. And I hate that it matters. Because it shouldn’t, right? I should just... like who I like. But it’s like... it’s all wrapped up in who I’m allowed to be.”

Sakusa didn’t say anything. Just laid still, his breathing steady, his body warm and tense in Atsumu’s arms.

And Atsumu’s voice softened again.

“But I like you, Omi.”

Another pause.

“I have feelings for you.”

There it was.

Sakusa didn’t move at first.

And then— he turned.

Fast. Urgent.

His hands came up to Atsumu’s face, cupping his cheeks—eyes flicking over Atsumu’s expression once, twice, and then he kissed him.

Messy. Deep. Desperate.

Like he’d been holding it in forever.

Atsumu kissed back just as hard, body immediately relaxing beneath Sakusa’s weight, hands coming up to cradle the back of Sakusa’s thigh and tug him forward.

Sakusa moved easily, straddling Atsumu’s lap, pressing their chests flush. The heat between them flared instantly—skin to skin through thin shirts and sleep-warm sweatpants. Their mouths moved hungrily, lips swollen and damp, kisses turning sloppier, deeper.

So messy that when Sakusa pulled back for a second, just to tilt his head and kiss him deeper, Atsumu could feel the line of spit connecting their mouths.

“Fuck,” Atsumu muttered between breaths, his hands sliding under the hem of Sakusa’s shirt, greedy for the heat of his skin. “Yer killin’ me.”

Sakusa didn’t answer—just leaned in again, another kiss, then another, softer now but still needy, still aching.

Then he felt it. Just barely. A dampness at the corner of Sakusa’s eye when he kissed the side of his cheek. And when he pulled back—slightly, just to look—he saw it.

Sakusa’s lashes were wet. His face flushed. His lips parted like he was trying not to show anything, but the sheen of tears gave him away.

“Hey,” Atsumu said gently, voice dipping low. “Hey, hey…”

Sakusa tried to turn, but Atsumu reached up and curled his fingers softly in Sakusa’s hair, tugging him back just enough to see him.

“C’mere,” he whispered, and then kissed the tears away, slow and careful—one at a time. “S’nice to see you have feelings for once.” He added, teasing gently, trying to lighten the mood. 

Sakusa let out a quiet huff. Not quite a laugh. More of an exhale. Still, he let Atsumu kiss the salt from his skin.

Then—quietly, between kisses that slowed and softened—Sakusa breathed, “I’m sorry…also.”

Atsumu just hummed, lips brushing Sakusa’s jaw. His hands wandered again—one sliding further under Sakusa’s shirt, the other drifting low, fingertips slipping just under the waistband of Sakusa’s sweats.

The AC hummed in the corner. The air between them felt thick.

"I’ve missed you." Atsumu said, pressing a kiss to Sakusa’s jaw.

Sakusa made a noise—something halfway between a huff and a groan—and let his head fall against Atsumu’s shoulder.

Atsumu just grinned, hands slipping lower, fingers brushing under the hem of Sakusa’s shirt, slow and warm. His thumb traced over the sharp dip of Sakusa’s hipbone, the soft skin just above his waistband.

Sakusa inhaled, sharp. His fingers curled into the pillow Atsumu was using. 

And then—

The hotel bed creaked.

Atsumu shifted a little closer, his voice low and rough near Sakusa’s ear.

“Wanna show ya how much I missed you.”

The bed creaked again—louder this time.

Chapter Text

Atsumu could feel him—feel every shift of Sakusa’s hips, every press and grind against the front of his own sweats, every tightening drag that made them both groan low into each other’s mouths.

Sakusa kissed with his whole body. Like the last few weeks of tension and silence had been scraped raw inside him, and now it was bleeding out in the form of teeth and breath and tongue.

His hips moved harder, deliberate now, grinding up against Atsumu with growing urgency. The friction made Atsumu’s thighs tremble. They were still fully clothed—sweats and shirts, sweat cooling between skin—but every roll of Sakusa’s hips made Atsumu pant softly into his mouth, made Sakusa let out quiet little exhales through his nose, teeth biting down on Atsumu’s lower lip before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“Don’t come in your pants this time.”

It was the first thing he’d said lightly in days. And it made Atsumu bark out a breathless, amused sound—half laugh, half groan—as he leaned back just enough to glare at him.

“Shut yer trap.”

Then he pushed Sakusa down onto his back, watching as Sakusa gave in without protest. The hotel bed creaked under the shift of weight, springs whining. Atsumu stayed between Sakusa’s thighs, palms dragging up along the firm muscle there before reaching to tug his own shirt off—tossing it blindly toward the floor. Then, without ceremony, he hooked his fingers into Sakusa’s waistband and dragged both his sweats and briefs down in one smooth motion.

Sakusa gasped—just slightly—as the fabric left him, thighs parting instinctively. A rush of red spread across his cheeks and down his throat, blooming fast.

Atsumu hummed, pleased and a little smug. “Yer always so fuckin’ pretty like this.” He murmured, leaning in to kiss along the sharp bone of Sakusa’s knee, lips brushing over soft skin. He kept kissing, slow and reverent, up the inside of his thigh—then over the faint dip of muscle above his hip, up to his abs.

He shoved Sakusa’s shirt up, mouthing at his stomach, until Sakusa got the hint and stripped it off himself, tossing it aside with a sharp breath.

Atsumu’s gaze climbed, eyes locked with Sakusa’s. And then—still staring—he dipped down and licked slowly up the center of Sakusa’s stomach, dragging the flat of his tongue along the warm, sweat-damp skin until he reached the center of his chest. He kissed there. Then again. His hands curled around Sakusa’s waist to steady him, to keep him open and still.

Sakusa moaned—soft and helpless—and let his head tip back into the pillow, one hand tangling tightly in Atsumu’s hair.

“Fuck…” He whispered, voice cracking as Atsumu licked again, slower this time, teasing at the edge of a nipple with his tongue before sucking at it softly. Sakusa’s hips bucked slightly in response, and his grip in Atsumu’s hair tightened.

Atsumu loved it. Loved the weight of Sakusa’s thighs bracketing him, the tug of fingers in his hair. It made his whole body ache with want. He rutted softly against the bed, seeking friction, his own cock straining inside his sweats, damp already.

And then, with a soft pop of his mouth, Atsumu pulled off him and shifted lower. His hands slid under Sakusa’s thighs, and he pushed gently at the backs of his knees, spreading him further.

Sakusa startled—pushed himself upright so fast the pillow nearly slid off the bed. He stared down at Atsumu, breath unsteady, curls falling into his face. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

They stared at each other. Neither moved.

Sakusa’s expression didn’t budge.

Atsumu sighed, exasperated. “Stretchin’ ya out?” 

Beat.

“With my tongue.”

Sakusa blinked. Once. Twice.

Atsumu raised an eyebrow, smug. “What, never seen porn before?”

Sakusa just looked at him. Dry as ever. “Yes, dumbass. I have.”

Atsumu snorted. “Then what’s all the questioning for? Ya really gonna complain about gettin’ yer ass eaten?”

Sakusa flicked him in the forehead, firm and fast. “Don’t say it like that.”

Atsumu winced, swatting half-heartedly at Sakusa’s hand. “Stop bein’ a prude.” He shot back, grinning. Then he shoved at Sakusa’s shoulder, easing him back down against the mattress. “Quit squirmin’ and let me do it.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were definitely pink now, jaw tight as he settled back, exhaling slow through his nose like he was bracing for impact.

Atsumu dropped between his thighs again, this time more determined. He kissed up the inside of Sakusa’s leg—slow, open-mouthed—and hummed against the skin when he felt Sakusa twitch under his breath.

“I hate you.” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu just bit the underside of his ass in response, grinning when Sakusa flinched.

“No, ya don’t. Now shut up and be good,” Atsumu murmured, warm breath brushing close. “I promise you’ll like it.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. But his eyes fluttered once, his hand fisting the sheets near his head.

Then finally—Atsumu licked over the tight ring of muscle, tongue deliberate, teasing.

Sakusa let out a strangled noise—something caught between a gasp and a broken whimper. 

Atsumu just hummed—pleased, cocky—and dove back in, his tongue pressing firmer now, lapping in slow, careful circles before flattening and licking deeper. 

After a moment—Atsumu pulled back just enough to shove two fingers into his own mouth, eyes flicking up to meet Sakusa’s as he sucked them down. Loud and wet, until spit dripped down his fingers. He pulled them out slow, saliva shining in the low hotel light.

Then he pressed in. One finger first—hot and slick, eased in with careful pressure. Then the second—thicker, firmer—curling just right.

Sakusa exhaled so sharply it bordered on a moan, head tipping back against the pillow. His mouth opened like he wanted to complain, maybe about how gross that was—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Because it felt too good to argue.

For Atsumu - maybe it was the heat of Sakusa’s skin under his hands, or the way his thighs tensed every time Atsumu’s tongue or fingers hit just right. Or maybe it was just everything—weeks of tension, of wanting, of pretending it didn’t mean anything when it so obviously fucking did.

Either way, Atsumu dove in like he had something to prove.

Tongue messy, fingers firm, breath hot and wet as he mouthed at Sakusa’s rim, spit slicking the skin as he licked deep and slow and stupid.

Because god—it was filthy. And he was into it. Way too into it for this being his first time.

He grunted softly against Sakusa’s skin, grinding down against the mattress to chase friction, rutting like some dumb animal. But he couldn’t help it—his cock was aching, leaking into the front of his briefs, and the bed creaked beneath him with every movement. He was so hard it hurt.

He’d eaten girls out before—liked it, too. He wasn’t shy. But this?

This was different.

Maybe because Sakusa was different. Because Sakusa was always looking at him like he saw through every dumb thing Atsumu said. Because their tension wasn’t just sexual—it was sharp, endless, threaded through every long stare, every argument, every dig they threw at each other in practice.

It made everything hotter.

Even this.

Even eating Sakusa’s ass.

Even while he knew—knew—if Osamu ever found out, he’d never hear the end of it. Atsumu could already hear the jokes:Ya fuckin’ tongue-punched Sakusa’s what? with that smug little grin.

But he didn’t care.

Because right now, Sakusa was breathing hard, thighs twitching under Atsumu’s palms, hands fisted in the sheets. He was biting his lip, hard, clearly trying to hold back the pathetic little whines building in his throat—and Atsumu caught a glimpse of it when he glanced up. The flush in Sakusa’s cheeks. The way his head tipped back against the pillow. The soft, trembling sound he finally let slip when Atsumu’s tongue really got in there.

The slick noises were obscene now—borderline pornographic—and Sakusa let out something that sounded like a choked sob, his chest rising fast. Then Atsumu curled his fingers just right—angled them, pressed deeper, and watched with unholy satisfaction as Sakusa’s back arched off the bed.

The noise Sakusa made was sharp and high, something he clearly hadn’t meant to let slip. His thighs trembled where they framed Atsumu’s shoulders, breath hitching hard in his throat.

And then—

“Fuck—” Sakusa hissed, eyes flying open, hands scrambling against the sheets. “Wait, wait—fuck—”

He shot up, grabbing a fistful of Atsumu’s hair and yanking him back before his orgasm could hit. 

Atsumu looked up, dazed and smug, lips wet, mouth glistening. He was panting softly, eyes half lidded and face flushed. 

“I never said you could top.” Sakusa said, breathless, still gripping his hair.

Atsumu just grinned wider. “Yeah?” he rasped. “Then I guess we’re gonna rock-paper-scissors for it.”

Sakusa blinked. “Are you serious?”

Atsumu only held his hands out, “Best two outta three.”

Sakusa stared at him for a second—like he couldn’t believe he was entertaining this. Then, sighing, he rolled his eyes hard and muttered, “This is fucking stupid.” even as he lifted his hands..

First round—Sakusa threw paper. Atsumu threw scissors.

Second round—Sakusa threw scissors. Atsumu threw rock.

Atsumu grinned, wide and triumphant, already shoving his sweats down his hips the second he won, his cock heavy, flushed, and leaking against his stomach.

Sakusa’s gaze dropped instinctively. His throat bobbed. He licked his lips before he could stop himself.

Atsumu caught it—smirked. “Ya got a condom?”

Sakusa exhaled roughly before he pointed toward his duffel bag on the chair. “Side pocket.”

Atsumu moved fast, nearly tripping over himself as he scrambled off the bed, digging through the bag until he found the small package. Tore the foil open with his teeth, rolled the condom on with practiced ease, and spit into his hand, slicking himself up with a sharp breath between his teeth. 

Sakusa was already sprawled back against the sheets, legs parted, watching him with dark, unreadable eyes.

Atsumu crawled back on the bed—settled between Sakusa’s thighs, hands guiding, body coiled tight with restraint. He eased forward—slow, deliberate—until the head of his cock nudged home and Sakusa let out a tight breath.

Atsumu grabbed the headboard with one hand, steadying himself, the other cradling Sakusa’s jaw. Then he pushed in—inch by inch, breath catching, until he bottomed out.

They moaned at the same time. Sakusa’s fingers twisted into the sheets. Atsumu’s forehead dropped to Sakusa’s as he exhaled, shaky and hot.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Tight as ever.”

Atsumu’s first thrust was deep—slow—careful even, like he was still trying to memorize the feeling of being buried inside Sakusa. His jaw clenched, the line of his throat twitching. Then he pulled back—then drove in again, harder.

The hotel bed creaked under the sudden snap of his hips. Sakusa gasped, hands gripping the sheets beside him, flushed high up his cheeks. Atsumu's hands slipped under his thighs, lifting him easily, using the leverage to grind deeper, harder. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room in slow, rhythmic slaps.

Atsumu was panting, already flushed and loud, whining every few thrusts, little broken groans escaping each time Sakusa tightened just right around him.

Sakusa reached up and clamped a hand over Atsumu’s mouth. “Shh,” he whispered, voice firm. “You’re always so fucking loud.”

Atsumu groaned against his palm, but he didn’t stop. He just hooked his arms tighter under Sakusa’s legs and shifted—folded him in half like it was nothing. The change in angle made Sakusa see stars for a moment, his mouth parting in a wordless gasp, head tipping back against the pillow.

Atsumu buried his face in the crook of Sakusa’s neck, his moans muffled now—still needy, still guttural. His hips rolled harder, faster, and Sakusa barely kept up, legs shaking where they were pressed to Atsumu’s chest.

“Jesus,” he breathed, chest rising fast, “how the fuck did you get better at this during the silent treatment?”

Atsumu snorted into the crook of his neck, hips rolling deeper. “Talent?” He offered around a pant.

“You sure you weren’t out getting dick practice with someone else?” Sakusa shot back, breathless.

Atsumu barked a low, smug laugh, pulling back to look at him. “Oh my god,” he said, then leaned in and pinched Sakusa’s nipple just to be a dick. “I wasn’t fuckin’ practicin’ on other dudes, ya freak. I was jerkin’ off every goddamn night thinkin’ about ya.”

Sakusa blinked, swallowed. Then — “That’s pathetic.”

Atsumu just grinned. “Yeah,” he said simply, tone soft but sharp with it. “Turns out I’m really fuckin’ pathetic when it comes to ya.”

Sakusa’s chest rose hard, trying not to react, but his eyes dragged over Atsumu’s face—his pink cheeks, his damp bangs, the way his mouth was just slightly open, waiting.

“You’re an idiot.” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu leaned in, kissed him hard. “…Your idiot.” He mumbled against his mouth.

Then he rocked his hips forward again—deep and rough—making Sakusa’s breath stutter and his legs twitch, the sound he made caught halfway between a groan and a curse. He kissed up Sakusa’s neck, mouth dragging open along his jaw, leaving small, wet trails. 

“Missed this. Missed you. I’m still sorry, y’know.”

Sakusa groaned, arms coming up to wrap around Atsumu’s back, fingers digging in. “I know.” He muttered, voice a little soft  

They kissed sloppily after that, mouths messy, teeth clashing a little, tongues licking into each other’s mouths with desperation. And then—every few strokes—they pulled apart just enough to breathe each other in, lips brushing but not quite kissing, eyes locked. 

It was stupidly intimate. Unbearably so.

And Sakusa was dangerously close to coming way too early. 

“Slow down.” He rasped, voice breaking, his grip tightening on Atsumu’s arms. “I need my fucking legs tomorrow.”

Atsumu snorted, forehead pressing to Sakusa’s temple. “Yeah, yeah.” He muttered, but he obeyed.

He pulled almost all the way out—slow, teasing—then pushed back in with one deep roll of his hips.

Sakusa’s eyes rolled back, a sound catching in his throat. “Fuck.” He hissed, nearly biting his own lip to keep from saying more.

And then Atsumu circled his hips, deep and slow inside him. Which forced Sakusa to let out a low, desperate whine before he could stop himself.

Atsumu’s grin widened. “Oh, now yer whinin’?”

“Shut up.” Sakusa snapped—though the heat in his face made the whole thing ineffective.

Atsumu just laughed and kissed him again. Another long, filthy thrust. Their foreheads pressed together.

Sakusa’s eyes fluttered open again—met his.

And they held it—that eye contact, unbroken. Atsumu didn’t even blink as he kept moving inside him, slow, deep, dragging every thrust out like he wanted to etch it into both of them.

Sakusa reached up—hand cupping Atsumu’s jaw—thumb brushing over his bottom lip before he slowly pushed it into his mouth. Atsumu’s lips parted around Sakusa’s thumb, tongue wet and slow as he sucked—unhurried, shameless about it. 

Sakusa’s breath stuttered.

And then—quietly—he slipped his thumb out, hand lifting to cup Atsumu’s face again. His palm cradled the curve of his cheekbone, thumb brushing lightly under his eye.

Sakusa’s other hand had curled tight against Atsumu’s back, fingers digging into muscle. And fuck—he hadn’t realized it before, not really—but Atsumu’s back was broad. Solid. So much more solid than Sakusa ever paid attention to before. He could feel every shift of muscle under his palm as Atsumu moved inside him, smooth and slow and deep.

Then Atsumu leaned in—nudged their noses together gently, lips brushing. And with the next thrust, the angle shifted—his tip dragging over that one spot inside Sakusa that made his whole body jerk, his eyes rolled back hard.

His head tipped, throat arching—and Atsumutook the opportunity, mouthing along his neck, lips dragging wet and open across the sweat-damp skin. Then teeth—biting down gently. Then harder.

And against Sakusa’s pulse, Atsumu murmured—

“Ya make me feel things.”

A kiss. A drag of his tongue just under Sakusa’s jaw.

“Fucked up, heavy things sometimes...”

Another thrust—another groan—and Atsumu’s voice caught a little.

“But good things too.”

Sakusa couldn’t even find words. Just a moan—shaky, soft—and an arm thrown over his face, trying to hide how wrecked he looked.

But Atsumu caught it—grabbed his wrist and pulled it gently aside, forcing Sakusa to look at him.

“Ya make my heart feel shit I didn’t think it could.” Atsumu whispered, rough. 

And then he sat back on his knees, hands sliding down Sakusa’s sides, thumbs dragging over the soft line of his ribs. He pressed one hand flat against Sakusa’s abs—holding him steady—and started thrusting again. Deeper. More deliberate.

Sakusa gasped—body arching as Atsumu hit that spot again, over and over. It was too much. Sakusa felt it building too fast, too hard—Atsumu’s hand tight on his stomach, pinning him down, guiding every thrust with devastating rhythm.

He came with a low, broken sound—back arching, thighs trembling, eyes squeezing shut hard.

Atsumu groaned, still moving, chasing the heat coiling tight in his gut. His voice cracked as he leaned forward again, face pressed to Sakusa’s neck.

“Omi—” he whined, desperate, “Omi, Omi—fuck—”

He came with a stuttering moan—buried deep, body shuddering hard. Then he slumped forward, forehead buried in the crook of Sakusa’s neck, breath hot against his collarbone. Sakusa laid there, heart thudding so hard it echoed in his ears. He could still feel Atsumu inside him—still twitching, still thick and warm.

They didn’t speak.

Atsumu just breathed for a moment, then slowly lifted his head.

Their eyes met.

Both of them flushed to the ears, blinking slowly in the dim hotel light. Atsumu’s eyes were blown wide and dark, temple damp with sweat, mouth parted like he didn’t know how to hold anything in anymore.

Then—gently, so gently it almost didn’t match the way he’d just fucked Sakusa into the mattress—Atsumu leaned in and kissed him.

Not on the lips.

But the bridge of his nose. Then the side of his face. His cheekbone. The corner of his jaw. Soft, reverent kisses. Each one slow, deliberate. Almost like a secret.

Sakusa exhaled, half a huff, half something close to a groan.

“God damn it.” He muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

Atsumu grinned against his skin.

Then—still pressed close—he rolled his hips.

Slow. Gentle.

Just once.

Just enough to remind Sakusa: he was still hard.

Still inside him. Still ready.

Sakusa inhaled sharply, thighs twitching where they wrapped around Atsumu’s hips.

And then—wordlessly—he shifted beneath him. Signaling the same thing.

Again.

Sakusa sat up slowly, his hand dragging down Atsumu’s chest as he moved back. And when Atsumu finally slipped free, they both hissed—soft, involuntary.

But Sakusa didn’t say anything. Just pressed one hand to the center of Atsumu’s chest and nudged him down, silently telling him to stay.

Atsumu blinked, brows raised—but he obeyed, lowering himself onto the hotel mattress, muscles still twitching from release. His chest was rising fast. His cock was still hard—aching, flushed and slick.

Then Sakusa swung a leg over him, straddled him.

And Atsumu nearly choked on air.

Sakusa lined them up with one hand, slow and unhurried—and then sank down. All the way down.

Atsumu’s hands flew to Sakusa’s hips on instinct. His mouth dropped open with a low, guttural groan. Sakusa stilled the moment he seated himself fully—fuck, it was deep like this—and he braced himself with one hand on Atsumu’s chest, his thighs trembling slightly.

Atsumu was thinking fuck. Atsumu was thinking - he’s so pretty.

Couldn’t stop staring—at Sakusa’s flushed chest, the slope of his shoulders, the way his stomach tensed every time he shifted his weight. His body was lean and cut with quiet strength, the kind of muscle that came from years of discipline. Broad but still somehow elegant, like his control extended to every part of him.

Sakusa moved slowly at first, breath catching, the rhythm measured—up, down, the drag of Atsumu inside him making his lips part around the softest sound.

Atsumu’s eyes traced the line of Sakusa’s throat, the damp curl of dark hair at his temples. The flush climbing his cheeks and the little furrow in his brow.

Sakusa glanced down.

Caught Atsumu staring.

That gaze. That hunger. It made something hot crawl up Sakusa’s spine and tighten in his gut.

He let his hand drift up, fingers brushing Atsumu’s jaw, then lower, thumb grazing his bottom lip. Atsumu’s eyes fluttered a little at the contact—and then, with no warning, he bit down gently on Sakusa’s thumb.

“Brat.” Sakusa snapped, trying to ignore the way his dick twitched just from that.

Atsumu just grinned around it. “What?” he mumbled, voice muffled, “Starin’ at my mouth like that…what was I supposed to do?”

Then his hands slid up from Sakusa’s hips to grip under his thighs instead. And then—without warning—he started thrusting up.

Hard.

Sakusa gasped, nearly losing his balance, catching himself with both hands on Atsumu’s chest again. His head tipped back, a broken moan slipping out before he could swallow it.

“Shit—”

Atsumu’s rhythm picked up fast. Deep. Snapping his hips up hard enough that the angle punched sounds right out of Sakusa's throat.

“Ya like that?” Atsumu rasped, lips dragging against Sakusa’s sternum, his ribs, the underside of his jaw. “Feelin’ me hit that spot? Yeah, I fuckin’ feel it too.”

Sakusa groaned, one hand dragging into Atsumu’s sweat-matted hair, tugging hard.

The other braced behind him, fingers curling in the sheets as his thighs burned from the pace, from the force. Every time Atsumu slammed up into him, the tip dragged hard across that spot that made his toes curl, his lips part around messy, bitten-off whines.

And Atsumu could see it—all of it.

He licked his lips, eyes dark, dragging his gaze up and down Sakusa’s body. From the sweat beading between his pecs to the way his cock bobbed between them, flushed and leaking.

“God,” Atsumu muttered, “look at ya.”

Sakusa gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the praise—but his body betrayed him. He clenched around Atsumu again, and his own cock twitched between them, untouched and aching.

“Shut—ah — shut up.” He gasped, face burning, trying to regain rhythm, trying to lift and drop again on his own terms.

But the angle was too good. The stretch was too much. Every thrust bottomed out, hard and perfect, and he was unraveling fast.

He reached forward again, thumb brushing Atsumu’s lip. Atsumu grinned around it, sucked it in—wet, slow—before letting it slip from his mouth with a loud pop.

And then Atsumu nudged Sakusa’s nose with his, brushing their mouths together with a slow, hot exhale. “Gonna come already?” Atsumu muttered, almost sweet.

Sakusa didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He slammed down harder, chasing it.

And then—without warning—he shuddered, whole body going tight.

The orgasm hit him like a fucking train—so sharp and sudden it stole the air from his lungs. He barely managed to suck in a gasp before he came hard, cock twitching, thick spurts spilling across Atsumu’s chest, his collarbone—and one messy rope caught Atsumu square on the chin. Another splattered across his cheek. A final spurt landed across his lips.

Atsumu blinked, surprised—but then he grinned, slow and gleaming, and dragged his tongue across the corner of his mouth to taste it—eyes locked shamelessly on Sakusa the whole time.

At that exact moment, Sakusa felt him pulse deep inside—Atsumu’s hips jerking once, then again—and he filled the condom with a low, stuttered groan. His arms trembled from the strain.

Sakusa's face went hot. Full-body flushed.

Atsumu swiped a thumb across his cheek, tasting Sakusa like it was nothing. “Good aim.” He smirked, licking the same thumb. 

Sakusa glared down at him through heavy lashes, breath catching.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

Atsumu just grinned wider, smug and flushed and still hard under him. “Too late.”

They didn’t stop.

Not when Atsumu pulled Sakusa down again, mouths colliding messily, sweat slick between their bodies and breath too short to catch.

Not when Sakusa rolled them over, hands gripping tight at Atsumu’s hips, dragging him into his lap to ride again, this time slower, deeper—so deep Atsumu clawed at Sakusa’s shoulders and choked out a whimper.

Not when they collapsed beside each other and started all over—switching positions without words. Sakusa guiding Atsumu onto his back again. Atsumu pushing him over and fucking him sideways, hand fisting Sakusa’s cock, both of them half-groaning and shaking with how overstimulated they were.

It went on for what felt like hours.

Heat and sweat and groaning hotel bed springs. The low hum of the AC trying and failing to cool the room down. The air got thick—soaked with sex and breath.

Eventually, Sakusa muttered - 

“My turn.”

Atsumu blinked, dazed. “What?”

“You said we’d take turns.”

Atsumu blinked again. Then grinned, slow and crooked. “Yeah? Gonna fuck me good?”

Sakusa didn’t answer with words.

He just shifted, rolling them until Atsumu was on his back again, legs spread lazily. He dragged his fingers down the center of Atsumu’s chest, pausing just under his navel. Then lower. Brushing over the mess already drying on Atsumu’s skin.

“Spread your legs.” He said softly, thumb circling over Atsumu’s hip.

Atsumu did—without hesitation. Because yeah, he missed this. Missed Sakusa like this.

Missed his fingers.

And Sakusa didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. He leaned down, kissed along the inside of Atsumu’s thigh—right at the sensitive edge where skin met groin—then pushed two fingers into his own mouth, sucking slow. Wet. Deliberate.

Atsumu bit his lip, watching with dark, half-lidded eyes.

When Sakusa’s fingers finally slipped down, he didn’t hesitate. Pressed in—firm, confident. One finger first, knuckle-deep in a second. Curling it just right.

Atsumu exhaled hard, mouth falling open. His thighs tensed.

“God, I missed yer fuckin’ fingers,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse. “They feel so good—fuck.”

Sakusa didn’t say anything. Just added another. Efficient. Expert. He moved like he knew exactly what Atsumu needed—like he’d memorized it. Which, to be fair, he probably had.

Calloused pads dragged against that spot inside Atsumu that made his whole spine jolt. His cock twitched against his stomach, slick again, leaking fresh at just the feeling of Sakusa’s fingers filling him up.

“Need more.” Atsumu gasped, grinding down into it, jaw slack.

Sakusa pulled his fingers out slowly—wet and glistening—then manhandled him like it was nothing, flipping him onto his stomach with a firm tug.

“Up.” Sakusa ordered, voice low.

Atsumu groaned but obeyed. Got onto his knees, arms braced, ass up, face pressed into the mattress. “God,” he mumbled into the pillow, voice thick. “Yer so fuckin’ bossy like this.”

Then—without a word—Sakusa pushed in.

No tease. No warning. Just slick fingers spreading him one last time and then the blunt head of Sakusa’s cock pressing inside.

Atsumu let out a strangled, muffled moan into the sheets. His knees jerked forward an inch like the force knocked the breath out of him.

“Holy—fuck—Omi—”

Sakusa gripped the back of Atsumu’s head, not hard, but firm—pushing him down into the mattress again as he started thrusting. Deep. Unrelenting. The bedframe slammed rhythmically into the wall.

“Stay quiet.” Sakusa said, breath tight.

Atsumu didn’t listen. Couldn’t.

His moans were loud even with his face in the pillows, back arching, hands gripping at the sheets like he was trying to stay tethered.

Sakusa pounded into him harder. Sweat slicked their skin, muscles straining. One hand planted on Atsumu’s hip, the other still pressed at the base of his skull.

He kept going until Atsumu’s legs shook—until he was whining, drooling into the pillow, eyes wet and rolled back, cock untouched and leaking into the sheets below.

It was dirty. Desperate. Everything they’d been holding back for weeks poured into every thrust.

Then, two orgasms later - Sakusa stilled when reached for the side table.

“Shit.” He muttered.

Atsumu turned his head enough to breathe. “What?”

Sakusa’s voice was dry. Flat. “We’re out of condoms.”

Atsumu stilled. Blinked slow. Then turned his head back to the pillow and snorted.

“Well, fuck.”

They were quiet a moment. Still tangled together, sweat-slick and half-hard and flushed.

Then Sakusa sat back on his heels, pulling out slow. Atsumu groaned softly at the loss, legs quaking slightly where they still spread open.

“Guess we should call it a night.” Sakusa muttered.

But Atsumu pushed himself upright, turned around on shaky arms, and crawled into Sakusa’s lap like it was nothing.

He kissed up Sakusa’s neck. Soft, slow. Then whispered against his skin: “You don’t need one.”

Sakusa’s breath caught. “What?”

Atsumu kept kissing. The curve of his jaw. The pulse in his throat.

“I don’t care,” he murmured. “Ain’t sleepin’ with anyone else. Haven’t been. I’m clean. Been tested. Two weeks ago.” He bit gently at Sakusa’s collarbone. “Swear.”

Sakusa was quiet. Still.

Atsumu pulled back just enough to look at him. His voice dropped.

“C’mon, Omi…please.”

It lingered in the air.

Sakusa stared at him, searching his face for something. For hesitation. For doubt.

There wasn’t any.

So finally—slowly—Sakusa lifted one hand and cupped Atsumu’s face. Kissed him. Deep. Hard.

Then reached down with the other, fist wrapping around his own cock, stroking once, twice—slicking it again with spit and the come already coating them both.

He lined up.

And pushed in.

No barrier. Just heat. Just skin. Just raw, overwhelming contact.

Atsumu let out a high, broken moan right into Sakusa’s mouth—because fuck. Fuck. It was different.

Hotter. Closer.

Too much, maybe. Or maybe exactly what he needed.

Sakusa groaned too—deep in his chest, breath ragged—his hand tightening around the back of Atsumu’s neck as he bottomed out.

They stilled. Just for a second.

Then—

Sakusa rocked into him.

Slow. Deliberate. But deep. So fucking deep.

Atsumu’s eyes rolled back immediately, a choked sound ripping from his throat.

“Holy—shit—oh my god—Omi—”

Sakusa shushed him softly, kissing him again as he thrust.

Bur Atsumu couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t stop gasping into Sakusa’s mouth like he was drowning.

Because god—it felt so good. Too good.

And they both knew it. They were already addicted.

Sakusa rocked into him again, and Atsumu saw stars behind his eyes.

“Fuck,” Atsumu whispered, his voice raw and hoarse, fingers clawing into Sakusa’s back. “Fuck—keep goin’—don’t stop—”

Atsumu was unraveling. Not just from the stretch or the thrust or the heat of skin on skin—but from the way Sakusa kissed him. Like it mattered. Like he mattered.

Their mouths stayed locked—hot, gasping, lips swollen and wet. Sakusa’s pace was steady now, each thrust grounding and sharp, dragging out soft, needy noises from Atsumu’s throat. 

One of his hands tangled tight in Sakusa’s curls, fingers threading in deep and gripping hard—like he needed something to hold on to or he’d fall apart completely. His other hand dug into Sakusa’s back, nails raking across sweat-slicked skin, leaving marks that would bloom in the morning.

“Fuck,” he breathed into Sakusa’s mouth. “Omi—fuck—I can’t—”

Sakusa bit at his lower lip before pulling back enough to look at him, chest heaving. “Yes, you can.”

But Atsumu just whined again, shaking, voice gone quiet and unsteady.

“I’m sorry,” he panted, the words slurring out between gasps. “Fuck—I’m sorry.”

Sakusa blinked, mid-thrust. “What?”

Atsumu’s grip in his curls tightened, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry—fer hurtin’ yer feelings. That fuckin’ video—what I said about my dream girl—I wasn’t thinkin’. I was so fuckin’ scared and stupid and—and I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t—”

Sakusa didn’t stop moving. But he did lean down, brushing his mouth over Atsumu’s jaw—biting his ear just gently enough to ground him. “Shhh,” he whispered, kissing under his ear, then the corner of his mouth. Another thrust, deep and full. “It’s fine.”

But Atsumu shook his head, breathing hard, lips trembling. “No—no, I gotta say it. I hate it—I hate seein’ you upset. I hate knowin’ I’m the fuckin’ reason. I hate that I made you feel like I didn’t want you—when I do. So bad.”

His voice cracked on the last words, nails digging deeper into Sakusa’s back, like he was clinging for dear life.

Sakusa paused—not all the way—but just enough. His chest pressed against Atsumu’s, their foreheads touching, breaths tangled between them.

“You’re such a crybaby.” Sakusa muttered, but it was quiet, teasing. The kind of tease with no real bite.

Then—softer, breath warm against Atsumu’s lips—he whispered, “I’m sorry too.”

Atsumu blinked. Then without a filter, he started to ramble, “Ya make my heart feel things,” He murmured between the kiss, voice so low it barely made it past the air between them. “Things I didn’t think I was capable of.”

Sakusa swallowed, lips parted. Because…fuck.

They stared at each other.

And then—Sakusa shifted his hips and hit that spot.

Atsumu’s whole body arched. He let out a strangled cry—something raw and broken and perfect—and then he was coming. Hard. Uncontrolled. His body tensed and clenched down around Sakusa’s cock, milking him through it, shaking violently with release. He spilled between their stomachs, hot and messy and untouched.

Sakusa groaned—a deep, guttural sound from the base of his throat—and slammed in one more time, buried to the hilt, and came hard inside him.

Hot.

Sticky.

Unprotected.

His cock pulsed deep, warm spurts filling Atsumu in slow waves as his body shuddered from the force of it.

They breathed through it—mouths brushing, foreheads pressed together, every muscle tense and twitching. And then, slowly, Sakusa started to move again. Barely-there thrusts. Slow. Drawn out. Letting them both come down, riding the edge of the aftershocks with every deep, languid roll of his hips.

Atsumu whimpered, overstimulated, but still holding onto Sakusa’s curls, his other hand now just trembling against his back.

Even after their breathing evened out—after Sakusa eased out slow, the wet heat between them going sticky and warm—they kept their foreheads pressed together, lips nearly touching, breath fanning across each other’s mouths. Neither said anything. They just stared.

Atsumu’s hair was damp and curling at the edges, sweat beading along his temple. His lips were parted, swollen, pink and kiss-bitten. Sakusa was flushed, chest still rising and falling slowly, and there was a line of sweat dripping from his collarbone down his sternum.

The bed was worse.

The hotel sheets were half-off the mattress, twisted around Atsumu’s calf, the comforter hanging onto the floor by a thread. A pillow was wedged under Sakusa’s knee. The others were either crumpled against the headboard or thrown across the room entirely—one of them halfway under the desk chair. Condoms they hadn’t made it to the trash with—tied, glossy, and glinting in the dim light—were scattered across the carpet like discarded wrappers. A few balled-up tissues. Atsumu’s shirt. Sakusa’s briefs inside out.

Their heads turned at the same time toward the glowing red digital clock on the nightstand.

1:14 a.m.

“…Shit,” Atsumu muttered, voice hoarse, breaking the silence. “We’ve got breakfast in, what—six hours?”

“Less.” Sakusa rasped, rolling onto his side. His legs were jelly, his back a little sore, and he could already feel the ache in his thighs setting in. “And check-in.”

“Fuckin’ check-in,” Atsumu groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes dramatically. “My legs ain’t gonna work by then.”

Sakusa hummed, just a low sound of acknowledgment, and turned his head toward him again.

They looked at each other for another beat—silent, soft, some invisible thread tugging taut between them—and then Sakusa leaned in.

He kissed him.

Not like earlier. Not rough, not desperate, not teasing.

Soft.

Atsumu blinked against it—startled, for half a second—but then his lips curled into a faint smile. And he kissed back. Slow. Sleepy. Like it was instinct.

He hummed against Sakusa’s mouth, one hand drifting up to cradle the back of his neck, fingers toying with the curls at the nape. “Mmm,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “Was that the ‘goodnight, babe’ kiss?”

“Don’t push it.” Sakusa muttered, but his voice was too quiet to carry real bite.

Atsumu just grinned against his mouth. And kissed him again..

Sakusa kissed him once—quiet, unhurried—then pulled back, voice low. “I’m getting in the shower.”

He didn’t wait for Atsumu to reply. Just pushed himself up with a groan and walked toward the bathroom, his silhouette briefly lit by the glow of the hallway light before the door swung shut. A second later, the water started, pipes clanking, showerhead hissing to life.

Atsumu stayed still on the bed, blinking up at the ceiling. His chest was sticky. His legs ached. He pushed himself up with a grunt, stretched once, then stood.

And yeah, he was completely naked. But instead of going for his own shower, he started cleaning. 

He picked the pillows up off the floor, tossing them back up without caring too much about symmetry. Pulled the corner of the fitted sheet back over the mattress. Gave it a few lazy tugs. It wasn’t perfect, but it looked less like a war zone.

Then the condoms. Four of them, maybe five. Only two had actually made it to the trash. He tied the rest and threw them out properly. Wiped a spot on the bedside table with a stray tissue. Nudged the lampshade back into place. Gathered their clothes into a single pile and dropped them near their bags.

He crouched at the edge of the bed and gave the headboard a small wiggle, checking the bolts. Just in case. It held. Barely.

The water shut off a minute later. Steam poured from the crack in the door.

Atsumu didn’t say anything as Sakusa came out, towel slung low on his hips, curls damp and sticking to his forehead. Their eyes met briefly—just long enough to register the exhaustion behind both sets of eyes—before Atsumu slipped into the bathroom.

He showered quick. In and out. Soap, shampoo, rinse. 

When he came back out, the room was cooler. The AC was humming low. Sakusa had cracked the window slightly, just enough for the room to breathe.

They both changed into clean briefs, moving around each other in silence.

Atsumu caught Sakusa looking at the bed—the one they’d been on. The one they’d thoroughly ruined. The sheets were pulled back up, the pillows replaced, but it didn’t matter. They both knew.

Atsumu raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the other bed, still untouched, still neatly made.

“Just sleep in mine.”

Sakusa gave the destroyed mattress one more glance before sighing and crossing the room. He climbed into Atsumu’s bed without a word, dragging the blanket over himself with a huff  

Atsumu turned the lamp off.

Silence settled. Just the low hum of the AC and the occasional creak of the building settling.

They lay back-to-back for a while. Not speaking. Not touching. The gap between them might as well have been a mile.

But eventually, Atsumu shifted.

Turned.

And then, without a word, he scooted in close and wrapped himself around Sakusa’s back—an arm tight around his waist, chest warm against his spine. The other arm shoved under Sakusa’s pillow, wedged between cotton and headboard like it belonged there.

Sakusa groaned. “Seriously?”

Atsumu just tightened his grip. “Quit bein’ a baby.”

“I’m not—”

“Yeah, ya are,” Atsumu cut in, his voice already thick with sleep. “Ya let me eat your ass. You’ll survive some fuckin’ cuddling.”

Sakusa stilled. Slowly turned his head just enough to glare at him over his shoulder. His hair was still damp, sticking to his forehead. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re warm.” Atsumu said simply, burying his face in the curve of Sakusa’s neck. 

Sakusa stared at the wall in silence.

Eventually, he let out a quiet, resigned exhale. His muscles eased. He didn’t say anything else.

And yeah. Fine. It wasn’t that bad.

Actually…it felt kind of—nice. Being held like this. Solid and steady and stupidly secure. Atsumu was already half asleep, his breath slowing against the back of Sakusa’s neck, warm and even. The room was quiet now, the air cool, and the bed still smelled faintly like hotel detergent and Atsumu’s body wash.

Sakusa stayed awake longer than he meant to.

He couldn’t quite get his brain to shut off. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut. Footsteps echoed, then faded. His eyes stayed fixed on the wall across from the bed. Blank. Pale. Nothing to look at—but he kept staring anyway.

He thought about the game tomorrow. About his shoulder. About what that guy on the court had said. About his parents. About all the shit he hadn’t said back when Atsumu first looked at him across that hotel bed like he mattered more than the win.

He thought about the way Atsumu had said it earlier—quiet and cracked: You make my heart feel things I didn’t think it could.

At the time, he’d wanted to say something back. Had tried to, almost. But it stuck. Got caught somewhere behind his ribs.

Now, it found its way out of him. Soft. Barely above a whisper.

“…You make my heart feel things too.”  

It was stupid, maybe. Not nearly as poetic as he’d meant, but—whatever. It was the truth.

Sakusa stayed like that for a while—eyes open, chest tight, the weight of everything sitting heavy just under his sternum.

And then, in the quiet, Atsumu let out a soft snore. Barely audible. Just enough to confirm what Sakusa already knew.

He was asleep.

Sakusa blinked a few times, eyes stinging—not from tears exactly, but something close.

He exhaled. Not a sigh. Just a slow, quiet breath.

Then he let his eyes fall closed.

Chapter Text

The first thing Sakusa registered was the sharp, annoying trill of both their phone alarms—dueling, mismatched tones blaring through the dark hotel room.

The second thing he registered was that he couldn’t fucking move.

Atsumu was wrapped around him, like a heat-trapping clingy idiot. One arm locked tight around his waist, the other shoved under the pillow Sakusa’s head was on. His face was mashed against Sakusa’s shoulder and collarbone, hot breath fanning steadily over skin, and despite the AC unit humming at full blast near the window, Sakusa’s skin was sticking—sweaty, tacky—to the firm planes of Atsumu’s chest.

Sakusa groaned softly under his breath, reaching one hand out from under the sheets to fumble for their phones. He shut them both off—too tired to care which one was which—and blinked blearily into the dim light seeping in from between the curtains.

His eyes stung. His body ached. The weight of Atsumu against him…was a lot.

But it wasn’t bad.

Actually, it was kind of—

Sakusa winced at his own train of thought and slowly began prying himself free, trying to wiggle his arm out from under Atsumu’s grip without waking him.

Atsumu groaned softly, breath catching against Sakusa’s nape, but didn’t move beyond a vague tightening of his arms.

Sakusa rolled his eyes, gently peeling Atsumu’s arm off his waist, muttering under his breath. The moment the weight lifted, Atsumu rolled onto his back, arm sprawled across the bed, hair sticking up in all directions.

Sakusa sat up—slowly—and stretched one arm overhead, then paused. A dull twinge bloomed in his shoulder. Right side. Not sharp, not stabbing. Just…tight. It had been bugging him all week—small, annoying flare-ups here and there—but he kept brushing it off. Just sore. Probably.

He pressed a few fingers into the muscle, rubbed at it absently, then stood with a quiet breath through his nose.

The shower helped. Hot water to loosen stiff muscles, scrub away the sweat and stickiness. When he stepped back into the room, towel slung around his waist, Atsumu was still out cold—starfished on top of the sheets now, mouth open slightly, one leg kicked out over the edge of the bed.

Sakusa watched him for a moment.

The morning light caught Atsumu’s skin in a way that made him look unfairly peaceful. His golden dyed hair was a mess, sticking up in uneven tufts; his lashes—dark and long—rested against the tops of his cheeks; his face was slack in sleep, all the sharpness gone.

Soft.

That was the word. He looked soft like this. Relaxed in a way Sakusa rarely saw. No loud laugh, no cocky grin, no sharp comebacks or exaggerated gestures. Just warmth. Just skin and breath and muscle stretched out across a hotel mattress like he didn’t have a care in the world.

And Sakusa didn’t know how he’d never really noticed it before. Or maybe he had. Maybe he just hadn’t let himself look.

He exhaled through his nose, then turned away to get dressed. He changed into his warm-up gear, cracked the window a sliver to let the room breathe - just as Atsumu began stirring behind him.

“Mmmph,” came the first sound. A groggy whine. Then, rough with sleep, “Shit. What time is it?”

“Time to get your ass up.”

Atsumu rolled over, “I feel like I got hit by a fuckin’ truck.”

Sakusa just hummed and busied himself with his socks while Atsumu dragged himself through his routine—brushing his teeth with one hand while scrolling his phone with the other, pulling on his shirt backwards the first time, only realizing once Sakusa gave him a blank look.

It was quiet. But not awkward. The kind of quiet that settled around people who’d known each other long enough to function in silence without it feeling like pressure.

It was weirdly…nice.

By the time they stepped onto the elevator, both dressed in MSBY warm-up gear, Sakusa glanced at the digital clock overhead.

6:38 a.m.

Still early enough to breathe.

But as the elevator descended and the lobby lights came into view, that quiet intimacy dropped away like a curtain lifting.

Teammate mode.

They stepped out together—but not too close. Sakusa moved off toward the back of the group instinctively. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except it kind of was.

Breakfast was the same buffet spread the hotel always offered—eggs, rice, miso soup, fruit. Sakusa settled toward the far end of the table next to one of the younger second string wing spikers. Atsumu dropped into the open seat next to Hinata with his usual lazy sprawl, reaching for the nearest carafe of coffee.

At first glance, nothing seemed off.

Hinata gave him a quick smile, nodded in greeting. It wasn’t weird enough to flag anything out loud. Not to anyone else at the table.

But Atsumu knew Hinata.

He knew the way Hinata’s voice usually had that natural lift to it—bright and sharp, especially on match day. He knew the difference between Hinata’s real laugh and the thinner one he let out now when Atsumu said something dumb about Bokuto. Knew that if Hinata was really fine, he’d be elbowing him back already, talking shit, hyping up the day like they always did before a game.

And in the visiting locker room—sterile, all tile and metal benches and echoey acoustics—Atsumu finally caught it.

Hinata was watching them.

Not directly. Not lingering. But Atsumu caught the flick of his eyes when Sakusa walked past. The quick glance when Atsumu leaned down to grab tape out of his bag. Like he was analyzing. Measuring.

Atsumu’s throat went dry.

He paced himself through their stretch routine in the gym—forced normalcy. Rolled his neck, twisted his spine, tried not to let the burn of Hinata’s eyes crawl under his skin.

“Somethin’ got ya spooked, sunshine?” He finally asked.

Hinata chuckled softly, eyes down. “No. Just tired, I guess.”

But his tone was off. Not nervous, exactly. Just not right.

Atsumu narrowed his eyes a little. Still smiling, still easy, but watching.

They went through stretches like usual, trading off. First hamstrings, then quads. When it was Hinata’s turn to press on Atsumu’s leg, he barely leaned into it.

“Shoyo, c’mon. I ain’t made of glass.”

“Right, sorry.”

Then, they switched. Atsumu pushed against Hinata’s leg until he heard a low groan. 

It was halfway through the next stretch when he noticed it. The look. That same weird glance Hinata had given him earlier—except this time, it flicked briefly across the room.

To Sakusa. And back.

Atsumu’s stomach flipped. He kept stretching, but his voice was lower now. “Ya gonna tell me what’s up or am I supposed to guess?”

Hinata shifted. “Nothing’s up.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu raised an eyebrow. “So yer just gonna keep starin’ at me like I kicked yer dog?”

Hinata winced, then scratched the back of his neck. “Look—I wasn’t gonna say anything before the game because, y’know, I didn’t want to mess with your head. Or like, make it weird. But. Um…”

Atsumu stilled. His hands paused on Hinata’s leg.

Hinata cleared his throat. “I, uh—last night…I just um…”

Silence.

“I could hear you and Sakusa.”

Atsumu blinked. His heart thudded once, hard.

Hinata kept talking, quickly. “I didn’t mean to hear anything! I had headphones in, I swear, but then they died and—look, I was gonna just roll over and pretend I didn’t hear it, but—”

“Jesus Christ.” Atsumu whispered. His face went red, fast. Neck to ears, burning.

“—But then it was kinda—uh. Loud. And I just, you know. Figured it was better not to say anything and let you guys live your lives. I’m not judging or anything, I just thought maybe you should know. I mean, Bokuto didn’t even wake up and he hasn’t said anything about it. So, I really think it was just me that heard it.”

Atsumu sat frozen. His hands limp against Hinata’s shin, his mouth half open like he wanted to say something but no words came out.

Hinata kept going—because Atsumu wasn’t—and he hated the silence. “And I’m not gonna tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. I really, really won’t.”

Atsumu exhaled—shaky, uneven. Then—softly, almost like he wasn’t sure his voice would work—he said, “Shoyo—okay…. it’s…. it’s fine. I’m sorry.”

Hinata clamped his mouth shut.

Atsumu exhaled. “Just…please don’t say anything, yeah?”

Hinata nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

They stared at each other for a second too long.

Then Atsumu swallowed and mumbled, “Sorry, dude.”

Hinata snorted, tension breaking slightly. “It’s okay, I’ll just get you back at some point when you’re trying to sleep and we’re sharing a wall.”

Atsumu groaned and dropped back onto the mat, arm flung over his face. “Kill me.”

Hinata patted his ankle. “You’ll live.”

But fuck—Atsumu’s heart was still pounding. Loud. Obnoxious. And now there was one person who knew.

Just one.

But still.

One was enough.

They won.

The match played out like clockwork: sharp serves, tight formations, smooth transitions. Everyone was locked in.

Atsumu didn’t let himself overthink anything—not the way Hinata kept avoiding lingering eye contact, not the way his brain short-circuited every time he remembered what Hinata heard, and definitely not the way Sakusa kept rolling his shoulder between plays. Small movements. Barely noticeable. But Atsumu saw it.

The way Sakusa flexed his fingers like he was trying to shake something out of the joint. He caught him doing it mid-timeout once, Sakusa’s expression unreadable as always—but his jaw a little tight.

Atsumu made a mental note to ask. Later.

There wasn’t time now. Not between switching out jerseys, post-game handshakes, media waiting by the exit tunnel. Atsumu threw on his best PR grin and handled the interviews—rattling off his usual one-liners, throwing a few jokes Bokuto’s way, complimenting the other team’s effort. 

They boarded the team bus not long after. Cold night air clung to shower-damp skin, the parking lot still echoing with the clatter of loading gear and shouted instructions from staff.

Sakusa climbed up first. He tossed his duffel toward the overhead bin and halted—just a beat too long. His arm stayed raised mid-throw, a quiet pause, not dramatic enough to draw attention, but Atsumu saw it. The way his eyes shut for half a second. Like it hurt.

Then he finished the motion, dropped the bag in with a dull thud, and slid into a window seat near the back. 

Inunaki had already taken the seat next to Hinata, which left the one next to Sakusa open. Atsumu hesitated—just for a second—before sliding in beside him.

The bus pulled out of the lot, tires hissing on wet pavement, and the city lights blurred into movement outside the window.

Sakusa had his headphones in. Eyes closed. Head tipped just slightly toward the glass. Atsumu couldn’t tell if he was really asleep.

He stared at the ceiling, earbuds in too, but nothing was playing. His mind was too loud. The bus was dimly lit, quiet except for Bokuto’s voice a few rows up and the occasional rustle of jackets shifting.

He thought about Hinata, how he knew now. How he was going to start reading into every interaction. Every glance. Every seat choice. Every goddamn stretch on court.

But Hinata had sworn. He said he wouldn’t tell anyone.

And Atsumu…he trusted him. He did.

Still—

His gaze dropped.

Sakusa’s hand was resting palm-up on his thigh. Relaxed. Still.

The urge hit him all at once. Gentle. Stupid. Persistent.

He reached out—tentative—and brushed his fingers against Sakusa’s.

Sakusa caught him immediately. His eyes cracked open just a sliver. Just enough to see him. Then his gaze shifted—dry, unimpressed.

Atsumu gave him a look back. A silent: Damn, okay, relax.

Sakusa huffed. Then, without a word, laced their fingers together and closed his eyes again.

Atsumu froze for a second. His chest squeezed. His ears burned.

Sakusa was holding his hand. Not just letting him. Doing it.

Atsumu shifted slightly in his seat, settling back. His thumb brushed over Sakusa’s knuckle once, soft. And for the rest of the ride, he just stared at the ceiling of the bus, heart drumming somewhere stupid in his throat.

At least they were in the back. Away from everyone else.

Where everything was fine away from everyone.

Hinata kept his word and kept his mouth shut.

He cracked jokes, got on Meian’s nerves in the locker room, buzzed with his usual energy that Bokuto fueled. On the surface, nothing had changed.

So much so that for a while, Atsumu almost convinced himself maybe Hinata really had forgotten about it. Slept it off, chalked it up to a bad dream, or some hotel air vent making noises that just sounded like—

But then, Atsumu would catch him glancing.

Whenever him and Sakusa sat beside each other, or when they stood close to each other - Hinata would glance at them. Eyes flicked to Sakusa. Then to Atsumu. Then back again. Just a flicker of attention, subtle enough that anyone else wouldn’t have thought twice.

And Atsumu's skin prickled with the reminder. No. Hinata hadn’t forgotten. He just wasn’t bringing it up.

Atsumu wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. Because now it was just there. Hanging unspoken between them. This weird new knowledge that only Hinata had, that Sakusa didn’t even know was out there.

And it made Atsumu… twitchy.

Not panicked. Not exactly. But uneasy in a way he couldn’t shake. Because if Hinata knew—someone who actually liked them, someone who was cool and supportive and, like, the least judgmental person Atsumu had ever met—then what would happen if someone else did? Someone who wasn’t cool? Someone who would say something?

He trusted Hinata, sure. But he also knew Hinata. Knew that he was probably dying to talk about it. Ask questions. Make sure they were okay. Even if he didn’t mean to pry.

And Hinata was nosy as hell when he wanted to be.

So Atsumu kept waiting for the moment it slipped. For some comment to slide into conversation. Some dig about who was riding who. Some look that Sakusa would catch and then it’d be over. Over before Atsumu even figured out what the hell this was between them.

Because he still didn’t know. Not really.

Yeah, they’d made up. Sort of. They weren’t fighting anymore. There were no glares on the court or cold shoulders in meetings. And sure, Sakusa came over again. Slept in his bed again.

But they didn’t talk about any of it. They hadn’t labeled a thing.

And Atsumu didn’t know how to start.

Especially not after hearing about Sakusa’s parents. It was the kind of thing that didn’t just go away. Not even after you moved out and signed with a pro team and got your face on a billboard.

It stuck. Deep.

And maybe Kita was right. Maybe Sakusa wasn’t as comfortable with this as he acted. Even though he looked calm. Even though he fucked like he had nothing to hide. Even though he never flinched away from Atsumu’s touch in private—maybe it was all surface.

Because something about the way he shut down every time Atsumu tried to bring up anything deeper felt a little too… controlled.

And Atsumu wasn’t any better.

He didn’t even know what to call himself. Didn’t know if he wanted a label yet. If he was ready to say anything out loud that might make this feel even more real. He liked girls. He always had. But Sakusa wasn’t a girl.

And Atsumu really, really liked him.

Liked the way he got snappy when Atsumu chewed gum during film. Liked the way his hands always twitched to fix things—wrinkled sheets, crooked shoelaces, the little tuft of hair behind Atsumu’s ear. Liked the way he texted pictures on his walks or solo runs - no context, just a blurred image and the occasional comment: “Sun rise earlier.”

He liked being around him. Not just when they were fucking. Not just when they were sniping at each other during drills. But just… existing.

And lately, that’s mostly what they did.

They didn’t go at it the second Sakusa walked through the door anymore. Most nights, they didn’t even kiss until late. Sometimes not at all.

Sakusa would drop his bag by the door and sit at the kitchen counter, picking at takeout. They’d talk. Watch game film. Scroll on their phones side by side, elbows brushing.

Sometimes they ended up in bed. Sometimes they didn’t.

Sometimes Sakusa would nudge Atsumu at eleven p.m., say You up for drills?, and they’d head to the gym. They’d run salt-and-pepper sets until they were too sweaty to hold the ball properly. They’d race for serves. Play dumb two-man games until one of them collapsed, panting.

It was quiet. Simple.

And kind of terrifying.

Because the longer it went on, the more Atsumu realized he couldn’t keep tiptoeing around this. Around them. But the words stayed lodged in his throat. Swollen. Heavy. And he couldn’t seem to spit them out.

He tried, once. Right after sex, when they were both stretched out across his bed, breathing hard, muscles loose.

“I think Bokkun’s gay.” He said, out of nowhere.

Sakusa didn’t even look over, still laying on his back, eyes closed. “Hm?”

“I mean—like, pretty sure. I talked to him and he kinda implied he and Akaashi are dating. Did y’know that?”

Sakusa exhaled. “I assumed.”

Atsumu pushed, voice too casual. “That not weird to ya? Knowin’ someone on the team like that?”

Sakusa shrugged. “I’m not that interested in what other people do in bed, Miya.”

Atsumu scratched the back of his neck, heart thudding a little too fast. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

He didn’t bring it up again. Didn’t try again either. Didn’t know how. Didn’t want to fuck things up just when they were finally good again.

Even if it still made his chest tight every time Sakusa avoided the topic. Every time Atsumu stopped himself from saying something that might make things messy again.

He liked Sakusa. He knew that. He liked being around him, even in silence.

And maybe that was enough—for now. Even if his head spun with what-ifs and maybes and what the fuck do you call this?

It was a quiet walk.

Not like, weird quiet—but quiet enough that Atsumu started to notice. Hinata wasn’t saying much. Wasn’t really doing that thing where he bounced on the balls of his feet or waved his hands around when he talked. Which was rare. They’d just finished a pretty solid gym session, and normally that meant Hinata would be rattling off about whatever stretch felt best or what he wanted to order at Onigiri Miya.

But now? Now he was walking with his hands in his pockets, head down, kind of nodding along to whatever Atsumu was saying like he was only catching every third word.

They passed a vending machine and Atsumu threw a glance his way.

“…Ya good?”

Hinata blinked. “Yeah.”

Atsumu squinted. “Okay, but like—yer not talkin’. Kinda makin’ me nervous.”

That got a twitch of a smile. Hinata rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just—thinking.”

“Oh god,” Atsumu deadpanned, “don’t strain too hard.”

Hinata shoved his shoulder with a soft laugh.

But then it was quiet again.

So finally, Atsumu huffed. “Alright. Jesus. Just say whatever’s sittin’ on yer brain. Ya look constipated.”

Hinata hesitated. They were almost at the corner now, the awning for Onigiri Miya barely visible across the street. And then, finally—

“Are you and Sakusa dating?”

Atsumu froze.

Like, literally stopped walking.

“…Huh?”

Hinata stopped a step ahead and turned. “Are you?” he asked, genuinely. No teasing. Just a furrow in his brow and that overly earnest thing he did with his eyes when he really wanted the truth.

Atsumu’s face went red hot. He blinked. Swallowed. Then cleared his throat and started walking again. “Nah. It’s not like that.”

“You sure?” Hinata followed, skipping a half-step to match his pace. “Because it kinda seemed—”

“No.”

“But you—”

“No.”

“Okay, but you were like—”

“Shoyo.” Atsumu stopped again and turned toward him, lowering his voice. “We’re just…hookin’ up. That’s it.”

Hinata’s eyebrows lifted. He looked like he was trying to hide how surprised he was. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Atsumu scratched the back of his head, exhaling. “And ya can’t tell anyone, okay?”

Hinata tilted his head. “Not even Bokuto-san?”

“Especially not him. Sakusa’s already emotionally freaked out enough as is. If he thinks people are talkin’ about us…” Atsumu trailed off, shook his head. “Just—don’t. Please.”

Hinata nodded slowly, kicking a pebble off the sidewalk. “Okay. I won’t.”

Atsumu let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

They walked in silence for a moment longer, the sound of passing cars filling the space between them. Then Hinata looked over again.

“…Is it at least good?”

Atsumu blinked. “What?”

Hinata smirked a little. “The sex.”

Atsumu, despite huffing a laugh, shoved him hard enough to make him stumble into a bush.

They were walking down the long hallway behind the weight room, bags slung over their shoulders, sweat still drying in the crooks of their elbows.

Atsumu was talking. Rambling, really. “We should try that soba place that opened by the station,” he said, adjusting his duffel strap. “Or that curry spot Inunaki was talkin’ about. Unless ya just wanna go harass ‘Samu.”

Sakusa hummed, the noncommittal kind. He was walking beside him, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

“There’s this bar Bokkun's obsessed with—he’s tryin’ to get us all to go this weekend. Somethin’ about infused cocktails and a live DJ and—”

“You want to stay the night?” Sakusa said.

Atsumu blinked. His feet actually stopped moving, one step short of the exit.

“…What?”

Sakusa didn’t look at him right away. He kept walking for a beat, then paused too. Turned halfway over his shoulder. “I said,” he repeated, quieter this time, “do you want to stay the night?”

Atsumu just stared. The hallway was quiet now. Just the echo of their breathing, distant weights clanking two rooms down.

He blinked again. “Wait. Like—yer place?”

Sakusa shifted his weight. Shrugged one shoulder. “If you wanted.”

It wasn’t casual, not really. His voice was even, sure. His posture stiff. Hands still tucked in the safety of his jacket. But his eyes didn’t quite meet Atsumu’s. Just hovered somewhere over his left shoulder.

“Yer…inviting me over?” Atsumu asked, slower this time. “Like—to your place?”

Sakusa gave a single nod. Quick. Awkward. “Yeah.”

They stood like that for a beat.

Then Atsumu laughed. Not loud. Just a short, quiet thing—half a huff, half something that felt a little too warm in his chest. “Shit,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh. Yeah, yeah, sure. Just gotta swing by my place.”

Sakusa nodded again. “I’ll text you the address.”

Atsumu watched him as he walked toward the back exit, the lot already dim under the late evening sky. And then he was gone, door shutting behind him.

Atsumu stayed standing there for another second. Maybe two. Then he exhaled. Laughed again—quieter this time.

It was almost ridiculous.

He’d just been invited to Sakusa’s apartment. To his space.

And fuck if that didn’t make Atsumu’s chest feel a little stupid. A little tight.

He shifted his duffel higher on his shoulder, turned toward the curb to wait for his own ride.

And yeah, maybe he was still grinning like a dumbass.

Atsumu didn’t overthink it—just grabbed the first bag he could find, shoved in a pair of clean briefs, some socks, a toothbrush, and whatever travel-sized bottle was closest to the edge of the sink. Then doubled back, tossing in a hoodie and a clean pair of joggers. He didn’t know if Sakusa had a preference about that stuff—but knowing him, he probably did. And Atsumu wasn’t trying to get scolded for lounging around in yesterday’s shirt.

Sakusa lived further out—one of those neighborhoods that still felt like Osaka but didn’t choke you with it. The kind of area where markets closed by eight and couples walked their dogs in silence. The streets were lined with narrow apartment buildings and little cafes with string lights over their windows. Still busy, but not loud. Still city, but quiet enough to think.

Atsumu parked in the designated guest spot near the entrance, using the gate code Sakusa texted him.

Omi: [307 - buzz when you get here.]

The elevator hummed low and mechanical, its fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above his head. He adjusted the strap on his duffel, then again. Didn’t even realize he was doing it until the fourth time. Nerves or muscle memory, he couldn’t tell.

He wandered the hall once, then doubled back—checking the door numbers carefully. And then there it was.

307.

He knocked, quick and light. It took a few moments. Then the lock clicked, and the door creaked open.

Sakusa stood there in sweats and a black long-sleeve, hair still damp from a shower. Barefoot. Calm. He blinked once, then opened the door wider.

“Don’t just throw your bag somewhere.”

“Wow, real warm welcome.” Atsumu stepped inside, toeing off his sneakers and dropping his bag a little too close to the wall just to be annoying.

Sakusa stared at the bag. Then at him.

“Fine, fine,” Atsumu muttered, dragging it into a neater spot. “Ya gonna start chargin’ me rent next?”

“You’re not staying that long.” Sakusa said.

The apartment wasn’t what Atsumu expected. No clutter, but it wasn’t cold either. The furniture was clean-lined and neutral—muted greys and greens. Plants by the window. Nothing excessive, but there were framed prints on the wall. Books neatly stacked on the shelf. A clean candle on the kitchen counter, unlit. It felt like someone lived here. Lived here intentionally.

Not cold at all.

“Thought this place’d be like...bare.” Atsumu admitted, trailing behind Sakusa into the kitchen. “Like white walls and a mattress on the floor. Y’know, serial killer vibes.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes. “Glad I exceeded your expectations.”

“Exceedin’ expectations left and right tonight.” Atsumu teased, plopping into the seat at the kitchen table, eyeing the takeout containers. “This for me?”

“No, I left it there as a trap.”

Atsumu grinned. “Romantic.”

Sakusa handed him a bottle of water and settled across from him with his own container. They ate in relative silence, save for the occasional grunt of appreciation or the quiet clink of chopsticks against the paper box.

After they finished, Atsumu stood to clear the table, but Sakusa waved him off, already rinsing the dishes in the sink. 

Atsumu didn’t argue. He wandered further into the apartment, glancing down the hallway toward the bathroom, checking the way everything was set up—so much counter space, clean towels, actual storage. He peeked through a slightly ajar door and saw the bedroom.

He nudged the door open with his foot and stepped in. The bed was neatly made, corners crisp, dark sheets pulled tight. The nightstand had a small lamp, a notebook, and a phone charger coiled neatly. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing out of place.

Atsumu stepped closer.

The room smelled faintly like Sakusa’s detergent. Something clean and woodsy. Something that made his shoulders relax a little.

He was halfway to throwing himself face-first onto the mattress—just to see if Sakusa’s sheets were as soft as they looked—when two hands caught him by the hips.

“Don’t sprawl on my bed in your outside clothes.” Sakusa muttered into his neck.

Atsumu froze for a beat. Then smirked, deliberate, letting himself relax back into Sakusa’s grip slightly. “God, yer such a freak,” he drawled, “What, ya afraid I’m gonna contaminate yer precious duvet?”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just held him there.

So Atsumu turned, twisting in his hands, amusement lighting up his face as he stepped back a little. And then—without looking away—he stripped.

One piece at a time.

His shirt came off first, pulled over his head and tossed lazily to the floor. Then the joggers, pushed down his hips with a little too much flourish to be casual. Socks next. And then his boxers—thumbs hooking the waistband and sliding them down slow, cock half-hard and not even trying to be subtle about it.

He stood there, naked and loose-limbed, head tilted slightly. “This better?” He asked.

Sakusa’s pupils were blown wide already. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard—but he still didn’t say anything. Just stared. Face unreadable except for the faintest twitch in his jaw.

Atsumu huffed a smug little laugh and dropped backward onto the bed, limbs spread, unabashedly on display.

“Fuck,” he groaned, stretching exaggeratedly across the mattress. “This bed is comfy. No wonder ya always bitch about mine.” He sank into the mattress with a sigh.

Sakusa’s face went pink—high in his cheeks, the tips of his ears too. He exhaled, sharp and through his nose, before stepping forward. He yanked the blanket from where it was folded at the foot of the bed and tossed it over Atsumu in one clean motion.

“Move over.” He said, flat.

Atsumu shifted—barely. Just enough to give him space, though not without brushing their legs together.

Sakusa laid beside him, still fully dressed. He didn’t say a word about the nakedness. Didn’t give Atsumu the satisfaction.

And yeah—maybe the air was heavy, their bodies close, tension tight in the space between them—but Sakusa didn’t look mad. Didn’t look annoyed. Just… quiet. And something else. Something that made Atsumu’s smirk twitch and fade.

Because the longer he laid there, the more obvious it became: he wasn’t just invited here to fuck. That wasn’t what this was. Not tonight.

The realization settled under his skin like a weight. Heavy and strange.

He turned his head to the side, eyes tracing the line of Sakusa’s throat, the way the collar of his shirt pulled slightly from where he’d shifted back on the pillow.

“Hey.” Atsumu said, voice soft now.

Sakusa looked over.

“Thanks for invitin’ me.”

Sakusa blinked once. Then again. He turned his face toward the ceiling, like looking at Atsumu might make it worse.

“Don’t make it a thing.” He muttered.

Atsumu’s smile was faint, like he didn’t know what to do with it. But it was real.

They didn’t speak for a while.

Just laid there, both on their backs, arms close but not touching. Atsumu’s head sank deeper into the blankets. The sheets smelled like Sakusa—clean and warm, like cedar soap and cotton—and the mattress was stupidly soft. 

Atsumu exhaled through his nose. Closed his eyes. He could’ve fallen asleep like that.

But then—

“What’s your favorite animal?” Sakusa asked suddenly, voice low and even, like he was testing the question more than actually asking it.

Atsumu cracked one eye open, smile pulling crooked across his face. “Ya tryna flirt with me, Omi?”

“No.” Sakusa didn’t look over. “Just asking.”

Atsumu closed his eyes again, quiet for a second. Then, “Foxes.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then a familiar dry scoff. “Of course it is. That’s so fucking predictable.”

Atsumu huffed a laugh, head tipping slightly toward him. “What? Why?”

“Your high school mascot was a fox.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So it’s basic.”

Atsumu opened both eyes now, grinning as he pushed himself up onto one elbow. “Alright, mister personality, what’s yours then?”

Sakusa glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Thought for a moment.

“Cranes.” He said finally.

Atsumu blinked. “Cranes?”

Then he sat up straighter, reaching toward the nightstand where a slim black notebook sat. Before Sakusa could protest, Atsumu tore a clean page from the back.

“That was a fresh page.” Sakusa deadpanned, already frowning. 

Atsumu ignored him, folding the page cleanly down the center. “Relax. It’s just one page.”

Sakusa watched in annoyed silence as Atsumu kept folding. Sharp corners, nimble fingers. Crease by crease, it started to take shape—quick and practiced.

When Atsumu was done, he held it up between them. “Ta-da.”

A paper crane. 

Atsumu handed it to him, smile lazy but genuine.

Sakusa took it, slow. “You know how to make this?”

“Duh.” Atsumu flopped back down on the bed, arms folded behind his head. “Had a crush on a girl in middle school who was obsessed with origami. Learned so I could impress her. Never even talked to her.”

Sakusa didn’t respond. Just set the crane carefully on the nightstand beside his lamp.

He looked back at Atsumu, who was now staring up at the ceiling again, golden hair sticking up in the back, chest rising and falling steady.

Sakusa propped himself up on one elbow.

Watched him for a moment.

Then—gently, without comment—he reached out and brushed a bit of hair off Atsumu’s forehead. Let his fingers linger there just a moment too long before pulling away.

Atsumu looked up at him, eyes soft.

Now it was his turn - 

“Can I ask ya somethin’?”

The question came out low. Careful.

Sakusa didn’t move. But Atsumu saw the way his throat worked, saw the tension flicker in the line of his jaw before he nodded once. Still staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah.”

“…What’s your family like?”

Sakusa blinked again—slow, like he was buffering—and exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed. Like he was choosing how much to say. Or how not to flinch while saying it.

He didn’t look at Atsumu. Eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling like it was easier to talk to plaster than another person.

“I’ve got a sister and a brother,” he said finally. “Both older. I’m the baby.”

Atsumu didn’t say anything. Just watched him, let him go on.

“My brother’s married. Has a kid now, too. They live a couple prefectures over.” He shifted slightly, fingers absently tugging at a loose thread near the edge of the duvet. “My sister’s probably getting engaged soon. Her boyfriend’s one of those career guys. Corporate sales, button-downs. My mom loves him.”

He paused. Tugged at the thread again.

“Komori’s always been more like a brother. Grew up with him. Spent every summer at his house, especially when my parents were busy. He just… got me. Even when I was weird. He never gave a shit. Still doesn’t.”

Atsumu’s heart was beating a little harder now, though he wasn’t sure why yet. 

“They were always supportive when it came to volleyball,” Sakusa added, shoulders twitching in the smallest of shrugs. “Even if they didn’t come to many matches. They paid for training. Lessons. Nutritionists. Never said no if it meant I’d play better.”

His voice dropped then. “But outside of that…”

A beat.

“When I came out, it was awkward. Heavy. I thought maybe… I don’t know, maybe they’d say something. Ask questions. Be upset so I could deal with it and move on. But they didn’t really react at all.”

Atsumu’s brows knit together. “Not even your mom?”

“Eventually she said it was probably just a phase,” Sakusa muttered. “Told me I needed to stop spending so much time online, that maybe I was just confused.”

“And your dad?”

Sakusa hesitated. “Didn’t talk to me. For almost a month.”

Atsumu’s throat bobbed.

“Then one morning, he asked if I wanted help with college applications. Like nothing ever happened.”

Sakusa’s fingers stilled on the comforter.

“I know they’re proud,” he said after a while, quieter. “They’ve got my jersey framed in the living room. Picture from my first media day with the team is up on the shelf. They brag to people I’m a pro athlete.”

He swallowed.

“But I think they’d be more proud if I was straight. If I fit their idea of what our family’s supposed to look like. My siblings have partners who make sense. People you can bring to dinner. Smile for holiday photos. That’s what they want for me too.”

Another pause.

“I can tell they bite their tongues. Every time I visit, I can feel it. My mom’s always bringing up this girl she knows. Someone she used to work with. Says she’s sweet. Quiet. Good with kids. Like that’s supposed to mean something to me.”

Atsumu’s chest ached.

“I love them. But it hurts.”

The room stayed quiet.

Sakusa still wouldn’t look at him. Eyes low.

Atsumu reached out—carefully—and ran his fingers through Sakusa’s curls. Slow. Gentle. Just enough to make Sakusa flinch a little in surprise. Then he leaned in, catching his jaw softly and kissing him. Once. Twice. Then a third time, longer. Just the press of lips. No rush. No heat.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m real fuckin’ sorry.”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Atsumu pulled back a little. His hand still cupping Sakusa’s jaw.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Atsumu said. “There’s nothin’ to fix.”

Sakusa stared at him, really looked this time. “Do you actually believe that?”

Atsumu blinked. “What?”

“You can say that to me,” Sakusa murmured, gaze sharp, “but you won’t even admit what you are to yourself.”

Sakusa didn’t say it like an insult. Didn’t say it with malice. But it hit anyway.

Atsumu didn’t know what to say. His mouth opened, then closed. Then again.

They stared at each other.

Then—quietly, shakily—Atsumu leaned in and kissed him. Deeper this time. His tongue slid past Sakusa’s lips, slow, searching. Like he was trying to say something he couldn’t find the words for.

When he pulled back, his voice was rough. “There’s nothin’ wrong with us,” he said. “People just… don’t fuckin’ get it.”

He kissed him again, and again, like he had something to prove now.

And then he rolled on top of him—slow but heavy, body slotting over Sakusa’s, arms braced on either side of his head, mouth never leaving his.

The blanket slipped down around his waist as he moved. Sakusa’s hands came up automatically, one gripping Atsumu’s back, the other curling around the back of his neck.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t aggressive. But it burned.

Because Atsumu wasn’t just kissing Sakusa like he wanted him. He was kissing him like he needed him. Like this was the only way he knew how to believe what he’d just said.

Eventually, Sakusa shifted. Let his hands drift low, fingers dragging down Atsumu’s bare back until he cupped the backs of his thighs, guiding him to roll off with a soft grunt.

Atsumu landed on his back, but Sakusa didn’t stop there.

He tugged his own shirt off in one smooth motion. Then leaned down, pressed his mouth to Atsumu’s collarbone—warm and slow—before nudging him onto his stomach. 

“C’mon.” Sakusa murmured, voice rough against his skin.

Atsumu moved, pliant, knees digging into the mattress. He let himself be manhandled like it was second nature now, like his body was already trained to listen to the quiet command in Sakusa’s hands.

He felt the shift of weight behind him. Then Sakusa’s palm on the curve of his ass, fingers spreading him open. Atsumu’s arms curled up under the pillow, face pressed into the sheets. And then—fingers. Hot, slick, steady.

Sakusa didn’t take his time. He didn’t need to. He knew how Atsumu liked it. Knew the angle, the pace, the curl that would make Atsumu’s whole body jolt.

“Agh—fuck,” Atsumu gasped, breath catching hard as Sakusa pressed in with two fingers, dragging them slow. “Shit—fuck, Omi—”

Sakusa exhaled through his nose, low and tight. Watched the way Atsumu’s back arched, the way his thighs shook just from that.

Then he reached for the nightstand—he poured lube over himself with no finesse, a slick, messy spill of it that he barely bothered to smooth before lining himself up.

He leaned over, arms bracketing Atsumu’s shoulders.

Paused. Then pushed in, all the way.

Atsumu let out a loud, broken moan. “Oh fuck,” he panted, voice catching hard. “Y’went in raw?”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. He was too focused on the heat. The wet slide. The fucking way Atsumu gripped around him, tight and hot and perfect.

Atsumu let out a low, breathy laugh—shaky, wrecked. “God—fuck—that’s way better—”

And it was. He wasn’t wrong.

Sakusa buried himself all the way in, hips flush to Atsumu’s ass, eyes fluttering shut for just a second—like the sensation was too much to process.

Then he looked down.

Atsumu’s back flexed under him, golden skin pulled taut over muscle, sweat already beading at his spine. His arms were stretched up, fists curled in the sheets, head turned to the side just enough for Sakusa to catch the flushed line of his cheek. His lashes were damp. His lips red, bitten.

And fuck—he was beautiful.

Stupidly so.

Sakusa didn’t know what the hell he did in a past life to end up here, to end up with this, but he was pretty sure he didn’t deserve it. Couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t even find the words.

He just stared.

At the way Atsumu’s hips trembled. At the curve of his waist and the arch of his spine and the fucking way his whole body responded—unfiltered.

And Sakusa’s chest ached. Ached because god, he didn’t know how to say any of it.

Didn’t know how to tell Atsumu how beautiful he was on the court, covered in sweat, trash-talking under his breath. Or how stunning he looked walking down the street, hoodie half zipped. Or how fucking breathtaking he was like this—naked and fucked out, under Sakusa’s hands, moaning like he was made to fall apart here.

Sakusa rolled his hips. Slow. Deep.

Atsumu gasped, loud and wrecked, body jolting under him.

“God,” Sakusa muttered before he could stop himself, voice low, almost broken. “You’re—” he cut himself off with a hard swallow.

“Say it,” Atsumu moaned, voice shaking. “Fuck—just say it—”

Sakusa leaned down, chest to Atsumu’s back. Kissed his shoulder. His spine. The back of his neck.

Then whispered—raw and honest—against his skin:

“You’re so fucking pretty, Miya.”

Atsumu whimpered into the mattress, biting the sheets.

And Sakusa just kept moving. Thrusting slow and deep, the weight of everything coiling tight in his chest, every part of him unraveling with each sound that left Atsumu’s mouth.

He didn’t know why he was so gone for this idiot.

But he was.

God help him, he was.

Eventually, he gripped Atsumu’s hips, leaned back just slightly, and flipped him with practiced ease—rolling him onto his back and catching one of his legs mid-air. Without pause, Sakusa threw it over his shoulder, folding him open, lining up, and thrusting back in in one smooth, sharp motion.

Atsumu’s mouth dropped open with a wrecked sound, head pressing hard into the mattress.

“Fuuuck—Omi—” he gasped, fingers scrabbling at the sheets. His other leg bent instinctively, wrapping around Sakusa’s waist.

Sakusa gripped Atsumu tighter, fingers digging into muscle as he drove in again—harder, deeper.

But then—

A twinge.

A sharp, biting throb through the joint of his right shoulder, just as his body rocked forward. He faltered—only for a second—but it was enough to catch. He shifted his weight and pulled Atsumu’s other leg up instead, throwing it over his left shoulder to change the angle.

Atsumu’s brows furrowed, breath stuttering. “Y’good?” He managed between gasps.

Sakusa didn’t answer—just leaned down and pressed their foreheads together, using his left arm to stabilize. His right hand dropped down, wrapping around Atsumu’s cock, pumping in time with the thrusts—deliberate, steady.

It only took one stroke.

Atsumu’s whole body locked, his back bowing off the mattress as he cried out—loud, choked, helpless. He came hard, all over his own chest, messy and hot and his hole twitching around Sakusa’s cock.

Sakusa groaned, eyes fixed on the way Atsumu clenched around him.

God, he was so tight like this. So responsive. And that sound—

Sakusa fucked him through it, deeper now, chasing his own edge. The ache in his shoulder was still there—pulsing sharp under the surface—but it dulled under the heat curling through his spine, under the way Atsumu was still moaning, still trembling beneath him.

He kept going until the heat broke loose, orgasm hitting hard. He buried himself deep and stilled, groaning against Atsumu’s neck, his whole body going taut.

They laid there for a moment, the room humid and quiet except for their slowing breath. Sakusa’s mouth dragged lazily along Atsumu’s throat, soft kisses pressed to his jaw and the hollow just beneath his ear, where he was still flushed and warm. His body was heavy against Atsumu’s, their legs tangled, sweat sticking them together.

Then Atsumu raised one arm—sleepy, slow—and dug his fingers hard into the muscle under Sakusa’s right shoulder blade.

Sakusa flinched—full-bodied—and sat up fast with a sharp hiss, smacking at Atsumu’s hand. 

Atsumu didn’t even blink. Just sat up too, Sakusa still buried inside him, and gave him a look that cut straight through the tension.

“Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “That’s what I thought. How long’s it been buggin’ you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

“Nah, fuck that,” Atsumu said, quick. “I’m yer setter. I’m gonna worry.”

Sakusa didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him—really looked—and something in his jaw twitched. Then he exhaled and pushed Atsumu gently back onto the mattress.

“It’s nothing.”

Atsumu’s mouth opened to argue, but then Sakusa lowered himself—mouth dragging hot and slow across his chest. He kissed over the come mess slicking Atsumu’s abdomen, lips warm, tongue darting out to taste.

Atsumu’s breath caught hard in his throat. Sakusa kept going, methodical and filthy, licking come off Atsumu like it didn’t even phase him.

Atsumu moaned—half stunned, half already getting hard again. Because fuck. It was hot. Sakusa, who hated germs, who flinched if someone sneezed within five feet of him—on his knees, licking him clean like it was nothing.

“Jesus,” Atsumu breathed, hips already shifting. His cock twitched against his stomach, sensitive but needy. “Yer gonna make me come again, I swear to God—”

And then he gasped when Sakusa’s hips shifted too—slow, deliberate.

He was moving again. Still inside him. Still hard.

Later that night, the room was dim, quiet, the window cracked just enough to let the breeze shift the edge of the curtain. It smelled faintly of the detergent Sakusa used on his sheets and his shampoo from earlier—clean, warm in a way Atsumu hadn’t expected from Sakusa’s apartment.

He was staying the night. He was here, in Sakusa’s bed, under Sakusa’s blanket, breathing in the soft, steady rhythm of Sakusa in his arms.

Atsumu grinned against the pillow, just a little. Because, yeah, Sakusa had made him shower before getting into bed. Had tossed him a clean pair of briefs and snapped at him when he tried to bring his duffle bag onto the mattress. But Atsumu didn’t care. He was here. 

And he was cuddling Sakusa. 

Sakusa, of course, had grumbled. Had rolled his eyes and muttered complaints under his breath. But now Sakusa was curled up on his side, chest rising and falling with each soft breath, pressed back into Atsumu’s chest like it was second nature. Little spoon.

Atsumu’s arm was wedged under the pillow Sakusa was using. The other arm was draped tight around Sakusa’s waist, snug enough that it’d be a genuine struggle if Sakusa wanted to get up.

Atsumu ran hot, always had, and in this position he was basically a personal space heater. He could feel the heat where their skin touched, sticking slightly under the blanket, making the cotton feel damp in places. He didn’t move though. Didn’t want to.

But he also couldn’t sleep.

Atsumu felt… weird. Not in a bad way. Not exactly. But something low and unsettled tugged at his ribs.

He thought about that night in the hotel again. About the way he’d blurted out his feelings, clumsy and messy and soaked in the high of orgasm and adrenaline. Not that he didn’t mean it. He did. He meant it with everything in him. But he wasn’t sure how to say it again. Not without fumbling. Not without sounding stupid.

He glanced down at the curve of Sakusa’s neck. The faint shadow of a mole on the back of his shoulder. The soft way his shoulder blades rose and fell with each breath.

Atsumu didn’t understand how he got here.

This wasn’t a place he’d pictured himself—ever. Not in high school, not in college, not even a year ago.

He thought about Sakusa’s family. The way his voice had gotten tight when he talked about them. The quiet kind of hurt—the kind people carried for so long it didn’t even feel like hurt anymore. Just a constant hum. A presence. The kind you learn to ignore so well that you forget it shouldn’t be there at all.

And then Atsumu thought about his own family. About his mom.

What would she say? If he walked into her kitchen one day and said, I like guys. 

Would she hug him like she always did? Would she kiss his cheek and say it’s fine? Would she still brag about him to all her friends?

Or would she hesitate?

He hated that he didn’t know. Hated that the question even had to exist. Osamu already supported him - but their mom? She was sweet. Soft-spoken. Traditional. She cried at graduation and baked too many cookies for the neighbors during holidays. She still folded his laundry when he visited. Would she still do all that if she knew?

Atsumu swallowed hard and looked over at the paper crane he’d folded earlier. It sat quiet on the nightstand. Crooked wing. Sharp edge where the paper hadn’t creased clean.

He exhaled through his nose. Then, carefully, he leaned in and kissed the curve of Sakusa’s shoulder. Nothing that needed to be more than what it was—his mouth brushing warm against skin he now knew too well now.

Sakusa didn’t stir. His breathing stayed slow, steady, like the weight of Atsumu’s touch didn’t surprise him anymore.

Atsumu kept his lips there a second longer. Maybe for comfort. Maybe for distraction.

Then he remembered - Sakusa’s shoulder had been bugging him. Atsumu had seen the flinch earlier. Had felt the tension under his palm when he was kissing up his back. Now laying here, curled around him, the thought stuck in his head like splinters.

He kissed him again. Just above a mole. Then mumbled into his skin, “Ya need to get that shoulder looked at.”

Sakusa didn’t move. “It’s fine.”

“‘S not.” Atsumu muttered, tightening his arm around Sakusa’s waist.

“I’ll be fine.” Sakusa said, eyes still shut. His tone flat, but not annoyed.

Atsumu let out a quiet exhale, pressing his forehead into the back of Sakusa’s neck. “Just go see the fuckin’ trainer tomorrow.”

Sakusa was quiet for a moment. Then, with a sigh that sounded more like surrender than defeat: “Fine.”

Atsumu didn’t respond. Just kissed the same spot again. And it went quiet again. Long enough for the weight of his own thoughts to come creeping back in.

He shifted under the blankets, hand splayed out low on Sakusa’s stomach. His thumb brushed against the soft ridge of his obliques, lazily tracing the heat of his skin.

Sakusa felt good like this. Against him. In his space. Fit to him like a puzzle piece. And for all the ways they clashed—bickered, butted heads, slammed pride against pride—this part always felt easy.

So he kept touching. Just little, wandering circles under the blanket. His knuckles brushed the waistband of Sakusa’s briefs. His palm smoothed down over his side.

And then, low—almost too quiet—Atsumu spoke.

“Can I take ya on a date?”

The words hung there. Dipped in more nerves than he meant to show.

The silence that followed felt loud. Heavy. Not uncomfortable—but expectant. Atsumu swallowed hard, pressing his mouth to Sakusa’s shoulder again like it could erase the vulnerability from the air.

And Sakusa didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even shift.

And fuck, Atsumu was sure he’d fallen asleep. Or worse—was pretending to. His heart thudded in his throat. He started to pull back, started to mumble something to fill the space—

“Sure.”

Barely above a whisper.

Atsumu blinked. His fingers stilled on Sakusa’s waist.

Then he pressed his lips to the back of Sakusa’s neck this time, smiling into his skin. He held him tighter, arm slung firm across his middle now, burying his face into the warmth of Sakusa’s shoulder.

Now he had to come up with a date idea.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Atsumu still didn’t have a date planned.

He wasn’t even trying to procrastinate—it was just that every idea he came up with felt wrong. Or stupid. Or something Sakusa would hate.

Dinner? Too public. Too loud. And too awkward if someone recognized them, which wasn’t unlikely considering Sakusa had been featured in the last Nike Japan campaign and Atsumu never shut up in interviews.

Museum? Maybe. But also maybe boring. Shopping? Absolutely not. Sakusa wore the same couple of hoodies on rotation and had a moral aversion to consumerism that rivaled Osamu’s hatred for buzzword marketing.

He’d started listing things out in his Notes app. Then deleted them. Then rewrote them. It became a daily cycle. 

It was so bad, Osamu noticed.

“Stop smackin’ yer mouth and say what’s on yer mind.” Osamu said, dropping a second Tupperware into Atsumu’s meal prep stack.

They were in Atsumu’s kitchen, surrounded by plastic containers, measuring cups, and a lingering scent of teriyaki chicken from the pan Osamu had just cleaned. The counter was a mess of half-labeled spice jars and used protein shake scoops.

Atsumu blinked, mouth full of banana. “Huh?”

Osamu gave him a look. “You’ve been zoned out since I walked in.”

Atsumu chewed slower. Swallowed. Then scratched the back of his neck. “I asked Sakusa on a date.”

There was a beat.

Then Osamu, ever the controlled twin, said, “Oh.”

Just that. Nothing more. But Atsumu caught it. The slight shift in his tone. The pause in his hands as he resealed a container.

“We’re good now,” Atsumu added quickly. “Meant to tell ya. We made up.”

Osamu’s face didn’t give much away, but Atsumu had known him since birth—he didn’t need a lot. A short nod. A tight press of the lips.

He felt his stomach twist.

“Don’t gimme that look,” Atsumu muttered. “We’re fine now. It’s not a big deal.”

“I didn’t say it was.” Osamu snapped the lid onto the last container and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “I’m just surprised, s’all. Thought ya were still pissed.”

“I was.” Atsumu shrugged. “Then we talked. It’s better.”

Osamu didn’t say anything.

Atsumu huffed and leaned against the counter. “Anyways, I’m tryin’ to figure out what to do. For the date.”

Osamu quirked an eyebrow and leaned against the fridge. “Oh yeah? And what’ve you got so far?”

Atsumu grimaced. “Nothin’ good. Everythin' feels wrong.”

Osamu smirked. “That’s ‘cause yer tryna plan a date for you. Not him.”

Atsumu narrowed his eyes. “Wow. Deep. Thanks for the guidance, idiot.”

Osamu snorted. “What does Sakusa like?”

Atsumu hesitated. “He likes quiet. Clean things. Routines. Hand sanitizer.”

“Great. Take him to a pharmacy.”

“Fuck off.”

Osamu grinned. “Alright, alright. What about makin’ something at home? Set up the balcony or somethin’. Keep it private. Or—hell, take him to one of those tucked-away galleries downtown. Something low-key.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Yer not supposed to impress yourself. Yer supposed to show ya pay attention to what he likes.”

Atsumu groaned and let his head thunk back against the cabinets. “Ugh. I hate when yer right and shit.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They fell into a brief silence, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the clatter of chopsticks Osamu was bundling up for Atsumu’s lunch kit. Then, Osamu’s voice came again—low, not sharp, but not casual either.

“…Ya sure about this?”

Atsumu glanced over. “What?”

Osamu folded a napkin. “You and Sakusa. Are ya sure?”

Atsumu’s jaw twitched. “Why’re ya askin’ now?”

Osamu shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not tryin’ to stir shit. I just—I want ya to be with someone who makes sense. Who feels solid.”

Atsumu scoffed. “Ya sound like Mom.”

“She’s right sometimes.”

“Well, thanks for the support.”

“I am supporting you.” Osamu’s voice was still even. “But it’s messy, ‘Tsumu. Ya know it is. Ya get all twisted up over this guy and then come crashin’ down when something goes sideways.”

Atsumu bristled. “We’re both figuring stuff out.”

“I know.” Osamu nodded. “Just don’t want ya to get hurt while yer both still figuring.”

There was a pause.

Atsumu crossed his arms. “I’m not a kid.”

“Didn’t say ya were.”

They were quiet again.

Then Osamu rolled his eyes and clapped a hand to Atsumu’s shoulder. “If yer happy, fine. That’s enough for me. Just… watch yer back, alright?”

Atsumu nodded. “Yeah.”

Osamu let it drop. He reached for the bag of containers and started packing them into the fridge. Then a moment later, Osamu added, “I mean…we’re meetin’ Sunarin this weekend for drinks. Why don’t ya bring Sakusa.”

Atsumu blinked. “Yeah… sure.”

But even as he said it, his brain was already screaming nope. There was no way Sakusa was gonna go for that. He’d probably spontaneously combust in a public izakaya surrounded by loud ex-teammates, rival players, and a bunch of shared plates.

Still. He could ask. Maybe.

The locker room was quiet. Most of the team had already filtered out—towels slung over shoulders, duffels thudding low against the floor as they murmured goodnights and disappeared down the hall.

Atsumu lingered.

He’d already showered, dressed, and packed up his gear, but he sat on the edge of the bench, phone in hand, mindlessly scrolling through a text thread with Osamu he wasn’t really reading.

The showers hissed in the back. One stall still running.

When the water shut off, he didn’t lift his head right away. Just tucked his phone into his pocket and waited. The click of the shower door. Wet footsteps. The slight mist of steam curling out into the fluorescent light.

Then Sakusa stepped out, towel slung low on his hips, dark curls damp and dripping. He spotted Atsumu still sitting there—and blinked once, like he hadn’t expected him to wait.

And then Sakusa, without a word, walked past him—one hand reaching out in that habitual way of his to ruffle Atsumu’s hair. Quick, a little too rough, but casual.

Atsumu’s ears went a little pink.

He watched as Sakusa padded over to his locker, dropped the towel, and began pulling on a clean pair of joggers without hesitation. No shame. No hesitation. Like being around Atsumu like this wasn’t something he needed to think twice about anymore.

Atsumu cleared his throat, about to say something—anything—but Sakusa beat him to it.

“Can you tape my shoulder?”

Atsumu blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He stood and dug through Sakusa’s locker for the kinesiology tape, then motioned for him to sit. Sakusa dropped onto the bench with a soft grunt, back turned.

The skin of his shoulder was pink, still slightly flushed from the hot water. Atsumu’s fingers hovered for a second before he started to apply the tape, slow and careful.

“What’d the trainer say?” he asked, voice casual.

“Said it’s fine.” Sakusa’s tone was flat. “Just something to monitor.”

Atsumu frowned, smoothing the tape down with his thumb. “Yeah? That so?”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Of course not.

Atsumu bit his tongue. Now wasn’t the time. Sakusa would just brush it off again, and Atsumu already had five million other things spinning in his brain.

So he stayed quiet. Finished the tape.

And then—before he could second guess it—he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sakusa’s shoulder. Right over the tape. Gentle. Thoughtless.

He straightened, swallowed, and tried to play it off. “Uh, so—I was thinkin’,” he started, “a few of us are gettin’ drinks this weekend. My brother, some friends. Bokuto’ll probably be there. Shoyo too. D’you wanna come?”

Sakusa looked up. “Is this the date?”

Atsumu’s face flared. “What? No. No, that’s different. I’m still plannin’ that.”

Sakusa arched a brow. “Right.”

“I just thought—maybe ya’d wanna go out. Y’don’t have to stay the whole time or anything.”

There was a pause. Sakusa rolled his shoulder slightly, testing the tape.

“I’m seeing my cousin this weekend,” he said finally. “Komori’s in town.”

Atsumu nodded. “Yeah. Sure. That makes sense.”

The quiet stretched between them again.

Sakusa stood, tugging his shirt over his head. Then, more hesitantly, he asked, “Does your brother even like me?”

Atsumu looked over, really looked—and the way Sakusa avoided his eyes, the slight shift in his posture—wasn't just a casual question.

Atsumu zipped up his bag slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. “Samu’s just… protective. Of me. It’s nothing personal. I think he likes ya just fine.”

Sakusa nodded once.

And then, just as Atsumu was about to offer something—anything—to close the gap Sakusa had just opened, Sakusa glanced over.

“You coming over tonight?”

The shift was subtle. Quiet. A redirect. But it didn’t feel cold.

Atsumu smiled, small, and nodded. He slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped toward the door. Before they left, he caught Sakusa’s hand—just for a second—and lifted it to his mouth.

A kiss. Quick.

Sakusa rolled his eyes, muttering something about theatrics as he opened the door, but his ears were pink.

And Atsumu saw it, making him smile a little more.

The fourth izakaya was packed—shoulder-to-shoulder inside, the warm air smelling like grilled yakitori and spilled beer. Atsumu was already feeling buzzed, cheeks flushed and limbs loose as he leaned into the table, laughing at something Suna said. 

Osamu was sitting across from him, arms crossed on the table as he watched their half-finished plates. Hinata was halfway through a lemon sour and mid-rant about a questionable call in their last match. Bokuto had somehow already made friends with a group at the table next to them.

It was easy. The kind of night that felt familiar—safe. The way they all fell into rhythm, like gravity always pulled them back together after long weeks and longer travel days.

But, every time he blinked, Bokuto was shoving another beer in his hand. “C’mon, Miya, you’re slowing down!”

“Says the guy with hollow fuckin’ legs.” Atsumu slurred, half-laughing as he knocked back the last of whatever Bokuto had handed him.

Then he hauled himself upright, hand brushing Suna’s shoulder for balance before weaving toward the bar. The crowd made everything feel slower. Louder. Stickier.

He’d just wedged himself up to the counter, reaching for the bartender when someone tapped his shoulder.

He turned, expecting maybe Hinata trying to split a plate again or Osamu. But it wasn’t. It was a girl. Pretty. Dressed for a night out. Lip gloss catching the light like glass.

“Hi,” she said, smiling, voice already dipped in flirtation. “You’re Miya Atsumu, right?”

Atsumu blinked, then nodded slowly. “Uh. Yeah.”

She leaned in slightly, the bar noise muffled under her voice. “I thought so. Sorry to interrupt, I just… wanted to say hi.”

Her hand brushed his elbow—light, familiar in that calculated way. Atsumu smiled back, polite, out of habit. He wasn’t an asshole. But his head was buzzing, and his mouth felt slow.

“Appreciate it,” he said, reaching past her for the water the bartender slid over. He took a long sip, ice clinking loud in the glass. “Hope yer havin’ a good night.”

She lingered too long, shifting a little closer. “I am now.”

Atsumu chuckled—dry, tired—then turned, nodding once. “Take care, yeah?”

He brushed past her, slipping back into the crowd toward his group, drink still in hand.

But something stopped him.

Someone.

Eyes already locked on him from across the room—sharp, unreadable, cutting straight through the lights and noise.

Standing just behind the press of a nearby group, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, a black mask tugged up over his face.

Sakusa.

His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was steady. Not angry. Not exactly. But there was something tight around his eyes, something still and fixed that made Atsumu’s chest buzz differently now—buzz in a way that wasn’t alcohol.

Before he could open his mouth, Komori stepped in from the side, beaming. “Atsumu! Hey! Thought we’d stop by—figured you’d be out with Suna, and I dragged this one with me.”

He clapped a hand to Sakusa’s shoulder. Sakusa barely reacted.

“Oh. Cool.” Atsumu managed, tipping the rest of his water back before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sakusa still didn’t say anything. Didn’t move toward the table. Just watched as Atsumu turned back to his group, who were now loud enough to draw half the izakaya’s attention.

“Komori, you made it! Club next?” Bokuto was shouting, already halfway to the door.

“No,” Osamu said immediately, frowning. “Absolutely not.”

“We’re going,” Hinata grinned, grabbing his coat. “You’re outvoted!”

Atsumu glanced at Sakusa again—still quiet, still standing off to the side. Komori was trying to convince him to grab a drink. Sakusa just shook his head once.

The rest of them spilled out into the narrow street, already laughing too loud, the cold air biting at their ears. Atsumu walked beside Suna, head starting to spin a little with every step, pretending he felt steadier than he did.

The club was a mess of bodies and lights and pulsing bass that rattled Atsumu’s ribs.

He wasn’t even sure what number drink he was on anymore. A lemon sour from Hinata, two shots with Suna, something orange and sickly sweet that Bokuto shoved in his hand without asking—he’d lost track somewhere between the second bar and the start of this beat drop.

Now he was draped half across Osamu’s shoulder, laughing about something, his stomach warm and heavy, everything a little soft around the edges.

He finished Hinata’s drink, slammed the glass on the table with an exaggerated groan, then let the music - and Bokuto - pull him into the press of the crowd.

Sticky floor, flashing lights, bodies pressed tight all around. Bokuto was already in the middle of it, dancing without any grace or care. Another one of their friends had joined him, laughing too loud, egging him on. Hinata was beside them, swaying in time, still sipping on something.

Sakusa hadn’t moved from his place beside the table. Komori had gotten him a drink—lowball glass, clear, untouched. Sakusa just stood there, mask still pulled high, arms folded, gaze sharp as ever.

Watching.

Atsumu didn’t think much of it. He was loose. Dizzy.

That’s when the guy showed up.

Tall. Sharp jaw, clear skin, black shirt that fit him a little too well. Pretty—not in the delicate way, but in that cool, lean, Tokyo-model type of way.

He said something Atsumu couldn’t hear. Atsumu leaned in, cupping his ear toward him. “What?”

The guy stepped in closer. Mouth right at his ear, voice brushing the shell of it. He smelled like cedar and whatever cologne cost half a paycheck. And then—his hand landed on Atsumu’s waist. Light. Steady. In the way that made Atsumu’s skin twitch.

He felt it immediately. Not the hand. The stare. Across the room—past the crowd, the bodies, the throb of bass—Sakusa was watching. But the way he was looking—eyes flat, unreadable, locked so hard onto the guy’s hand on Atsumu’s waist—made Atsumu’s breath catch in his throat.

He almost forgot to hear the question. The guy was asking if he wanted to dance and Atsumu nodded without thinking.

Next thing he knew, he was moving. First beside him. Then in front of him. The guy pressed his chest to Atsumu’s back, hips rolling in time with the beat.

Bokuto whooped from the side. “Get it, Tsum-Tsum!”

Suna had his phone out, chuckling a little, filming. 

But it was Osamu and Hinata who weren’t laughing. They stood at the edge of the group, eyes locked—not on the guy. On Sakusa.

Because they knew. They knew the look on his face, even if no one else did.

Atsumu didn’t last much longer. The room tilted. His knees dipped slightly, legs not quite responding the way he wanted them to. The guy caught him, hand pressing to his side, steadying him with a soft, “Hey, you okay?”

Osamu was moving in then, appearing from the blur of bodies. “Ya want water?”

It sounded distant. Like the club was underwater now.

Atsumu blinked, shook his head. His stomach lurched once. He gently pulled the guy’s hand off, muttered something like thanks, then pushed toward the hallway.

The bathroom wasn’t far. Cool tile. A stall open. The door shut behind him, but he went for the sink first, hands gripping the porcelain like it could hold him upright. His breath was short, pulse loud in his ears.

He leaned forward, palm on the sink, head low.

He didn’t even hear the door open behind him, didn’t hear the footsteps until the air shifted.

And then—hands. A grip on his arm, spinning him so fast his feet slid. A slam—back against the tiled wall, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to knock the air out of him.

And then Sakusa’s mouth was on his. Hot. Brutal. Messy. Desperate.

Atsumu gasped into it, startled, his back arching, one hand scrambling for purchase on Sakusa’s jacket, the other landing somewhere between his shoulder and his jaw.

Sakusa kissed him like he was angry. Teeth. Tongue. A hand gripping Atsumu’s hip like it was the only thing anchoring him.

The music from the club throbbed faintly through the wall. But all Atsumu could hear was the sound of their mouths colliding. And he moaned into it—wrecked and dizzy—because fuck, it felt good. 

Sakusa’s teeth dragging across Atsumu’s bottom lip hard—too hard—until he bit down and Atsumu let out a sharp hiss.

“Omi—fuck, slow down.” He gasped, pulling back.

But Sakusa didn’t. He buried his face in Atsumu’s neck, biting and sucking like he wanted to leave marks everywhere he could. His fingers fumbled with Atsumu’s jeans, trembling a little, and Atsumu’s hands grabbed at his shirt for balance.

Everything was spinning now. The lights, the room, the heat of Sakusa’s body pressing against him.

Then - his stomach flipped. The heat swelled in his chest like a warning.

“Oh fuck—wait—” He shoved at Sakusa’s chest, stumbled sideways—hand to his mouth, eyes wide.

He didn’t make it far. His foot caught the edge of the trash can. The world pitched sideways. He hit the floor hard, head smacking the toilet paper holder with a sick, hollow clang.

The noise echoed. He barely heard it over the rush in his ears.

He was already throwing up, everything he’d drunk poured out of him, and he tried to brace himself on the rim of the toilet. His arms trembled, knees aching against the tile.

And then—the sting. Blood. Warm. Sticky. Tracing a line from the cut at his temple down toward his jaw.

He didn’t even have time to register it before Sakusa dropped to the floor beside him, hand already at his head.

“Shit,” Sakusa’s voice broke, panic threading through it. “You’re bleeding—fuck—don’t move.”

Atsumu tried. His head wobbled on his neck like it wasn’t attached right. His mouth opened to say something—something like “I’m fine” or “Omi, slow down” or “Please don’t leave”—but it came out as a groan.

Then the bathroom door banged open, slamming against the wall.

“What the fuck?” Osamu’s voice cut sharp across the tile.

Atsumu flinched. Or maybe that was just his brain, rattling again.

“What the fuck did you do to him?”

“I didn’t—he tripped, he’s drunk—”

“Ya followed him in here like ya’re about to slam him through the wall, and now he’s bleeding?” Osamu’s tone was low and furious, “What the fuck is wrong with ya?”

“He slipped—he hit his head….” Sakusa started to snap.

“Yeah? Ya expect me to believe that with his fuckin’ pants open?”

“Samu—” Atsumu croaked, his voice barely audible, “Shut up—stop—”

“Ya don’t get to come near my brother drunk outta his mind, corner him in a bathroom, and then act like this is nothing!” Osamu barked, stepping closer.

“I wasn’t cornering him—” Sakusa’s voice cracked.

“Ya better back the fuck off until he can stand up straight, ya hear me?”

“Back off?” Sakusa echoed, stunned.

They were aruging now. Atsumu could hear them but only in waves—like he was underwater. Their voices came and went in muffled crashes, and his own breathing was louder than everything else. Then he was vomiting again—harder this time, the bile burning the back of his throat.

“Fuck,” Osamu was back by his side in a flash, the argument halting as he dropped down. “’Tsumu—hey. Breathe. Jesus.”

The pressure left his head—Sakusa’s hand gone, replaced by the gentler, more methodical press of paper towels from Osamu’s hand. He winced when they touched his cut.

Then the bathroom door slammed again. Harder this time.

Atsumu blinked, eyes watery. He turned his head and squinted at Osamu. “Where’d… Omi go?”

“Forget about that right now.”

“No,” Atsumu pushed at Osamu’s arm, trying to sit up, everything swaying. “Ya—y’shouldn’t’ve yelled at him.”

Osamu steadied him. “Yer bleeding and puking on a club bathroom floor. We can talk about Sakusa later.”

Atsumu shoved weakly at him again. “He didn’t do nothin’. He’s—he’s gonna think I—”

Osamu sighed, getting Atsumu upright, zipped up his pants with careful hands, then slung Atsumu’s arm over his shoulder. “Yer too drunk to talk right now.”

“No—I mean it,” Atsumu croaked, stumbling into his brother. “He’s gonna think I—I didn’t mean to—I’m not into that guy—fuck.”

“I know.”

They walked slowly out into the noise and flashing lights. Atsumu could barely keep his feet under him, half-collapsed against Osamu’s side, head resting on his shoulder.

Suna was at the door already. Hinata too, nervously bouncing on his feet, Bokuto saying something to him before quickly asking Osamu what the hell happened to Atsumu’s head.

Someone had called a cab. Or maybe a rideshare. Atsumu couldn’t tell.

And Sakusa? Nowhere.

They got him home in one piece—barely.

Atsumu was half-slumped against Osamu’s side, muttering the whole walk from the car to his apartment door about how he could walk just fine and didn’t need a babysitter, even though his legs kept giving out every few steps.

“Would ya shut the hell up?” Osamu grumbled, fishing the keys out of Atsumu’s pocket and unlocking the door with practiced ease.

Suna trailed behind them, quiet. His eyes flicked toward Atsumu every so often, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Once they were inside, the lights too bright and the silence too heavy, Suna peeled off toward the kitchen. “I’m gettin’ him water and a cold pack.” He said under his breath.

“Thanks,” Osamu muttered, half dragging Atsumu toward the hallway. “God, yer dead weight.”

“M’not,” Atsumu slurred. “M’fine. Just—where’s my phone? Gotta call—fuck—”

Osamu caught him by the arm, yanking him upright again. “How ‘bout we focus on not dyin’ first?”

“But—Omi—” Atsumu’s voice cracked halfway through the name. His hands were fumbling at his pockets. “I need t’call him. I didn’t mean—”

“I knew ya had one too many. I should have cut ya off earlier.” Osamu hissed, trying not to sound as worried as he felt. “C’mon.”

Osamu steered him into the bedroom, pushing open the door with his foot. Atsumu attempted to fight him in the doorway, but gave up halfway through, letting his twin toss him to the bed.

“He didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” Atsumu slurred, letting Osamu strip off his jacket. “Ya—yer the one who yelled. Ya—fuckin’—scared him off.”

“I didn’t know what the hell I was lookin’ at.” Osamu snapped, jaw tight. “Ya were on the floor bleeding with yer pants undone. What did ya expect me to think?”

“He didn’t—he didn’t even get to say anything before ya came in all hot—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Atsumu, I was worried—!”

“Ya didn’t need to be!”

Their voices were getting louder. Suna hovered in the doorway now, holding the glass of water, watching the two of them. “…Should I come back later?” He asked dryly.

Neither of them acknowledged him right away.

Osamu crouched to unlace Atsumu’s shoes, exhaling sharply. “Stop cryin’, alright? Yer fine.”

“I’m not cryin’.” Atsumu sniffed, even though he very clearly was.

Then as Atsumu started to ramble, face with wet tears, Suna stepped further into the room. “Okay, hey, drink.” Suna cut in, holding out the glass.

Atsumu drank deep—gulp after gulp—like he could swallow the panic. Water spilled a little down his chin. Then he flopped backward onto the bed, curling sideways, his breath uneven. His voice came softer now.

“He’s not gonna talk to me again. I know it.”

Osamu didn’t respond. Just stood up and looked at Suna, who still looked baffled and mildly horrified.

“So…” Suna said slowly, “That was…?”

Osamu ran a hand down his face. “A fuckin’ mess.”

“…Right.”

They stepped out of the room, pulling the door almost closed behind them. The soft click of it shutting might as well have been a damn thunderclap.

Inside, Atsumu rolled onto his back again, breath catching in his throat. He sat up fast, head swimming, and reached for his jeans.

Fumbling. Patting.

His phone.

He found it finally—half-jammed in the back pocket, screen protector cracked. He didn’t care. His fingers scrolled, shaking. He hit Sakusa’s name and pressed call.

Voicemail.

Again.

And again.

Beep. Voicemail.

Again.

The screen blurred. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, but it didn’t help.

He tried again.

And again.

And again.

Eventually, he pushed himself up again—wobbling, still in nothing but briefs and a bruised ego. The room spun, his knees locked, but he stumbled out into the hallway anyway. Every step uneven. His feet hit the entryway mat and he bent down, grabbing at his sandals, slipping one on.

Osamu was up in a second. “What the hell are ya doin’?”

“I’m goin’,” Atsumu slurred, bent awkwardly over. “I’m goin’ to see him. I’m gonna explain—”

“Yer not goin’ anywhere, Tsumu.” Osamu stepped in front of the door, blocking it with one arm braced against the frame.

“I have to,” Atsumu snapped, trying to shove past him, the other sandal half on, heel dragging. “He thinks I was—he saw—and then ya—he’s not gonna pick up—”

“Jesus Christ, look at ya.” Osamu grabbed him gently but firmly by the arms. “Yer drunk off your ass. You’ve got a fucking gash on your forehead. Yer in your underwear. Yer not going to his apartment at two in the morning like this.”

“I wasn’t—he wasn’t—”

“I know,” Osamu said sharply, tone cutting through the spiral. “Okay? But stormin’ out like this isn’t gonna fix anything. Yer just gonna make it worse.”

From the couch, Suna said nothing—still sitting with one ankle resting over his knee, watching the scene unfold with a mix of disbelief and delayed realization.

“So...you and Sakusa?” He muttered.

Neither of them responded.

Atsumu’s eyes welled up again, and he shoved both hands through his hair, sandals clattering to the floor as he kicked them off hard. “Fuck you.” He mumbled—not with hate, but exhaustion—before turning and storming back into his room. The door slammed behind him, rattling the frame.

He didn’t even remember crawling back into bed. Didn’t remember noticing the band-aid Osamu had slapped across his cut earlier, either. Maybe right after they brought him in. Maybe while he was crying.

His phone was still in his hand.

He stared at Sakusa’s name.

Call.

Voicemail.

Call.

Voicemail.

Call.

Eventually, his fingers stilled. Screen glowing soft in the dark, then dimming.

He passed out. And somewhere in the blur of it—right before the screen timed out again—his phone buzzed once.

[Omi:] We can talk tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The light that poured in from Atsumu’s bedroom window was cruel.

Atsumu groaned, rolling onto his side and dragging a pillow over his face. His head was pounding—deep and dull and too rhythmic, like someone was stomping on his temples in sync with his heartbeat. His mouth was dry. His throat tasted digusting. And there was dried drool sticking to the corner of his cheek.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just laid there and let the pain settle in.

Then a memory. Or a blur of one. The bathroom. The slam of his skull. Sakusa’s voice. Osamu’s shouting. His stomach flipped again just thinking about it.

“Ugh, fuck me…” he muttered, voice hoarse, and finally sat up. The room tilted. The bandaid tugged slightly at the skin on his forehead when he rubbed his eyes.

He squinted at the clock. 3:12 p.m.

Jesus.

Dragging himself out of bed in just his briefs, he padded down the hallway, blinking against the light.

When he rounded the corner, Osamu was at the stove, Suna leaning close beside him—maybe too close. Atsumu barely caught it before Suna straightened and stepped away, muttering something under his breath. Osamu didn’t look up, just shifted a pan on the burner like nothing happened.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Suna called, as he flopped back onto the couch, phone already in hand.

Atsumu flipped him off without even looking.

Osamu didn’t say anything. Just gave him a brief glance as Atsumu stepped past him to open the fridge.

Atsumu pulled out a yogurt cup and grabbed a spoon, muttering to himself as he peeled it open.

Osamu turned back to the stove, where something was simmering in a small pot. “That ain’t gonna sit.” He said flatly.

“I’m fine.” Atsumu claimed. 

Osamu didn’t answer. Just reached up to grab another bowl.

Atsumu took one bite of the yogurt. Then another. Then he gagged softly and dropped the spoon back in the cup.

Osamu sighed. “Told ya.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Osamu set the bowl down harder than necessary. Then walked over, grabbed the back of Atsumu’s neck, and leaned in just enough to make a point. “Stop bein’ a brat and eat somethin’ that won’t make ya puke, yeah?”

They locked eyes. Atsumu scowled.

Osamu raised an eyebrow.

Atsumu sighed and looked away. “Fine.”

Osamu let go and went back to the stove.

Suna snorted from the couch. “That was kinda hot. You two bicker like that again and I might get turned on.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Atsumu muttered.

Osamu shot Suna a look over his shoulder—not annoyed, just unimpressed. Suna just smirked back.

It was rice. Simple. Warm. Something plain enough that his stomach didn’t immediately recoil. He took the bowl and shuffled over to the couch and dropped down beside Suna, eating in small bites. His head still ached, but the food helped.

They sat in silence for a while. Suna scrolling. Osamu plating the rest of the food.

Then, predictably, Suna spoke.

“So…” he started, not even looking up. “How long have you and Sakusa been banging?”

Atsumu groaned around a mouthful of rice. “Shut up.”

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe. Unless I get bored.”

“Rintaro.” Atsumu warned.

Suna finally looked over, face deadpan. “What? It’s not like it’s that shocking.”

Osamu, still at the counter, let out a snort.

“Yer both assholes.” Atsumu muttered, stabbing at his food. 

“And you’re a lightweight,” Suna said. “With a crush.”

“It’s not a crush.”

Suna just raised his brows.

Atsumu finished the last few bites of rice and stood, wincing at the sudden throb behind his eyes. “I gotta go talk to him.”

Osamu looked up immediately. “Why don’t ya just lay down for a little.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ya slammed your head last night. Yer coach is gonna be pissed when he sees you. Just rest, Tsumu. Let things cool off.”

“Coach will be fine. I can still use my hands so who cares.”

Suna snorted again.

Atsumu didn’t wait for more judgment. He turned and stormed back into his room, already peeling off the t-shirt he’d slept in. He rummaged through his drawers, tugging on a clean shirt and the first pair of joggers.

Then he felt it—Osamu at the doorway, not saying anything yet.

Atsumu didn’t turn around.

“Y’alright?” Osamu finally said.

Atsumu yanked his shirt down. “Yeah.”

Osamu hesitated. “I shouldn’t’ve gone off on him like that.”

Atsumu rubbed at his face, “I know.”

“I just… fuck, I was freaked out. Ya were bleedin’ and pukin’ and he looked like—” Osamu trailed off. “I didn’t know what to think.”

“I get it,” Atsumu muttered. “Just let me deal with it.”

Osamu didn’t speak again. Just nodded once. “I’m still gonna be pissed if he hurts ya.”

“I know.”

They looked at each other. No tension in it now. Just tired honesty.

Then Osamu turned to go, and Atsumu pulled on his hoodie, heart pounding already. He didn’t care if his head felt like it was splitting open. He didn’t care if he had to throw up again halfway there.

Atsumu didn’t even brush his teeth.

He realized that somewhere around the third red light. His head throbbed in sync with the car’s low engine hum, the pressure pulsing behind his eyes like a punishment. He should’ve washed his face, cleaned up a little more. Should’ve done a lot of things, he guesses.

Sakusa’s building loomed into view, and Atsumu punched in the lobby code without hesitation, barely able to stand still in the elevator. His hands shook at his sides, his heart had started pounding so hard it made his skull throb worse. The second the elevator doors slid open, he slipped through them sideways, damn near jogging to Sakusa’s unit.

He knocked.

Then again.

And again. Louder now. Persistent, like the act of knocking could rewind time and fix the stupid string of events that led to this.

Finally—finally—the door swung open.

“Atsumu, hey.” Komori said.

They stared at each other.

A beat passed.

Atsumu cleared his throat, trying to ignore the heat rushing to his ears. “Is he here?”

Another beat. Then Sakusa stepped into view from the hallway, his expression blank, unreadable as always—but Atsumu could see it now. The tension in his jaw. The way his shoulders barely rose with each breath. He looked tired.

Atsumu walked right in and blurted, “I’m sorry. About last night. I’m—I was fuckin’ stupid. I shouldn’t’ve drank that much, and Osamu didn’t mean to yell, and that guy—I wasn’t even listenin’ to him, I couldn’t hear shit, and then suddenly he was on me and I didn’t even—”

“Stop…” Sakusa said quietly.

Atsumu faltered. “I knew I should have stopped drinking before we got to the club. I didn’t mean to —”

“Just—stop. For a second.”

Komori cleared his throat, grabbing his wallet from the counter. “I’m… gonna go for a walk,” he muttered, eyes flicking between them. “Be back in an hour….or two.”

He didn’t wait for a response before slipping out the door.

And once he was gone, Sakusa cleared his throat. “I can’t—I don’t wanna fight with you.”

“I’m not tryin’ to fight—”

“You’re here, uninvited. Hungover.”

Atsumu’s throat bobbed. “Ya said we could talk..."

"I know I said that but..."

"So that’s it? That’s yer go-to? Just shut down and go cold?”

“I’m trying to be rational.”

“No, yer tryin’ to avoid hard conversations.”

Sakusa’s nostrils flared, “I kissed you in a fucking bathroom while you could barely stand up. Your brother walked in and thought I was assaulting you.”

“And I didn’t stop ya, I kissed ya back—”

“You were drunk.”

“So?”

Sakusa dragged a hand down his face. “So it wasn’t right. It wasn’t okay. I was sober, Atsumu. I should’ve known better.”

“Ya didn’t take advantage of me.”

Sakusa whirled on him. “You can’t just decide what I did or didn’t do—”

“Yes, I fuckin’ can!” Atsumu shouted, stepping closer. “Because I’m the one who knows how I felt! I wanted ya. I always want ya. Even though I was drunk, I felt bad when ya left because I knew you were just upset about that stupid ass dude.”

Sakusa’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. His fists were clenched tight at his sides now, shaking a little.

And then—soft, bitter:

“I feel like I’m always taking advantage of you.”

The words hung in the air between them.

Atsumu’s chest caved in a little. “Knock it off,” he said, quieter. “You’re not.”

“You're just saying that because—”

“No, I'm not.” Atsumu said. “Because I know what I want. Don’t turn this into some fucked up guilt thing to keep me at arm’s length.”

Sakusa’s mouth opened. Then shut, then he exhaled and motioned to the living room. “Sit down.”

“What?”

“You’re swaying. You look like you’re gonna fall over. Sit down.”

Atsumu blinked at him—stunned at the shift in tone. But he obeyed. Stumbled toward the couch and dropped into it, arms heavy in his lap.

Sakusa disappeared into the hallway, came back a minute later with a small first aid kit. No words. Just quiet movements. Focused hands. He stood between Atsumu’s knees, tilting his head gently, fingers ghosting along the edge of the bandage. Atsumu winced a little at the touch.

“Still hurts?”

“Like a bitch.” Atsumu muttered.

Sakusa peeled the old bandage off with careful hands, eyes flicking across the cut. He applied the ointment with slow, then pressed a fresh strip of bandage over the wound and secured it in place.

While he did it, Atsumu just looked up at him. His hands found Sakusa's legs, fingers curling lightly at the back of his thighs. One hand slipped beneath the hem of Sakusa’s shorts—barely. Just enough to feel skin. Warm. Firm.

When the new bandage was secure, Sakusa ran a hand slowly through Atsumu’s hair—once, twice—fingers combing back the strands like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

Atsumu’s ears went pink.

And just like that, the panic in his chest settled. Just a little.

Then he stood, close, heart rattling somewhere behind his ribs. He leaned in, tilted forward, mouth parting just slightly, searching for Sakusa’s lips. But Sakusa turned his head. He stepped back, putting a little space between them before sitting down in the opposite chair, his forearms resting on his knees.

Atsumu’s frown deepened. “Omi—”

“I hate how you make me feel.” Sakusa said suddenly, voice low.

Atsumu blinked. “The fuck that mean?”

Sakusa didn’t look up. Just rubbed at his jaw, fingers dragging over his mouth like he could erase the words. “Like I’m losing my mind.”

The room stilled.

“I can’t stop thinking about what you’re doing. Who you’re with. Who you’re texting. Whether you’re gonna kiss someone else. Sleep with someone else. Whether I’m even allowed to care.”

He paused. His hands clenched slightly in his lap. “It’s fucked.”

Atsumu stood there, still frozen halfway in motion. His chest tight. His throat dry.

He didn’t sit yet. Just stared. Quiet.

Then, finally he said:

“…So you’ve got feelings for me.”

Sakusa didn’t say anything.

Atsumu’s chest twisted. “Say it,” he said. “C’mon.”

Sakusa’s hands stayed locked in his lap.

Atsumu stepped forward, slightly crouching down. Let his fingers trail lightly over Sakusa’s knee, his thigh. His voice dropped lower.

“Kiyoomi.” 

That made Sakusa look at him. Like the name snapped his attention in place.

Atsumu let out a shaky breath, then moved, climbing into his lap, straddling him. He sat there, quiet for a second, then leaned in and kissed the edge of Sakusa’s jaw. Just once.

“Just say it, Kiyoomi.” He said again. Softer. “Please.”

Sakusa’s jaw tensed under his mouth. His hands hovered like he didn’t know where to put them.

Atsumu kissed the side of his neck. Then just rested there, forehead against Sakusa’s collarbone. Everything inside him felt tight and messy. The pounding in his head from the hangover was dull compared to this.

“Ya like me,” Atsumu said, quiet. “You fuckin’ do.”

Sakusa’s breath stuttered.

And then—barely audible—

“Yes...I have feelings for you.” He muttered.

Atsumu pulled back just enough to see his face.

Sakusa’s eyes were glassy. His hands still hadn’t moved. But his chest was rising and falling too fast.

“Okay,” Atsumu whispered. “Okay.”

Then he leaned in again, kissed him slow.

Nothing dramatic.

And Sakusa let it happen. Let his hands rest on Atsumu’s back. Let his body lean into the weight of it.

Atsumu shifted just slightly, knees bracketing Sakusa’s hips as their mouths found each other again—deeper now, heavier. His hands slid along Sakusa’s jaw, tugging him closer, and Sakusa let out a low breath against his lips.

Their bodies pressed flush—hips grinding just enough to make them both pause for half a second, just enough friction to make Atsumu’s breath catch and Sakusa’s fingers tighten at his waist.

Sakusa's other hand gripped the back of Atsumu’s thigh, anchoring him closer, and Atsumu rolled his hips again—slow, deliberate, a silent test. The groan that slipped from Sakusa was quiet, but unmistakable.

“You taste like a hangover.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes and ducked back in, kissing down Sakusa’s neck, mouthing at the spot just under his ear, where he knew it would make Sakusa tense beneath him—and he did, hands flexing tighter against Atsumu’s hips.

“Should I shower here?” Atsumu asked between kisses, voice low, “or are ya gonna kick me out all pathetic and hungover?”

Sakusa let out a sharp exhale, grabbing Atsumu’s waist more firmly to still his grinding. “I’m going to drag you in there myself.”

Atsumu grinned. “I knew you liked me.”

“I like clean people.”

Atsumu kissed him again—short, biting. “You like me dirty. Admit it.”

“You still smell like the bar.” Sakusa muttered, even as his hand slipped up the back of Atsumu’s shirt.

“So… I can shower here?”

Sakusa nodded once. “Komori’s coming back.”

“We got time,” Atsumu breathed against his mouth, hips twitching again, “lotta time.”

“You hit your head last night.”

“I remember.”

“You threw up in a club bathroom.”

“I know.”

“You sure you don’t have a concussion?”

“Not like there is much in my head anyways…right? Ain’t that what ya always say?”

Sakusa looked up at him like he was about to argue—but Atsumu kissed him again, and the argument dissolved into a sigh against his lips.

“Wanna help me wash my hair, princess?”

Sakusa stared for a beat, then let Atsumu tug him up by the wrist and followed him down the hall.

The second they reached the bathroom, Atsumu started stripping—shirt over his head, joggers kicked off, briefs tossed somewhere between the towel hook and the sink.

Sakusa blinked, didn’t move at first. Just stood there, lips parted slightly, eyes catching on every inch of exposed skin. 

Atsumu caught the look and grinned. “Ya gonna just stare or…?”

Sakusa blinked again, then turned without a word to start the water. The spray kicked on strong, steady, steam already curling in the corners of the glass.

But Atsumu didn’t miss it. The edge of hesitation. The stiffness in Sakusa’s shoulders. The tight way he held his jaw while adjusting the knobs.

He was nervous.

Sakusa hated sharing his bathroom. Hated when a space meant to be sterile and quiet suddenly felt crowded. He’d said it once, in a half-muttered complaint after a party at Komori’s and a few times in the locker room.

And now? Now Atsumu—who was still sweaty and sticky from the club last night, dried drool probably still crusted to his face—was stepping into his pristine shower.

“Relax,” Atsumu murmured, coming up behind him, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of his neck. “Ain’t gonna bite.”

Sakusa’s hands were still at the faucet. Tense.

Atsumu kissed him again, trailing up toward his ear, grinning as he whispered, “This way ya can scrub me down yourself. Make sure I’m really clean. Just how ya like it.”

Sakusa let out a soft, dry huff — and then finally peeled off his hoodie.

One layer at a time, folding his clothes neatly on the counter like it was a ritual. Like control mattered more now that things were spiraling. He stepped out of his boxers last, body lithe and flushed faintly from the warm bathroom air.

And yeah—Atsumu saw it.

Hard.

Sakusa’s cock twitched against the flat of his stomach, half-shadowed by the neat trail of hair beneath his navel. His skin was dewy already, lips faintly pink, thighs tense like he was fighting not to shift at the sight of Atsumu just standing there, dripping with hunger.

Atsumu’s own cock pulsed, jutting forward as if it had a mind of its own, red and leaking from the sheer pressure of want.

“No sex.” Sakusa said, voice low but firm.

“Uh huh." Atsumu muttered, already stepping into the glass stall.

The steam hit him like a blanket—wet and heavy and warm in all the right ways.

“Oh, fuck,” Atsumu groaned, tipping his head back. “That feels so good.”

His head still ached, but the heat softened it, dulled the pounding behind his eyes. His shoulders slumped under the spray, skin twitching from the comfort.

Sakusa stepped in behind him. Then—without a word—he reached up, gently cupped the back of Atsumu’s head, and tilted it under the spray. Atsumu’s body leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut as water poured over his scalp and down his neck.

Sakusa’s fingers were precise. Soft where they needed to be. Just enough pressure to work in the shampoo, but not so much that it made the cut on Atsumu’s forehead throb.

It felt good.

Atsumu let out a low hum, eyes still closed. “Yer real gentle for someone who hates people.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just kept massaging the shampoo in, nails skimming lightly over Atsumu’s scalp.

The water rushed around them. Their skin slick. Their bodies close. Too close.

Their cocks—still hard, still heavy—brushed every time they moved. Sakusa’s curved slightly toward his stomach, thick and flushed, twitching every few seconds like it had its own pulse.

Atsumu couldn’t stop glancing down. Couldn’t stop staring at that perfect little neat line of hair trailing down Sakusa’s stomach. At the way water ran over his hipbones. At the quiet concentration in his face while his hands were buried in Atsumu’s hair.

So he acted on instinct. One hand slid down between them—bold, slow—and wrapped around Sakusa’s cock.

Sakusa jolted, a low groan punched out of his chest. His hips flexed forward before he could stop them, his fingers pausing in Atsumu’s hair.

“I said no sex.” He breathed, voice taut.

“This ain’t sex.” Atsumu said, “Just helpin’ a teammate.”

His hand pumped slow—perfect grip, wrist twisting at the top, thumb dragging over the head with each stroke. He watched Sakusa’s face, watched the way it pinched, the way his jaw clenched and breath hitched despite himself.

“You’re such an asshole.” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu grinned. “I know.”

The steam curled around them, the smell of mint shampoo and clean skin mingling with something warmer. He kept jerking him off, slow and steady, his own cock pulsing between their stomachs with every stroke.

And Sakusa? Sakusa didn’t stop him. Didn’t push his hand away. Didn’t say no.

He just let out another quiet groan, one hand bracing against the glass, the other still curled at the back of Atsumu’s head.

Atsumu kissed the side of his neck, mouthing at his skin between strokes.

“Yer gonna come before I’m even clean?” He whispered, lips brushing Sakusa’s pulse point.

Sakusa’s breath came hard through his nose, chest rising with each pump, water cascading over his shoulders. He looked flushed—down to his collarbones, the pink tint following the sharp lines of his neck.

Then Atsumu surged forward, slammed their mouths together under the roar of the water. It was messy—wet and desperate, steam curling around them like a blanket. Their tongues tangled immediately, mouths open, lips parting with every shared breath, every half-moan passed between their teeth.

Sakusa’s hands finally moved. One sliding down Atsumu’s back—slow, then hard—fingers curling over his muscles, gripping tight. His other hand palmed Atsumu’s ass, squeezing it once like he couldn’t help himself. And Atsumu moaned into his mouth, hips pressing forward to grind their cocks together, even as his fist never slowed its rhythm on Sakusa’s length.

Then Atsumu pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye.

“I don’t want anyone else,” He said, breathless, forehead bumping Sakusa’s. “Not some random guy. Not some chick. I want you, Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa’s hips jerked into his palm, eyes fluttering shut.

“Y’hear me?” Atsumu demanded, voice lower now, darker, his grip tightening just enough to make Sakusa gasp. “Say ya hear me.”

Sakusa’s mouth opened but no words came—just a choked moan, a staggered breath.

“Say it.”

“I—” Sakusa’s voice cracked, hips stuttering again, “—I hear you, fuck—”

And that was it.

His whole body jolted, jaw clenched, curse words tumbling out in low, punched gasps as he came hard over Atsumu’s hand. The white streaks hit his own stomach, slicking Atsumu’s fingers before the water rinsed it all away in slow rivulets down his skin. 

Atsumu kissed him again. Softer now, but still urgent. Still hungry.

“Feel good?” He murmured between kisses, lips ghosting Sakusa’s cheek, his throat, the side of his mouth.

Sakusa just groaned, trying to catch his breath, hands twitching faintly where they held on.

“Take that as a yes.” Atsumu said, and his voice dropped lower—rough, filthy, a promise. “Now hurry up and clean me up. We gotta move fast if we’re gonna fuck before yer cousin gets back.”

Sakusa choked on a breath—face going scarlet, ears flushed, mouth parted in stunned silence.

But he nodded.

His hand moved automatically, grabbing the bar of soap, fingers fumbling slightly as he lathered the washcloth. Atsumu stood there—still half-hard, head tipped back under the spray, eyes watching Sakusa.

And Sakusa, cheeks blazing, wiped him down anyway. Careful but fast. Running the cloth along his neck, chest, stomach—his thighs. Around the back. He didn’t meet Atsumu’s gaze, but Atsumu could see the pulse jumping at his throat, the quiet tension in his jaw.

He was flustered. Still hard again, too. That small, unspoken tremble of arousal rebuilding under the surface.

Atsumu grinned to himself, a little feral.

Hangover be damned—he needed to fuck him.

After the shower, they barely toweled off—just enough to keep from dripping on the floor before Atsumu turned to Sakusa and scooped him up.

“Miya—” Sakusa barked out, startled, but Atsumu just laughed and kissed the sound right out of his mouth.

He carried him the short distance to the bed and all but dropped him onto it, smirking lazily as Sakusa bounced once against the sheets, hair damp and sticking to his cheek, face redder than before. Atsumu crawled after him, eyes hungry, body gleaming from the shower, water still glistening in the dips of his hips.

Then he leaned over him—slow, predatory—and started kissing his way down. Sakusa’s breath hitched the second Atsumu’s tongue flicked over one nipple. And then the other. Wet and warm, licking and sucking, lips wrapping around it just long enough to make Sakusa curse under his breath and arch into the touch.

Atsumu’s hands were everywhere—palming his sides, dragging down his ribs, mapping out every sharp angle like he needed to know him by heart.

And then he slid lower. Hands bracketing Sakusa’s thighs, he bent them up, folding him back until Sakusa’s knees were nearly to his chest. The position made his stomach flex, made his cock bounce slightly against his own skin, already starting to swell again.

“Relax.” Atsumu muttered, breath hot against the inside of Sakusa’s thigh.

Then he licked. Long and slow, tongue dragging up from Sakusa’s taint to the tight ring of muscle that clenched reflexively at the first touch.

Sakusa’s whole body twitched. “Fuck—” He gasped, head falling back against the pillow. 

Atsumu didn’t stop.

He licked again, slower this time, his thumbs spreading Sakusa open just slightly to give himself more access. The wet heat of his tongue pressed in, prodding, circling, then dipping in shallow with a groan.

Sakusa choked on a breath, thighs flexing.

His hands twitched at his sides, desperate to grab something. Someone. He reached—instinctual—to tangle his fingers in Atsumu’s hair—

And stopped.

Because he remembered. The cut. The pounding headache.

Instead, he gripped the sheets. White-knuckled. Wrinkled the fabric under his palms like it might keep him tethered, even as his hips jerked with every pass of Atsumu’s tongue.

Atsumu was focused.

Moaning softly like he was enjoying it, like the taste of Sakusa was the best thing he’d had in weeks. He licked deeper now, tongue and fingers fucking him open, spit and water slicking his hole while he mouthed at it shamelessly, obscene sounds echoing off the bedroom walls.

Sakusa’s head rolled back, eyes fluttering. His cock was leaking against his stomach already.

Atsumu pulled back with a slick noise, his lips swollen, “God, I love doin’ that.” He muttered.

Then he reached over, yanked open Sakusa’s bedside drawer, and fished out the lube.

Sakusa was still catching his breath when he saw Atsumu slicking himself up—hand wrapping around his own cock, spreading the lube slow and deliberate, just enough drag to make him shudder.

Then Atsumu grabbed Sakusa’s thighs, hiked them over his shoulders, and folded him in half. He lined up and slammed in, all at once, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp thrust.

“Fuck—!” Sakusa gasped, eyes wide, mouth falling open as his body stretched around Atsumu, back arching off the bed.

Atsumu didn’t wait.

He started moving immediately—thrusts hard and fast, each one punching a groan out of Sakusa’s chest, shaking the bedframe with the force of it. His grip was bruising on Sakusa’s thighs, keeping him pinned in place, folded tight, helpless to do anything but take it.

Sakusa’s nails dug into Atsumu’s back, leaving angry red trails down muscle. His moans were raw, unfiltered—every breath catching in his throat like he was choking on it, legs shaking from the pressure.

And Atsumu?

Atsumu was a mess.

Sweat already dripping from his brow, hips snapping like he couldn’t get deep enough. His eyes locked on Sakusa’s face—how fucked-out he looked, how pink and open and wrecked.

He felt it—tight and hot, building too fast, curling low in his gut.

Sakusa’s walls clenched around him, fluttering with every thrust.

“Gonna—fuck, Miya, I’m gonna—”

But before the words could fully land, Atsumu grabbed his jaw. Forced him to look up.

“I’m not playin’ games,” he growled, voice sharp, possessive. “Ya hear me?”

Sakusa’s eyes were wide, blown out, mouth parted.

“I don’t want anyone else. Not some rando at a club. Not any other guy. Not any girl. Just you,” Atsumu hissed, his thrusts not slowing, not faltering. “Just you, Kiyoomi.”

His grip tightened, jaw clenched.

“So stop makin’ it so fuckin’ difficult.”

Sakusa let out a broken groan—and he came hard, white streaks shooting up his stomach, abs painted in thick spurts that pulsed with every twitch of his cock. His body arched, legs shaking, breath punched out of him in short, frantic gasps.

Atsumu fucked him right through it, gritting his teeth at the clench of Sakusa’s body around him, hips stuttering as his own orgasm surged forward like a train off the rails—

Then—without warning—gripped Sakusa’s thighs, and flipped him over in one fast motion.

Sakusa gasped, blinking hard, suddenly straddling him as Atsumu sat back against the blankets.

“Ride me,” Atsumu said, voice low. “C’mon, Omi.”

Sakusa didn’t even get a chance to curse him out before Atsumu grabbed his hips and slammed him down—bounced him right onto his cock with a sharp, upward thrust.

"Shit—" Sakusa gasped, his whole body jerking as Atsumu thrust up into him again. His hands flew to Atsumu’s shoulders for balance, fingers digging in, nails dragging red crescents against damp skin. "You’re—fucking insane—"

Atsumu just grinned, breath hot, hair plastered to his forehead, his entire body flushed and shining. "Got a lot of energy for someone hungover, huh?"

Sakusa moaned, hips grinding involuntarily, mouth slack and eyes fluttering. "How the fuck—"

"No hangover in the world could stop me from fuckin’ ya good." Atsumu growled.

Then he thrust up again—deep and hard, hitting that spot inside that made Sakusa see stars for the second time in ten minutes.

They kissed—hard. Tongues messy, teeth clashing, spit-slick and desperate, like they were trying to devour each other. Sakusa rocked on him, but every time he tried to find a rhythm, Atsumu beat him to it—thrusting up so hard and so deep that Sakusa could barely even breathe, let alone ride him properly.

Atsumu wrapped one arm tight around Sakusa’s waist, pulling him down into every thrust, holding him in place like he was never letting him go. His other hand slid up Sakusa’s chest—palm hot and rough—gliding over his sternum, fingertips dragging across his nipples before Atsumu leaned in and sucked.

"M—Miya—" Sakusa choked, head falling back, throat exposed, mouth open like he couldn’t even speak anymore.

Atsumu didn’t let up. His mouth latched onto Sakusa’s chest, lips dragging, tongue flicking, sucking deep enough to leave marks. At the same time, his hand dropped lower—gripped Sakusa’s cock and started pumping him, perfectly in sync with the snap of his hips below.

Sakusa gasped, thighs shaking, his hands now just clinging to Atsumu’s shoulders like he was going to fall apart.

Because Atsumu was doing everything. Holding him. Thrusting into him. Jerking him off. Kissing and biting and fucking him like he didn’t know how to stop.

And Sakusa couldn’t even move. Couldn’t ride. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe through how close he was.

He was seconds from coming again, his entire body wound tight, head spinning, cock leaking into Atsumu’s fist.

He was so close it hurt.

Then Atsumu flipped them again, this time rolling Sakusa to his back, pinning him beneath him. He stayed up on his knees, one hand braced beside Sakusa’s head, the other locked tight around his waist.

He fucked him through their next orgasm—rhythmic, unrelenting, deep enough to make Sakusa’s legs shake.

And he spoke through it.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, hips jerking. “Fuck—I’m sorry—sorry—”

His thrusts stuttered, hips twitching as he emptied himself deep inside, cock pulsing so hard it made his whole body tremble. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

And Sakusa—

Sakusa’s heart broke wide open.

Because why was he apologizing? Why the hell did Atsumu sound like he was the one who did something wrong?

Sakusa blinked up at the ceiling, vision blurry, chest tight, body trembling not from pleasure anymore but from the ache clawing its way up his throat.

And then—right as Atsumu’s movements started to still, as the aftershocks tapered out into little desperate grinds and soft, whined moans—Sakusa broke.

His throat locked. His eyes blurred harder. And the first tear slid down his temple.

Then another.

Then another.

Until he was quietly, uncontrollably crying.

Atsumu froze.

“Omi—?” His voice cracked. “Omi—baby—what’s—did I hurt ya?”

Sakusa tried to speak—but the words didn’t come. His mouth opened. Closed. His chest heaved once, twice, and then his hand came up to cover his face, shielding himself instinctively.

Because fuck.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Atsumu’s voice went soft, panicked. “Omi, talk to me. Did I do somethin'—?”

And that made it worse.

Because it wasn’t Atsumu.

It was him.

It had always been him. He was the problem. Not Atsumu. 

Sakusa was the one who couldn't communicate. Sakusa was the one who didn’t know how to handle his emotions. Sakusa was the one who kissed Atsumu in that club bathroom when Atsumu was clearly not sober. He was the one who let himself want. The one who let it all start that night in the hotel room, when he got bold—reckless—and dry humped his teammate until he came in his pants.

And now?

Now here he was, crying, because Atsumu just fucked him like he meant it.

And all Sakusa could think was—I don’t deserve this.

I don’t deserve him.

He was jealous last night. Jealous. When Atsumu isn’t even his boyfriend.

They’re not dating. They’re not anything.

They’re just teammates who can’t stop fucking. Who can’t stop tearing into each other. Who look for excuses to tear into each other like it’ll fix whatever’s broken inside.

And Sakusa’s the one who keeps letting it happen.

Even after everything. Even after swearing he wouldn’t do this again. Not after last night. Not after the guilt. Not after seeing Atsumu sick and stumbling and hurting.

Still, he’d let Atsumu push him back into bed. Still, he’d opened his legs. Still, he’d wrapped his arms around him and let Atsumu in.

Atsumu was still hovering—gentle now, frantic. His palms on Sakusa’s face, his thumbs brushing tears away even as more slipped free. “Kiyoomi. Look at me.”

Atsumu’s face was flushed, lips red and raw, hair damp and messy. His eyes looked scared. Soft.

And that made it hurt more.

Because he felt like the worst kind of hypocrite.

He’d known. He’d known for weeks now that Atsumu wanted more. That Atsumu had been trying to define whatever this was. That he was trying—again and again—to offer Sakusa something steadier than sweaty sheets and stolen glances and hookups in hotel rooms.

Atsumu had asked him on a date.

An actual, real date.

And Sakusa had panicked. He had said yes. Because of course he wanted to go on a date with Atsumu. But, he was fucking terrified.

Not of Atsumu. Never of Atsumu.

But of what it would mean if they really did start dating. If he gave this a name. If he admitted what it had become.

Because Atsumu Miya wasn’t just hot or charming or magnetic.

He was sunshine.

He was loud and golden and alive in a way Sakusa had never let himself be. He was pure want—honest and vulnerable and unashamed. He filled a room like gravity.

And Sakusa was everything opposite. Closed off. Guarded. Private to a fault. He didn’t let people close. Didn’t trust easily. Didn’t know how to be soft unless it was in secret.

He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve him.

So instead—he’d kissed Atsumu in the dark. Let him crawl into bed after team dinners. Let him fuck the confusion out of him instead of talking.

Because that was easier. Because he didn’t know how to believe in good things lasting.

But now—

Now Atsumu was holding him so gently, so carefully, like Sakusa hadn’t just pushed and pulled and broken them over and over again. Like he still wanted him anyway.

And it made Sakusa’s guilt burn hotter.

He swallowed hard. “I am scared.”

“Of what?”

Sakusa looked at him, eyes rimmed red. “That… it won’t last. That you’ll eventually figure out I’m not worth it.”

Atsumu’s face shifted, something wounded flickering across his expression. But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t say anything cutting or defensive. He just leaned in, thumb brushing under Sakusa’s eye again, catching a tear that had just fallen.

“That ain’t how this works,” he said quietly. “That ain’t how I work.”

Sakusa let out a sharp breath that turned into something closer to a sob, curling slightly into himself. “Why are you even the one apologizing?” he choked. “I came onto you last night when you weren’t even sober. I said I didn’t want to fix this with sex. I meant that. And now here we fucking are...”

Atsumu didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached up and gently took hold of Sakusa’s wrists, tugging his hands down from where they were hiding part of his face.

“Hey,” he said, voice steady. “Stop. Look at me.”

He kissed the fresh tear that had tracked across Sakusa’s cheek. Then another. “Just breathe. Yer alright. Just relax for me.”

But Sakusa couldn’t.

He felt humiliated. Raw and exposed and stupid.

He sniffled, voice hoarse. “I don’t know why I’m crying like this.”

“‘Cause you’ve been holdin’ it in,” Atsumu murmured. “That’s all.”

Sakusa blinked fast, trying to stop the next round of tears, but they came anyway. “I need to sit up.” He said suddenly, voice breaking.

Atsumu nodded and shifted carefully, letting Sakusa move without separating from him. He helped him sit upright, letting Sakusa settle into his lap—still connected.

Sakusa curled forward again, burying his face in Atsumu’s neck. Atsumu kissed his shoulder, slow and firm, and wrapped both arms around his waist, holding him close. No pressure. No rush.

Sakusa stayed like that for a minute. Just breathing. And then—finally—he lifted his head. He looked at Atsumu, eyes red and glassy, and asked in a cracked whisper,

“Why do you even like me?”

Atsumu blinked.

Then—so gently it almost hurt—he smiled.

“How much time ya got?”

Sakusa let out a shaky, tear-soaked laugh, more breath than sound. Atsumu reached up again, brushed his hair back from Sakusa’s face, eyes still soft.

Sakusa’s voice came again, small. “I didn’t want this to just be about sex.”

“I know.” Atsumu said.

“I didn’t want you to think that was all I wanted. Because it’s what we’ve been doing. Fighting and then fucking like it solves anything.”

Sakusa paused, breath shaking.

“I don’t want you to think that’s all you’re worth to me.”

Atsumu nodded. “I never thought that.” Atsumu said simply.

Sakusa looked at him, throat tight, eyes burning again.

Atsumu shifted a little beneath him, one hand still steady on Sakusa’s hip. “I mean… maybe for a second, I didn’t know what ya wanted. If ya just wanted to keep fuckin’ and that be it.”

Sakusa looked down.

“But I’m glad yer sayin’ something,” Atsumu continued. “That’s all I’ve wanted. Just for ya to say it. Tell me how ya feel, even if it’s messy.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Like there were too many words jammed in his throat.

“I get it,” Atsumu said after a moment. “I’m scared too. But ya don’t need to be scared of me, alright?”

Sakusa blinked fast, his breathing uneven again.

“I mean it,” Atsumu murmured, brushing another tear from his cheek. “Ya don’t need to be scared of me, Omi. I like ya…I really like ya.”

Then he kissed him—soft and slow.

Then again.

And again.

Between kisses, Sakusa's voice cracked again—quiet and choked. “I’m sorry.”

Atsumu stilled for half a second.

But Sakusa didn’t stop. He pressed another kiss to the edge of Atsumu’s mouth. His jaw. His throat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice almost broken. “I got mad at you. I was jealous. And you—you weren’t even sober.”

Atsumu pulled him in tighter, pressing a hand flat against his back.

Sakusa let out a shaky breath. “And now you’re here. With a fucking bandage on your head. And you’re comforting me. And…”

Atsumu’s voice was low, calm. “I know ya feel bad.”

Sakusa didn’t look at him.

“I’m not mad,” Atsumu said. “I just want ya to talk to me. That’s all.”

Sakusa finally glanced up, guilt carved into every line of his face.

“I don’t want anyone else,” Atsumu added, “Ya can stop worrying about that part.”

He continued. “I’m not tryin’ to be perfect,” Atsumu said, brushing his knuckles gently along Sakusa’s cheek. “I just wanna get to a point where we’re both not freakin’ out all the time.”

That made Sakusa breathe out—soft, uneven. His eyes dropped to Atsumu’s mouth. And then they were kissing again. Slower this time, more drawn out.

Atsumu’s hands started to roam—soft over Sakusa’s ribs, then gripping his hips, thumbs brushing the lines of his stomach. He slid one hand up Sakusa’s back, fingers tracing the dip of his spine, the swell of his shoulder blade, like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of him.

Neither of them noticed the first buzz of Atsumu’s phone on the floor.

Or the second.

Or the third.

[PR Manager]: 3 Missed Calls

[PR Manager]: Atsumu, call me.

Chapter Text

The room smelled like sweat and sex and warm detergent. The sheets were clinging to the corners of the bed in rumpled, half-twisted piles. The walls were quiet now, the creak of the mattress finally gone still beneath them.

Atsumu’s mouth found Sakusa’s skin, lips grazing the curve of his spine as he finally let his weight settle. He kissed him there. Lazy. Open-mouthed.

And Sakusa muttered into the pillow, “No more.” His whole body shuddered on the exhale. “Komori could come back any second.”

Atsumu groaned softly, nuzzling behind his ear. “Ya sure?” he breathed, too fond to stop. “Yer finally stretched just right for me…”

“No,” Sakusa bit out, shooting him a glare over his shoulder, the kind that lacked any real heat. “No more.”

Atsumu mumbled something unintelligible against his skin—half whine, half laugh—but finally nodded. “Fine.”

He kissed the back of Sakusa’s shoulder once, then slowly pulled out with a hiss, making Sakusa wince at the sensitivity.

A few moments later while Atsumu stood near the bed wiping himself off, Sakusa turned to him, still sprawled over the mattress. “Brush your teeth.”

Atsumu blinked. “Are ya sayin’ I’ve got morning breath?”

“You’ve got everything breath,” Sakusa said, expression flat. “Your spare toothbrush is still under the sink.”

Atsumu made a dramatic noise and dragged his feet into the bathroom.

Sakusa just rolled his eyes and turned onto his side, grabbing his phone from the nightstand.

From the bathroom came the sound of water, then brushing. A moment later, Atsumu stepped out—toothbrush sticking out of his mouth.

He glanced down at his own phone on the floor where it had buzzed earlier.

Paused.

The lockscreen lit up:
[PR Manager] – 3 Missed Calls
[PR Manager] – Atsumu, call me.

His heart sank.

He quickly stepped back into the bathroom and rinsed, spitting hard before stepping into his sweatpants, eyes still on the screen.

He leaned over the bed and kissed Sakusa’s head. “I gotta step out,” he said. “Take a call.”

Sakusa looked up, brow furrowed. “Okay.”

Atsumu offered a quick smile but didn’t explain.

He stepped out onto the balcony barefoot, the door clicking shut behind him. Then he called back and his PR manager answered on the first ring.

“Atsumu,” her voice was clipped—tight. “It’s nearly five p.m., are you alright?”

His stomach tightened. “I—sorry. I just woke up.”

There was a pause.

“Are you okay?” she asked, voice lowering just a notch. “Seriously.”

Atsumu blinked. “Yeah. Head hurts a little, but I’m fine.”

Another pause. Then a soft exhale, like she was bracing herself.

“You’re trending.”

That made his throat close.

“You’re trending on three platforms.” She added. “The photos and videos are blurry, but clearly you.”

Atsumu leaned against the balcony rail, pulse starting to thud behind his eyes again.

“What kind of videos?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

“From a club. You’re clearly drunk. Like—falling over, clinging to people, incoherent. There’s one clip where you’re dancing with a guy.”

Atsumu went completely still.

“I don’t know if he kissed you. It’s too blurry. But it looks like it. And just overall it just doesn't look... platonic.”

He sank slowly into one of Sakusa’s balcony chairs, gripping the armrest. His voice cracked. “I…it’s all fuzzy.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then, softer, “I figured.”

“There’s more,” she said. “There’s also a photo, blurry, but you can make out that it’s your brother carrying you. You look like you’re about to pass out and there’s blood on your forehead.”

Atsumu shut his eyes.

“There are a few entertainment outlets speculating now,” she continued. “Mostly tabloids.”

Atsumu’s mouth went dry.

“And now some of the sports sites are catching wind of it,” she added, more serious. “Not many yet. But they will. And when they do, they won’t just focus on who you danced with. They’re going to ask why you were that drunk. Why your brother had to carry you out of a club. Why you were bleeding.”

He pressed a palm flat to his sternum like it would help him breathe. It didn’t.

“Sponsors haven’t pulled anything. But they want to know what happened. If this was a one-time thing. If you’re safe.”

Atsumu made a noise in his throat. Not quite a word.

“Hey,” she said again, softer. “But we’re already working on it, okay? My team’s sent takedown requests for every clip we can find. We got it scrubbed from the original poster. Most of the big accounts are deleting it too.”

A beat.

“But it’s the internet. You know how that goes.”

Atsumu nodded, barely.

“Look—I need you to meet with me tomorrow. We’ll go over everything. Statements, damage control.”

His brain couldn’t hold all the words. They blurred at the edges. All he could feel was the throb behind his eyes and the knot in his chest that was growing tighter by the second.

“For now,” she added, “don’t say anything. Don’t respond to anyone who reaches out. Not reporters. Not fans. Not even teammates. Let me handle it.”

He nodded again.

“Atsumu,” she said, a little firmer. “Do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Yeah. I hear ya.”

“Okay. Try to rest.”

“Right.”

She paused one last time. “Stuff happens…it’s not your fault. Please be kind to yourself, okay?”

Then the call ended.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even lower the phone from his ear. He just sat there, staring ahead at nothing, the city stretching out in front of him like a blurred smear of light and sound. His chest hurt. Tight and sharp, like he couldn’t pull a full breath.

Then a voice behind him—quiet, cautious.

“ Hey. ”

He flinched.

Sakusa was standing right next to him now—barefoot, a hoodie thrown on over his bare chest. He held his phone loosely in one hand, screen lit.

Atsumu hadn’t even noticed the balcony door open.

Sakusa sat down beside him, then cleared his throat softly, but his voice was flat when he read:

“ Atsumu Miya Seen Grinding on Mystery Man in Nightclub: Is Japan’s Volleyball Heartthrob Playing for a Different Team? ”

Atsumu’s body went still. His jaw clenched. Then he dropped his face into his hands.

It was like the air left his lungs all at once.

Sakusa didn’t say anything right away. He was still for a few seconds longer, looking at the screen, then back at Atsumu. Then Sakusa stepped in front of him, crouching in front of him.

“You’re not breathing.”

Atsumu didn’t look up.

Sakusa touched his knee, gentle. “ Atsumu .”

Atsumu let out a shaky gasp.

“You need to breathe. In and out.”

“I can’t,” Atsumu wheezed. “I—fuck, I can’t—”

His breath started spiraling—shallow, too fast, each one catching in his throat like it was getting stuck on the way out.

“Hey—look at me,” Sakusa said, sharper now. “C’mon. Look at me.”

Atsumu lifted his head, just barely. His eyes were glassy.

“You’re making it worse,” Sakusa said, voice low but steady. “You just need to breathe. In and out.”

Atsumu’s hands trembled. His chest shuddered with another panicked inhale.

Sakusa leaned in, closer now, hands on Atsumu’s knees. “Just copy me.” He said.

He inhaled—slow. Deliberate.

Atsumu tried. Failed. Tried again.

They kept going like that. Sakusa steady, Atsumu clinging to him now, hands holding onto Sakusa’s wrists like it was the only thing holding him together.

Eventually, after what felt like hours compressed into minutes, the gasping slowed. The breaths evened out. Atsumu let out a broken hiccup as his body started to settle, his entire frame shaking with the aftermath.

Sakusa ran a hand slowly through his hair—once, twice—then gently cradled the back of his head.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “Just calm the hell down.”

Atsumu didn’t answer. Just gripped him tighter.

“People want something to talk about. That’s all. They’re desperate for a scandal. But real fans? They care about what you do on the court. That’s it.”

Atsumu hiccuped once more, then let out a slow, shaky breath. “Okay.” He mumbled.

“Good.” Sakusa whispered, his fingers curling slightly at the nape of Atsumu’s neck.

A pause.

Then Atsumu’s phone buzzed in his hand. The name lit up the screen.

[Samu]: Where are you? Are you okay?

Atsumu groaned. “Shit…I should go home.

They moved slowly back inside. The bedroom was quiet, sheets rumpled, sunlight still spilling in across the floor.

Atsumu pulled his shirt on, running a hand through his hair as he moved. But just as he reached for his phone again, Sakusa stepped forward—cupped his face with both hands.

Atsumu stilled, letting himself be held.

Then Sakusa leaned in and kissed him.

Soft. Slow.

Their mouths moved together, tongues brushing, lips parted. Atsumu sighed into it, hands gripping Sakusa’s hips, pulling him closer, greedy for more.

When they finally pulled back, Sakusa kept one hand on the side of Atsumu’s face, thumb brushing just under his eye.

“Just relax, Miya.” He said.

Atsumu nodded, chasing his mouth for another kiss. “One more.” He murmured.

Sakusa rolled his eyes, but gave it to him anyways.

The next morning, Atsumu sat in a sleek conference room on the eleventh floor of a glass-and-metal PR firm in the heart of Osaka, sweat sticking to the back of his neck.

He hadn’t slept much.

Now he was surrounded by his PR manager, two junior assistants. His throat was dry. He kept shifting in his chair, bouncing his leg, rubbing his palms along his thighs even though they weren’t sweating.

“Alright,” his manager said, clicking her pen. “Let’s start with sponsor communication. We’ve already heard from Molten. They’re more concerned than angry. Mostly about optics—especially with the new storefront posters going up this month.”

She flipped to the next tab on her tablet. “Adidas reached out too. No comment yet, just… curious if this is going to escalate.”

Atsumu nodded, eyes fixed on the table.

“We’ve drafted a response we’ll use in case sponsors request a statement. It’s short. Simple. Here’s the language.” She handed over a paper copy.

He scanned it. It read:

“Atsumu Miya acknowledges that he overindulged during a night out and is taking steps to ensure this does not happen again. He appreciates the concern and support from his sponsors, team, and fans, and remains focused on his upcoming matches.”

“It’s clean,” she said. “Neutral. Doesn’t deny anything, doesn’t confirm anything. We’re not addressing the guy in the video directly—it keeps us out of that conversation.”

“Okay.” Atsumu mumbled.

He kept reading it, over and over. The words started to blur.

Then they moved on.

“We’re doing well scrubbing the footage,” one of the assistants chimed in. “TikTok’s algorithm slowed it down. Original poster deleted it. A few fan accounts keep reposting it, but we’re flagging those too. It’s mostly under control.”

Then came the part he’d been dreading.

“Now, for post-match interviews,” his manager said. “You’re going to be asked about this. There’s no way around it.”

Atsumu nodded faintly.

“You’ll pivot to volleyball,” she continued. “You say it was a personal moment that got out of hand, that your focus is on the court and you’ve addressed it internally. Then you redirect to the match.”

Another assistant chimed in. “And if anyone pushes about the guy?”

“You keep it vague. We’re not giving them anything.”

Atsumu’s chest tightened. His leg bounced faster now.

Then the junior assistant with the laptop looked up and half-joked, “We could always find a pretty girl to send you on a coffee date with. Cute café, casual photos. Nothing serious. Just enough to cool the rumors.”

The other assistant chuckled lightly. His manager, though, didn’t laugh. She just tapped her pen twice against her notebook, considering it.

Atsumu blinked. “I, uh—wait. I don’t wanna fake date someone.”

She looked up. “It’s just a concept,” she said gently. “We’re not committing to anything. But if this keeps gaining traction, we may need to redirect the narrative.”

Atsumu didn’t say anything.

Then they handed him another sheet. A revised public-facing statement, one to be sent to media outlets if needed. He read it silently.

“Atsumu Miya appreciates the support of his fans and wants to clarify that the footage circulating from a private night out is not reflective of his values or focus as a professional athlete. He remains dedicated to his career and is grateful for the encouragement of those who know him best.”

There was nothing explicitly wrong with it. But the tone…

It felt loaded. Weighted. Like it was trying to say something without saying it.

He read it again.

And again.

And again.

Because in his head, the words were twisting into something else:

Don’t worry, everyone, I’m still straight.

But he wasn’t.

Not really.

He knew he liked guys. Liked one guy especially. He knew what it felt like to fuck Sakusa and mean it. He knew what it was like to kiss him in the morning and want to stay in bed for a couple more minutes.

His chest got tight again. The edges of his vision buzzed slightly. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and blinked hard.

“You okay?” his manager asked gently, reaching over to touch his forearm.

Atsumu hesitated.

Then: “Can we… can I just talk to ya? Just you?”

She didn’t ask why. She just nodded once, then turned to the two assistants and waved them out. They filed out with polite nods, doors clicking softly behind them.

The room was quiet now. Afternoon light spilled in from the windows. Atsumu still hadn’t looked up.

She didn’t press him right away. She just gave him a second. Let him breathe. Let him fidget.

She’d known him since he was nineteen, all nerves and attitude and bright-eyed ambition. She’d seen him land endorsement deals. Win MVPs. Break records. Cry behind the scenes. Freeze up after losses. Fight to be taken seriously.

So she knew.

She waited. Then, softly, “What part doesn’t sit right?”

Atsumu exhaled, slow and shaky. His fingers fiddled around the edges of the paper.

“It’s the line about… it not reflectin’ my values.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his. They stared at each other for a beat too long.

Atsumu didn’t say anything else.

He watched her carefully. Hoping she just… understood. So he wouldn’t have to say it out loud. Wouldn’t have to try and force words into a space he still didn’t fully understand himself.

Her gaze stayed steady. Then she gave a small nod.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Okay. That’s fine.”

She picked up her pen, drew a neat line through the offending sentence. Then scribbled a few new words in the margin. Reread it. Adjusted. Tapped the page once. Slid it across the table to him.

Atsumu read the new draft.

“Atsumu Miya acknowledges that the events in question were a private moment captured without context. He appreciates the support of his fans and sponsors and remains focused on his performance and responsibilities as a professional athlete.”

Simple. Contained. Vague enough to keep the media wolves at bay.

But not a denial. Not a lie.

Atsumu felt something loosen in his chest.

Not fully—but enough.

He nodded. “Yeah… okay. This works.”

She gave him a small smile, then reached out and gently patted his shoulder. “I got it handled, alright? You just focus on playing.” Her tone softened even more. “At the end of the day, you’re still the best damn player on that court.”

He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. “Thanks.” He said quietly.

She nodded, “How’s your head?”

He instinctively raised a hand to the healing cut. “Fine. Just a dumb cut.”

“Good. Take it easy anyway. Don’t push too hard.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll be at the next few matches,” she added. “And close during media conferences. Just in case.”

“Right. Thanks again.”

She gave him a final nod and gathered the papers, already back in business mode, but her gaze lingered for just a second longer—still quietly protective.

Atsumu stood and offered a polite, grateful bow. “See ya.”

And then he walked out with one less weight pressing on his chest.

The days that followed passed in a strange kind of blur.

Atsumu crashed at his usual time — exhausted — but then, like clockwork, he’d jolt awake a few hours later, chest tight and breath stuck high in his throat.

Sometimes it felt like his ribs were pressing in. Like something sharp was jammed between his lungs and wouldn’t budge no matter how deep he breathed.

He tried everything.

Pushups until his shoulders burned. Stretches until his spine cracked. Jogging laps around his apartment complex at 2 a.m., hoodie pulled over his head. He even went down to the apartment gym once, tossing a volleyball to himself while lying flat on his back. Just like he used to do when he was a kid. Set after set. Catch. Set again.

But nothing worked.

His body would sweat and ache and slow—but his mind just kept spinning.

And eventually, always, he ended up doing what he promised himself he wouldn’t.

He picked up his phone, searched his own name. He didn’t go to the sports blogs or his stat tracking apps or volleyball news sources. The places he usually checked. The places that used to matter.

He scrolled social media now. Threads. Screenshots. Speculation posts.

A blurry photo of the guy from the club, someone captioning it with “he’s totally Atsumu’s type” . A video with slowed audio from when Osamu was dragging him out, people debating whether he was crying or laughing. Someone zoomed in on his hands. His neck. His mouth.

One of the top posts read: “I mean. If he is gay, just say that. But don’t act like the fans are dumb.”

By 3 a.m., his hands were shaking. His throat was dry. He didn’t even realize he was having a panic attack until he’d fully curled over himself on the couch, breath ragged and fast and unfamiliar in his own chest.

He didn’t know how to handle it. Because this had never happened before. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He worked. Hard.

He started showing up early to practice. First in the building. First on the court. He stayed late too—always the last to leave. Sometimes so late that the lights in the arena would dim and he’d be setting by himself in the team’s private gym, the echo of ball against wall the only sound.

Woke up. Trained. Pushed. Went home. Repeat.

And Sakusa noticed. Of course he did.

And sure, maybe Sakusa eavesdropped when Atsumu got scolded by their coach.

“You think that was smart?” Their coach had said, voice low and edged with disappointment. “Getting that drunk during the season? Do you know how many players would kill for your position? You’re smart, Miya. Good kid with a golden career ahead of you. Don’t piss it away.”

Atsumu hadn’t defended himself. And Sakusa could imagine him on the other side of the wall standing in front of their coach politely, head down.

“Yes, sir.” He’d said quietly. “I’m sorry, sir.”

The sound of Atsumu’s voice—quiet, small, uncharacteristically compliant —made Sakusa’s heart sink a little.

Because now, watching Atsumu at practice, Sakusa could feel it. Radiating off him like static. A low, constant buzz of unease. Like if you touched him too long, your teeth might start to hurt.

He was still hitting his marks. Still landing perfect tosses. Still taking every drill like it was a final match.

But he wasn’t there .

Not really.

And it made Sakusa’s stomach twist. Because he knew that kind of silence. Knew what it was to live inside your own head and not know how to get out.

And whatever Atsumu was dealing with now—it wasn’t just media noise.

It was something else.

It was panic. It was shame.

The main gym was already dark. Just one court lit in the far corner, the hush of the ventilation system the only thing cutting through the quiet.

Sakusa stepped out from the tunnel, towel slung around his neck. He spotted Atsumu immediately—out there alone, bare arms already glistening under the overhead lights. A single ball cart sat at the side. No music. No distractions. Just him, resetting the same toss over and over.

Sakusa didn’t announce himself. And Atsumu paused mid-step when he noticed him, but he didn’t say anything. He looked tired. Shadows under his eyes, jaw tight. His shoulders looked too tense for this hour.

Sakusa just raised his chin and motioned. Toss me one.

Atsumu hesitated. Then, without a word, he grabbed the next ball and gave him a clean, tight set.

And so it went. Back and forth. No warm-up. No plan. No words.

After a while, they started setting up cones at the back of the court, marking corners and edge zones. A new challenge: hit each one. Precision. Control. Repetition.

It was mechanical. But there was comfort in the rhythm.

Sakusa felt the dull pinch in his shoulder—not sharp, just enough to make him grit his teeth. He worked through it. Always did. But after a particularly long stretch, one hit sent a deep ache shooting down his bicep and he winced, letting out a soft grunt as he shook his arm out.

Atsumu glanced at him, concerned, but Sakusa just walked around the net and said, “Switch.”

Atsumu cocked a brow. “What, ya gonna set for me now? Only Shoyo could pull that off.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes. “Shut up and get in position.”

“Fine.” Atsumu muttered, but he was smirking as he stepped into place.

The sets weren’t pretty. Some were high. Some too low. But it didn’t matter. Atsumu still hit them. Fast and clean. And they stayed like that until the automatic court lights clicked off with a mechanical pop , throwing the gym into a soft half-dark.

Neither of them spoke as they gathered their bottles and towels. No jokes. No teasing. Just the quiet click of a water cap and the soft echo of footsteps on the hardwood.

Sakusa didn’t know how it happened after that. He couldn’t remember if one of them said anything, if they agreed, if there was a moment that clicked into place.

All he knew was he ended up at Atsumu’s place.

They reheated leftovers from Atsumu’s fridge—something Osamu had made, still labeled in messy handwriting on the container lid. They stood in the kitchen, eating straight out of the tupperware with chopsticks, too tired to do anything else.

And then they were in bed.

Clothes peeled off in slow, lazy motions, like they were shedding hours of tension with each layer. Sakusa's hoodie tugged over his head. Atsumu's shirt bunched under his arms, damp at the collar. The snap of a waistband. The stretch of cotton dragging over skin. Fingers brushing.

Atsumu’s mouth was warm and urgent, tongue pushing past Sakusa’s lips with little finesse, no rhythm, just raw hunger. His hands were everywhere—palming Sakusa’s back, squeezing his waist, sliding over his ribs like he wanted to memorize every dip, every muscle.

Sakusa moaned quietly when Atsumu kissed down his throat, teeth dragging just enough to sting. They moved together clumsily, grinding against each other, skin sticky with sweat that hadn’t even come from fucking yet.

Sakusa felt it—his own cock hardening fast, aching against the press of Atsumu’s thigh. But something was off. Offbeat. Uneven.

Atsumu’s hips weren’t moving quite right. His kisses got sloppier. Slower.

And when Sakusa reached down—fingers brushing between them, hand curling against the front of Atsumu’s briefs—

He felt it. Soft . Or nearly. Just barely thickening in his palm.

Sakusa stilled. Hesitated. Let his hand linger for a second, then brushed the heel of it down again, slower this time.

Atsumu’s breath hitched—his whole mouth twitched like he wanted to pretend it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t mortified.

Still, he tried. He kissed Sakusa harder. Bit at his jaw. Grabbed at his ass, pulling him closer.

But Sakusa could feel it—how desperate it was now. How there was more pressure than heat. How Atsumu was working so fucking hard to stay in it. To stay present. To stay hard.

He wasn’t getting there.

Sakusa didn’t say anything. Just moved. Rolled them over slowly, gently, until Atsumu was on his back. Then kissed down his chest, tracing his mouth over every freckle and scar. He pushed down the waistband of Atsumu’s boxers, cock twitching beneath the cotton but still not truly hard.

Atsumu tensed.

Sakusa kept going.

He pressed his lips to the curve of his hip. Bit gently at the skin just above his pelvis. Then leaned down and wrapped his mouth around Atsumu’s half-hard dick—warm and soft on his tongue, tasting faintly like sweat and clean skin.

He tried. Used his mouth, his hands, slow pressure, tongue dragging over the head, sucking deeper just to see if maybe—

But nothing.

Still soft. Or worse—getting softer.

Sakusa pulled back slowly. His mouth still parted. His eyes flicking up just in time to see Atsumu sit up, muttering a sharp, “Fuck—” under his breath.

Atsumu dragged a hand over his face, rubbing at his temples, then curled forward and hunched over with both hands tugging his hair.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed down on your ears. Made everything feel louder.

Sakusa could hear the buzz of the fridge down the hall. The hum of the air conditioner cycling off.

Then Atsumu looked up. Face bright red. Eyes glassy.

“It’s not you,” he rasped, like he needed to say it out loud before Sakusa could think otherwise. “I swear, it’s not. It’s me. I just—I dunno what the fuck’s wrong with me right now.”

Sakusa just nodded. Quiet. Still kneeling between Atsumu’s legs.

“It’s okay.”

Because it was. Because Atsumu wasn’t the only one who’d ever shut down mid-fuck and felt like the floor was going to cave in beneath him.

Because sometimes bodies couldn’t keep up with brains screaming too loud to hear anything else.

Atsumu’s hands moved before his thoughts did—fisting into his hair, pulling just enough to sting, face contorted in frustration that was suddenly giving way to something far worse.

“I fuckin’ knew this was gonna happen.” He choked out. His voice cracked so violently it startled even him. “This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.”

Sakusa didn’t say anything, not yet.

“It’s not just volleyball anymore,” Atsumu spat. “It’s not just playin’. Or settin’. Or numbers. Now it’s—” His breath hitched again, sharper. “Now it’s about whether or not I’m fuckin’ gay .”

His voice collapsed on the word.

The first sob tore out of him with a sound that didn’t even feel human, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think , his mouth open and gasping, his chest spasming like he was choking on his own panic.

Sakusa moved fast.

He reached for Atsumu’s wrists, wrapping his fingers gently around them—not tight, just grounding—lowering his hands away from his head.

“Hey,” Sakusa said, firm but quiet. “Breathe.”

Atsumu’s hands trembled, his mouth gaped again. “I—can’t—I can’t —”

“Yes, you can.” Sakusa said, his own voice even, steady, barely above a whisper. “With me.”

He inhaled—slow and deep, his chest expanding, his eyes locked on Atsumu’s.

“Now you.”

Atsumu tried. A sharp inhale. It caught, it stuttered.

“Again.” Sakusa coached, his hands still around Atsumu’s wrists, thumbs brushing against his pulse.

He inhaled again. Held it. Let it out.

Atsumu mirrored him. Clumsy at first, too quick. But he tried. Again. And again.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

They stayed like that—sitting half-dressed in the dim light of Atsumu’s bedroom, one of them breathing slow and one of them trying to remember how.

And eventually, it started to work. Atsumu’s shoulders unhitched. The tremble in his jaw softened. The gasps gave way to uneven, stuffy breaths—and then just silence, except for the soft sound of Sakusa exhaling beside him.

Atsumu sat there, eyes blurry, sweat-damp and exhausted. Then, voice quiet and broken: “I’m sorry.”

Sakusa shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s fine.”

Atsumu looked at him—tentative, almost shy now. Then, after a long moment, voice barely there: “Can ya… stay here tonight?”

Sakusa blinked.

For a moment, instinct almost answered for him. No. My space is cleaner. Safer.

But he looked at Atsumu. And knew what he needed.

So Sakusa swallowed, the words catching a little on the way up, then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can stay.”

Atsumu’s shoulders dropped all at once. Like his whole body finally gave up trying to stay tense.

Sakusa leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Gentle. Grounding.

Atsumu exhaled—shaky still, but softer now. Then he curled into him, forehead tucked near Sakusa’s collarbone.

“Shower,” Sakusa muttered. “You need one. I do too.”

Atsumu nodded.

The bathroom was small. Lit with a flickering bulb over the mirror. Sakusa hesitated at the threshold—eyed the tiles, the lip of the tub, the half-used bottles lining the shelf.

It looked clean. It smelled clean. Atsumu said it was clean.

So Sakusa made himself believe it.

Because Atsumu had held him together just days ago, and he could do the same now.

They showered quietly. Brushed their teeth shoulder to shoulder at the sink. Neither spoke much.

When they made it back to the bedroom, Sakusa paused just inside the doorway. The room smelled like Atsumu. His shampoo. His cologne. His detergent. That citrus-and-musk scent that stuck to everything he touched.

It should’ve been overstimulating.

But it wasn’t.

It was… comforting .

He climbed into bed first, tugging the comforter up, adjusting one of the pillows beneath his neck. It wasn’t the kind of softness he liked. The texture was different. But it didn’t bother him like it usually would.

Then Atsumu slid in behind him. No hesitation. No pause. Just arms around Sakusa’s waist, chest to his back, breath slow and even against the back of his neck. Heavy and warm and solid.

Sakusa reached for the lamp switch and clicked it off.

The room went dark.

And for once, his brain didn’t fight the quiet.

He didn’t lie awake critiquing the mattress or reshuffling the blanket or adjusting the pillow over and over again.

Atsumu’s arms were around him.

His body was warm.

And yeah—it wasn’t bad.

It was somewhere around 3 a.m. when Sakusa stirred.

He wasn’t sure what woke him first—the dip in the mattress or the shifting of the blankets—but he felt it: Atsumu’s arms tightening around his waist… and then loosening. A breath caught against his neck. A soft exhale. Then movement.

Atsumu turned over—rolling onto his other side, facing away.

Sakusa stayed still, eyes half-lidded.

Probably just hot, he thought, listening to the rustle of sheets as Atsumu adjusted again. Just getting space.

But then the shifting didn’t stop. The bed kept dipping. Fabric rustled. A foot kicked the edge of the blanket.

And then—suddenly—Atsumu sat up, breathing too fast, back curved like he was trying not to be loud about it.

Sakusa rolled over, blinking blearily in the dark. He reached out, caught Atsumu’s arm just as he started to climb out of bed.

“What are you doing?” He whispered, voice still rough with sleep.

“I—sorry, I just—” Atsumu’s voice cracked, almost panicked, “I thought maybe I’d just stretch or like, scroll for a bit—”

“Lie down.” Sakusa interrupted softly.

“But—”

“No.” He tugged. Not harsh—just firm. “Put your phone down.”

Atsumu’s hand had barely reached toward the nightstand before Sakusa gave another small pull, guiding him back down into the tangle of sheets and limbs. The mattress shifted again, the blankets rustling over their legs. The air still held a faint trace of warmth from earlier.

“C’mere.” Sakusa murmured, pulling Atsumu closer—closer still—until he was practically on top of him. Until his head rested on Sakusa’s chest and their legs tangled together again under the sheets.

Atsumu’s heart was thudding. Fast. Too fast.

But Sakusa didn’t say anything about it. He just ran his fingers through Atsumu’s hair—slow, soothing strokes that dragged against his scalp, threading through damp strands near his nape.

“Relax,” Sakusa murmured. “It’s too early for you to be thinking this hard.”

Atsumu huffed a quiet laugh, breath warm against Sakusa’s skin.

Sakusa’s hand slowed, thumb brushing the curve of Atsumu’s ear. It made the blonde let out a soft sigh, kissed Sakusa’s chest—just over his sternum, where he could feel the steady thrum of his heart.

And slowly, the tension started to leave him.

He let the sound anchor him. The weight of Sakusa’s hand in his hair. The rise and fall of his chest. The quiet in the room, in their bodies, in the space between.

Eventually, his breathing slowed again.

And tucked against Sakusa’s chest, Atsumu finally fell back to sleep.

There was always a buzz in the air when they played the Alders.

Even before the warmups. Even before the first whistle. It was rivalry muscle memory at this point—charged and instinctive, like the match carried weight before anyone touched the ball.

The gym was loud, packed, lights humming high above the polished court. MSBY jerseys gleamed under the heat of it, black and gold sharp against the white-blue of the Alders.

Atsumu felt it in his chest the second they stepped onto the floor. That low hum of nerves that had followed him all week—it was still there. That tight little knot just beneath his sternum. But it didn’t choke him the way it had been. Not here.

Not on the court.

He moved through his warmups like muscle memory. A slow inhale as he cracked his neck. Quick jog from sideline to sideline. Stretching with Hinata, who was practically vibrating with excitement.

“You ready to destroy him?” Hinata grinned, stretching his arms overhead.

Kageyama.

Hinata’s mouth was already running. “I’m gonna tip so much it’s gonna piss him off , I swear—”

“Don’t start a fight before the whistle.” Atsumu laughed, kneeling to stretch his calves.

“No promises.” Hinata grinned.

After a few sets with the team—snappy, clean, sharp off his fingers—Atsumu finally let himself breathe. He felt looser. Clearer. Like the rhythm of movement was scrubbing the static from his head.

But just as he rotated to reset, he caught it.

Sakusa. Across the court. Facing the net. Locked in eye contact with Ushijima.

It wasn’t unusual—at least not at first glance. Sakusa was always serious during matches, especially against someone like Ushijima. But something about it this time…

Sakusa’s face.

Atsumu squinted slightly.

It was subtle. Most wouldn’t even notice it.

But he’d learned how to read Sakusa by now.

And right now? He looked flustered.

His eyes were sharp, his jaw set—but there was a faint flush climbing up his neck, barely visible beneath the collar of his jersey. And his hands, usually loose and measured during warmup, were flexing just a little too tightly at his sides.

And Ushijima?

Ushijima looked calm. Unreadable. Typical. But his gaze didn’t waver. He just stared right back.

What the fuck is that about? Atsumu thought, brows twitching.

Before he could say anything—before he could even move toward Sakusa—Meian’s voice cut through the air.

“Team, let’s go!”

They gathered in quickly. Huddled tight. Atsumu moved to his spot beside Sakusa, still feeling the low churn in his gut. He glanced at him again, out of the corner of his eye.

Sakusa met his gaze—brief but direct. They stared at each other for a beat too long. Then Meian was already calling rotations.

Then they bowed. Shook hands with the Alders, exchanging quiet wishes for a good match.

Atsumu shook Ushijima’s hand, noting how solid his grip was. How cold his palm felt against his.

Then he got into position. Sakusa at his left.

And the whistle blew.

Matches with the Alders meant no easing in. No warm-up tempo. No soft touches or easy floats. From the very first whistle, it was full-speed or get flattened.

The first ten rallies alone had them sweating—Hinata already dripping, Bokuto getting the crowd rowdy. Sakusa wiped the side of his face with the hem of his jersey. Atsumu’s hair was sticking to his forehead before they even broke double digits.

Because this was the Alders. It meant arms stinging from blocking Ushijima’s spikes—those brutal, sharp-angle hits that cracked through triple blocks like they weren’t even there. It meant kneepads thudding into hardwood to chase down setter dumps Kageyama disguised too well. It meant every pass, every step, every angle had to be exact.

There was no time for slip-ups.

And Atsumu fucking loved it. Because here—on this court, in this chaos—it finally made sense.

No thoughts about his phone. No thoughts about his PR team. No thoughts about headlines or grainy videos or anything about his goddamn sexuality.

Just the court.

And yeah, if anyone needed proof? This was it.

It didn’t matter who he danced with at the club or who he let touch his waist—what mattered was this . The ball in the air. His body moving before his brain could even catch up. Timing that lived in his bones. Hands that knew how to put the ball exactly where it needed to be.

They stayed up in the first two sets—edge-of-the-line close, but they kept the lead. Hinata nailed a perfect crosscourt off Kageyama’s hands that made the crowd explode. Bokuto was in rare form—pumping his fist and shouting “YEAH BABY” every other point. Even Inunaki was grinning after a full-body dive that scraped his hip.

But by the third set, the Alders started to bite back.

A few perfect reads from Kageyama. Two fast balls that caught them off by half a step. Ushijima slamming a spike through a hole so small it shouldn’t have even existed.

So they kicked it into full gear.

Atsumu locked in—rotations sharp, transitions tighter. His calls got louder. His sets faster. He was feeding everyone—Bokuto, Hinata, even Meian on the slide.

But he was watching Sakusa.

And something was wrong.

It was just a flicker at first—something in the way Sakusa landed after a hit. A split-second longer to get back into position. A hesitation after a serve receive that was barely perceptible to anyone else.

But Atsumu knew his hitters like the inside of his palms.

Sakusa’s shoulder was hurting .

He was still clean. Still tight. But Atsumu saw the way his fingertips flexed after every block, how he didn’t roll out his shoulder between points like he usually did.

And now, not only did it sting when he spiked or served , it clearly hurt when he had to block Ushijima or dig one of Kageyama’s jump serves.

So Atsumu made a decision.

His next few sets shifted—high to Bokuto, quicks to Hinata, even a pipe to Meian. They were solid options. He wasn’t fucking around. But it was deliberate.

He didn’t set to Sakusa.

Not once.

And it worked, at first.

Until Sakusa caught on.

After an Alders point, while they rotated positions, Sakusa passed behind Atsumu and muttered low, firm: “Set to me.”

The words were sharp. Directive.

Atsumu didn’t respond. Just wiped his face with the hem of his jersey.

They lined up again. Ball came over. Atsumu feinted a look left—Sakusa’s side—but went to Hinata instead, a clean slide that earned them a point and a round of cheers.

But when they turned back to reset, Sakusa was staring at him.

Eyes narrowed.

Next rally.

Ball’s up. Quick pass. Meian yelling for coverage.

And Sakusa—low and sharp—“ Left. ”

It wasn’t a request.

Atsumu grit his teeth.

He looked across the court, clocked Bokuto’s step just an inch too late. Too shallow. Timing off. If he set him now, it’d be blocked for sure.

Sakusa?

Perfect position.

Even if Atsumu didn’t like it, he set.

It was a clean hit. Razor sharp.

And they got the point.

But the second Sakusa landed—Atsumu saw it.

That wince. Tiny. Barely a twitch in his jaw.

While the server set up, they moved into rotation. Atsumu stepped closer, voice low and fast.

“Ya need to cool it .”

Sakusa’s eyes flashed. He scoffed, the sound dry and tight.

“I’m fine.”

“Yer not.”

“I said I’m fine. ”

Atsumu didn’t argue. Not right then. Just looked at him, sweat dripping from his temples, chest still rising hard.

He was already planning the next rotation in his head—already making space in the lineup where Sakusa wouldn’t have to swing.

Because Sakusa could be pissed at him later.

Right now, Atsumu needed him unbroken .

And another thing bothering Atsumu?

Sakusa and Ushijima. Staring . Again .

Between points, timeouts, water breaks—it kept happening. They weren’t talking. Hell, they weren’t even close enough to talk. But they kept looking at each other.

Just… looking.

Across the net. Across the sideline. During substitutions. Half a second too long. Straight, unwavering, unreadable stares. And then they’d both turn away like it never happened.

But it kept happening.

Again. And again.

And Atsumu’s jaw got tighter every time.

What the fuck is that?

Why are they doing that?

What is this? Some weird telepathic middle blocker shit? Some lingering rivalry garbage?

Or worse.

He didn’t even know what the fuck “worse” meant. He just knew the look on Sakusa’s face wasn’t one he’d seen before.

It wasn’t angry. Or nervous. Or soft.

It was blank.

And that somehow made it worse.

So Atsumu got petty.

He’d never admit it, not even if someone held a knife to his throat—but he started targeting Ushijima. On purpose.

He served at him. Over and over. Fast and low and biting, cutting across the net with a spin sharp enough to burn.

He started calling blocks tighter on Ushijima’s hits, pulling Bokuto in for double coverage just to make sure someone got a hand on it. He faked left and dumped a short ball into the corner of the court—right where Ushijima wasn’t.

But inside?

Inside he was crawling.

What the fuck is that eye contact. What the fuck is this feeling.

His pulse hadn’t stopped hammering since the first time Sakusa turned away from that silent stare.

The final set felt like it was happening in a vacuum. Not because it was quiet— god , no. The stadium was vibrating.

The crowd was screaming , stomping, standing. The roar of it swallowed everything—cheers, whistles, squeaking soles, even the ref’s voice. Atsumu’s ears were ringing, and he couldn’t tell if it was the noise or his own pulse crashing through him like surf.

His jersey clung to his back, soaked through with sweat. His palms were burning, knees bruised from diving, lungs working overtime.

Beside him, Kageyama and Hinata were practically eye fucking each other through the net - grinning like wolves, licking their lips between points like they couldn’t wait to take another bite.

The ball went up—fast.

A point for MSBY.

The Alders struck back—clean and vicious. Kageyama’s dump caught them just out of sync.

Then Hinata broke a triple block with a line shot that made Bokuto shout “GODDAMN” before he even hit the ground.

Everything was a blur.

Atsumu couldn’t feel his legs. Could barely register time. It was all instinct now—hands moving, eyes scanning, body reacting on pure reflex.

And then— Sakusa’s serve .

Atsumu moved to the net like always, focused.

He barely registered the toss.

The sharp thud.

And then the sudden silence.

The ball smacked the net .

Dead stop.

It hit the floor with a loud, flat thud. A sound that carried more than it should have.

Then the whistle.

The ref’s arm lifted—signaling time out.

Atsumu blinked.

Didn’t move. Didn’t even turn —because something in him knew. Something in him already fucking knew .

But eventually he turned anyway.

And there was Sakusa. Kneeling on the floor, clutching his right shoulder, fingers curled hard into the fabric of his jersey like he was trying to hold the joint together.

MSBY’s managers were already hurrying over. The team physician right behind them. Meian was signaling for the bench, their coach calling for towels.

And Atsumu— Atsumu felt like he couldn’t lift his own feet.

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think .

He finally forced himself forward. Slipped past Meian’s shoulder with a muttered “I got him” and crouched beside Sakusa without even fully registering it.

The physician was mid-sentence—something clipped and reprimanding—scolding Atsumu like it was his fault Sakusa had pushed too hard, like the sets hadn’t been deliberate, like he hadn’t been trying to protect him.

Sakusa cut in, voice flat. “It’s fine.”

Atsumu didn’t argue. He helped him up, guiding him with a hand under his good arm, supporting his weight.

He walked him to the bench—slow, careful—lowering him gently into the seat before immediately grabbing the nearest towel. Wetting it in the cooler. Folding it once. He pressed it gently to Sakusa’s forehead, then used the edge to wipe the sweat dripping off his jaw. His collarbone. His cheekbone.

But he didn’t speak.

Because his brain was static . No thoughts. Just pressure. Just this tight , awful pressure that filled his throat and burned behind his eyes.

He should say something. He should do something.

But his hands just kept moving, shaking faintly as he mopped sweat from Sakusa’s skin, and his mouth wouldn’t open.

The whistle blew.

Another substitution.

Sakusa’s number came off the board.

Atsumu was supposed to be on the court.

Meian barked his name.

He was frozen, standing over Sakusa, every muscle locked.

Then—

A hand.

Sakusa reached up with his uninjured arm, palm warm and damp, and placed it on the back of Atsumu’s thigh. Squeezed once.

A silent order.

Don’t be stupid and get on the court, Miya.

Atsumu swallowed hard. Nodded. And forced himself to turn away.

Back on the court, everything was louder again. The pressure of the ball. The whistle. The voice in his head screaming that he shouldn’t have set him. That he should’ve fought harder. That he should’ve known this would happen.

But he couldn’t think about it now.

Atsumu set clean— perfectly , even. His hands didn’t falter.

But they were down two. Then three.

Match point. One final block. One final whistle. And it was over.

They’d lost.

Sakusa had been taken off court the second the match ended. Straight to the medical wing behind the locker room tunnel, where trainers and physicians would prod and assess and determine just how bad it was.

For Atsumu, the moment the final whistle blew, everything moved fast.

Handshake line. Bowing. “Good game”s through gritted teeth.

And now, they were in the post-match swirl. The part where the media crew swept in. Where cameras moved low along the court for candid footage. Where fans got their victory laps, even if their team hadn’t won.

Atsumu turned—and of course, there he was.

Ushijima .

Tall. Still. Completely unbothered. The kind of stillness that made him seem carved out of stone, even under the hot court lights. There was a bead of sweat clinging to his jaw.

They stepped in close, because of course they did—former teammates on the youth team, rivals, two starters for Japan. The camera crew caught it immediately. Atsumu could see one camera shift toward them in his peripheral vision. Then a second. A third.

He forced himself not to scowl.

They both lifted a hand automatically—cupping it over their mouths. Standard. So no one could read their lips on the slow-motion highlight reel later. 

“You were in good form tonight,” Ushijima said, blunt as always. “You’ve gotten stronger.”

Atsumu’s hand tightened against his mouth.

“Thanks,” he said. It passed for polite.

Ushijima didn’t seem to notice. His expression didn’t change. “Your connection with Bokuto was particularly effective. Especially in the second set. His line hits have improved, but it’s your timing that made them possible.”

Atsumu smiled with his mouth but not his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, voice steady. “We’ve been practicin’ it.”

He felt it then—tight, low, ugly. The slow twist in his gut that had been building all fucking match. And he shouldn’t have said anything. He knew that. Should’ve just nodded and kept walking.

But he was tired. He was rattled. And the weight of three cameras trained on them made his neck itch like he couldn’t get comfortable in his own skin.

So he said, “You and Sakusa are close?”

Ushijima blinked once. No shift in expression. “We’ve trained together,” he said. “National camp. A few rotations. University. He’s consistent.”

Atsumu hummed low in his throat, lips still hidden under his hand. “Right.”

And suddenly, Atsumu was all too aware of it all.

That Ushijima had been Sakusa’s awakening . That he was handsome . That Sakusa admired him .

All very calm. All very normal. Quiet in a way Atsumu had never been. He was everything Atsumu wasn’t.

And he was the guy Sakusa saw first . The guy his brain went to when it started .

Atsumu’s heart kicked hard in his chest—an ugly, panicked thud. And it only got worse when Ushijima took a step closer and pulled him into one of those post-match hugs the networks loved.

It wasn’t even weird. It was normal. Professional. Barely even a second of contact. But Ushijima kept his hand on Atsumu’s back and leaned in slightly, voice low so the cameras wouldn’t catch it.

“You’re a remarkable setter.” He said.

Atsumu felt his skin flush hot.

He was being complimented .

Ushijima was being nice. Supportive. Sportsmanlike.

And Atsumu hated it. Hated every goddamn second.

His chest was tight. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His hand twitched at his side.

Because this wasn’t some nameless rival. Wasn’t just a top outside hitter.

This was Sakusa’s type . His fucking blueprint.

And Atsumu—messy, loud, sweaty, emotional Atsumu—was standing there being praised like he didn’t feel like he was about to throw up.

Their hands dropped at the same time. Their cue to move. The cameras were still on them. Atsumu could hear one of the production guys murmuring something into his headset.

Ushijima offered a nod. Then, just before turning away: “Tell Sakusa I hope his recovery is quick.”

Atsumu’s spine locked straight. He nodded once, tightly. “Yeah. Sure.”

He watched Ushijima walk off, posture straight, steps slow and calm.

Atsumu stood there for another second. Just one. Long enough to remember how Sakusa’s breath had hitched when they’d fucked last week. Long enough to picture how he’d looked curled into him after. Long enough to burn with the knowledge that maybe someone else had known him that way first.

Then he blinked. Stepped off to the side.

Then suddenly there was a mic in his face. Then another. Reporters. Game media. Arena crew.

Then he was signing a jersey for a little girl in an MSBY hoodie, kneeling beside her for a picture while her mom beamed through her phone lens.

Then he and Hinata were grinning—posing beside a group of college girls with signs and foam fingers and painted cheeks.

And then it was time for the press conference.

Atsumu barely had time to towel the sweat off his neck before he was walking into a clean, brightly lit media room. Rows of chairs. Reporters lined up like they were waiting to hunt.

He sat at the table, adjusted the mic, tried not to fidget.

His PR manager was just a few feet away, standing to the side—arms crossed, tablet in hand, giving him a small nod.

He focused on her. She was solid. And God, he needed solid. Because his chest was already buzzing. His leg bouncing. His jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

They started with volleyball questions.

“How do you feel about the loss today?”

“We gotta be sharper,” Atsumu said, throat tight. “Cleaner sets. More coverage. Too many soft touches and broken plays.”

“How’s the team feeling after a loss like this?”

“We hate losin’,” Atsumu muttered. “But we’ll come back stronger. That’s how we work.”

Then—

“Can you comment on your connection with Bokuto-san this match? Your timing seemed especially on point.”

“Yeah, we been workin’ on tempo all season.”

Then it shifted.

“Atsumu, about the footage circulating online—”

He kept his voice flat. “No comment.”

“Has the speculation about your personal life impacted your focus this week?”

Atsumu smiled. Barely. “I care about volleyball. That’s what I focus on.”

But his leg was bouncing harder now. The table shook faintly.

They asked about rotations, about substitutions.

Then someone brought up the club again.

Called it a “scene.”

Atsumu’s ears rang.

Then another voice, closer to the front: “What’s your concern level about Sakusa’s injury tonight?”

Atsumu opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Then—quiet, fast: “I—I think he’ll be okay. He’s tough.”

And before he could inhale again—

“He put his hand on your thigh tonight, during the time out. A very personal moment. Can you speak to the nature of your relationship?”

Atsumu blinked.

“What—?”

“Just asking, given how visibly intimate it seemed, and the questions swirling about your personal life—”

Atsumu swallowed. “I—I’m not talkin’ about that. It was—it wasn’t like—”

Then another voice.

“How is the team preparing to play the rest of the season without Sakusa, now that he’s likely out?”

And something inside Atsumu snapped .

“You don’t know that,” he shot back, voice sharper than intended. “Nobody knows that yet. Don’t assume shit.”

A pause. Chairs creaked. Pens scratched.

He tried to recover—opened his mouth to say something else. Something better. Something that would make it okay.

But the questions just kept coming .

One after another. Like waves. Personal. Strategic. Invasive.

How are you holding up with the pressure?

Are you dating anyone?

What message do you want to send fans about who you are off the court?

Atsumu couldn’t breathe. It felt like the room was underwater . Every sound muffled. Every face too sharp. He couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t hear right. His chest was a tight, unforgiving vice. His hands were trembling under the table.

And then—he just stood up.

Too fast.

His chair slammed into the wall behind him with a bang.

“I—I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Excuse me—”

Then he stormed out, heart thudding so violently he thought it might actually explode.

Behind him, his PR manager stood quickly, already smoothing it over.

“A tough loss tonight,” she said, voice calm, professional. “We appreciate your understanding…”

Her voice grew faint the moment the door shut behind Atsumu.

He was already down the hallway, moving fast. Until he wasn’t, until he was clutching the wall.

His breaths came in short, shallow bursts—his mouth open, gasping.

In. In. In—

But the out never came.

And then he was sliding down the wall, sitting on the cold concrete floor outside the media room, chest heaving, hands clenched in his lap.

Atsumu Miya—national athlete, Japan’s favorite golden boy—couldn’t breathe.

And he felt so stupid .

He didn’t even hear her footsteps, just the touch. His PR manager crouched in front of him, gently grabbing his shoulder.

“Hey,” she murmured. “Atsumu. Look at me.”

His eyes snapped toward her, unfocused.

“You need to calm down.” She said, even.

“I—I can’t,” he gasped. “I can’t fucking breathe.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “I got you.”

He tried to say something else, but all that came out was a fractured breath, his chest stuttering again.

And then—between one desperate inhale and another—

“I need—” his voice cracked, barely audible. “I need Kiyoomi.”

She stilled. Just for a moment. Then she nodded. “Okay.”

And she helped him up.

They moved quickly—quietly—through the back hallways of the stadium, past service tunnels and medical signage, until they reached a pair of thick double doors. The arena noise was far behind them now. The air was cooler. Still fluorescent, but dimmer here.

She held the door open, didn’t follow. And Atsumu stepped inside.

Sakusa sat on a raised physician’s chair, shirtless, his shoulder bandaged and taped with neat, tight lines of KT tape. His arm was in a black sling, resting in his lap.

The second their eyes met, Atsumu nearly broke.

Sakusa’s expression shifted. His brows pinched faintly, and he turned toward the team doctor.

“Can we have a minute?”

The physician sighed but nodded, grabbing his clipboard and stepping out with a muttered, “Don’t move that arm.”

Then the door shut behind him, and they were alone.

Atsumu was still standing. Still shaking, still breathing wrong. But he managed—between two ragged inhales—to croak, “Yer shoulder…?”

Sakusa didn’t answer at first. Just reached for him—his good hand slipping into Atsumu’s and tugging gently. His knee bumped Atsumu’s thigh like a silent nudge.

Atsumu stepped closer.

Sakusa looked him dead in the eye and inhaled.

Atsumu followed.

Then exhaled.

They kept doing that—together. In. Out. In again. Sakusa’s hand steady in his. Their knees touching.

Five full minutes passed like that.

And when Atsumu could finally breathe again—when the panic released its grip on his lungs—he squeezed Sakusa’s hand hard.

Then he whispered, “The press conference was bad.”

Sakusa didn’t blink. “I saw it.”

Atsumu exhaled through his nose, nodding once. Then his eyes drifted down—staring at the web of tape across Sakusa’s shoulder, the way his arm was tucked tight into the sling.

“Do y’know how bad it is?”

Sakusa followed his gaze, then looked away. “We won’t know for sure till we get home. Going to need scans.”

Atsumu blinked hard and let out a breath that shook all the way through him. And then he stepped forward, closer— between Sakusa’s thighs now.

He reached up, cupped Sakusa’s jaw, thumb brushing the flushed skin beneath his eye. Tilted his head up gently. Sakusa didn’t resist.

His good hand slid along the back of Atsumu’s thigh—slow, soothing, like muscle memory. Like that same quiet touch from earlier in the match that everyone saw and twisted into something ugly.

Fuck them.

Yeah, it was intimate.

It was personal.

And it made Atsumu feel safe. It made him breathe.

So fuck his image. Fuck the cameras. Fuck every reporter that asked about who he kissed or danced with or held on the sideline. None of them were here now. None of them knew what this felt like.

Atsumu leaned in and kissed him—soft and deep and slow, with no apology in it.

Sakusa sighed into it, lips parting, hand still moving gently along the curve of Atsumu’s thigh.

Their mouths moved together like gravity, like they didn’t know how to stop, tongues brushing, breath mingling, warm.

Atsumu’s hand slid into Sakusa’s curls, gripping lightly, anchoring himself there. And Sakusa’s fingers slipped under the hem of Atsumu’s shorts—just enough to palm muscle.

And Atsumu thought —

Yeah. This is what I needed.

Not apologies. Not carefully drafted answers. Not a fucking PR line.

Just this.

Fuck everyone else.

Atsumu pulled back just a little. Just enough to catch his breath. His eyes searched Sakusa’s face.

Then—quiet, but steady:

“I’m gay.”

Sakusa blinked.

A beat passed. Then—huffed, dry and low—

“Yeah. I’ve gathered that.”

Atsumu snorted, even as his face flushed, even as his jaw clenched like the words still hurt to say out loud. He kissed him again, harder this time, rougher around the edges.

When he pulled back, his voice cracked on the next part.

“I’m gay… ‘cause I’m in love with you.”

Chapter Text

A rotator cuff tear.

Not bad enough for surgery. But bad enough to bench him for weeks—maybe longer.

Bad enough to rattle the entire foundation of someone like Sakusa Kiyoomi, who lived by control and ritual and performance. Who’d trained his whole life to rely on precision, on his body doing exactly what he told it to do, without fail.

Now he was sidelined.

Atsumu had seen it—how Sakusa didn’t wince at the pain, didn’t flinch when the medic rolled his arm through slow rotations. His face stayed unreadable. But his jaw had been clenched tight enough to splinter.

Because the pain wasn’t what mattered. It was the stillness. The not-playing. The not-contributing. The part where he suddenly wasn’t necessary on the court. That was the real injury.

And right before that, Atsumu had blurted out the confession of a lifetime.

“I’m gay… ‘cause I’m in love with you.”

And Sakusa hadn’t responded.

Because that’s when the coaching staff had come in. The team doctor. The manager. All business. All protocol.

And the moment disappeared like a puff of steam in the cold.

Atsumu had stepped back fast, like he was the one who’d done something wrong. Like he’d been caught. Hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, head ducked low. The last thing he saw before slipping out of the room was Sakusa nodding along, blank-eyed, while the doctor explained what they’d already assumed.

And then Atsumu left.

Three days later, that was still it.

Sakusa had gone to Shizuoka City to stay with Komori, said he needed some space. Time to rest. Time to think.

But Atsumu knew what that really meant.

It meant isolation. It meant guilt. It meant Sakusa pacing around in his cousin’s spare room, spiraling because he couldn’t train, couldn’t do the one thing that made sense when the rest of the world didn’t. It meant he'd be working himself into a mental trench and pretending he was doing just fine.

Atsumu hadn’t argued. Just nodded. Said cool in a voice that barely cracked. Didn’t ask when he was coming back.

But now?

Now it was days later, and it was eating Atsumu alive.

Because he had really only got one text since Sakusa left.

[Omi]: This sling is fucking annoying.

That was it. Nothing else.

And so yeah, Atsumu was losing his mind.

Because that was all Sakusa had to say?

And the thing was—it wasn’t just the silence. It was the noise too. The noise that followed, immediately, predictably, once the press caught wind of Sakusa’s injury and started sniffing around for a story.

The day after the official announcement—MSBY Black Jackals to temporarily rotate in second-string wing spiker following injury of Sakusa Kiyoomi—they invited media to the training arena. Cameras. Boom mics. Atsumu had been pulled aside to take a couple questions, answers prepped for him, a clean training tee slipped on.

Atsumu had done it a dozen times before. He nodded. Grinned. Pretended his heart wasn’t already pounding at the base of his throat.

He knew the lines.

"We’re pushing through." "Every player’s stepping up." "We trust our coaching staff."

But none of those lines were about Sakusa.

None of them were about I’m in love with the guy who’s not here.

A woman with a pastel mic leaned forward. “Miya-san,” she said, “your on-court communication seems to have… evolved this season. Would you say you’re becoming a more expressive setter?”

Atsumu blinked.

That was how they were going to start? With “expressive”?

He forced a smile. “We’ve been workin’ on our chemistry a lot this year. The team’s tight. Everyone’s communicating better.”

Next question.

“How do you feel the team will adjust without Sakusa? Has his absence changed your role?”

“He’s a big presence,” Atsumu said carefully. “On and off the court. But we’re a unit. Everyone’s steppin’ up where it counts.”

“And for you personally?”

The words landed like a punch to the chest.

For a second, he forgot how to breathe. He opened his mouth - but another reporter was already speaking to add to the question.

“What’s it like to lose a teammate you’ve worked so closely with? Does it impact your headspace at all?”

Atsumu laughed. Too fast. Too loud. “It’s part of the sport,” he said. “Injuries happen. You adjust. We’re still focused.”

His jaw was tight. His hands were flexing at his sides. Because how else is he supposed to answer that?

Yeah, it impacts my headspace. I wake up every morning thinking about him.

I told him I loved him while he was icing his shoulder and he didn’t say anything. Now he’s in Shizuoka with his cousin and I haven’t heard from him since. Except one fuckin’ text about how his sling is annoying.

Or was he supposed to say -

Actually, I’m spiraling. and thinking about ripping my hair out. Thanks for asking.

Instead, he stuck to the lines.

“I’m supportin’ my teammates,” he said, voice stiff. “That’s what matters.”

But, the moment he got home he ripped off his duffle bag and basically hurled it across the room.

Because yeah—he told Sakusa he loved him. And yeah, he's fucking his teammate. And he’s a dude. And yeah, he’s maybe obsessed with the shape of Sakusa’s mouth and the sound he makes when he’s about to come. But—

But Atsumu still likes girls. Always has. Always will. The softness. The scent. The curve of their voices. The way they flirt back, bold and bright. That part hasn’t gone away. It’s just—changed.

So what the fuck does that make him?

Not straight.

Not gay. Even though that’s what he told Sakusa.

Just…

Bi?

What he did know is that he wanted Sakusa to say it back. He wanted Sakusa to say anything at this point. I love you too or no, you’re confused or even go fuck yourself, Miya. Anything. Something to work with. Something to hold.

Instead, Atsumu had an apartment too quiet for its own good.

So he went to the only place his brain could settle.

Onigiri Miya. Again. For the sixth time in three days.

Osamu didn’t say anything when Atsumu came through the back door this time. He just lifted his chin in a greeting without looking up from the counter, already halfway through morning prep.

Truth was, by the third visit, Osamu had started putting out a second stool behind the register. He had started making an extra rice ball in the morning and setting it on the back shelf where it wouldn’t be seen. Not because Atsumu ever asked—but because he always showed up eventually.

Didn’t matter if they talked or not. Didn’t matter if Atsumu sat in the back and scrolled on his phone or stood beside him like a shadow while Osamu chopped scallions. It was just what they did.

Family rhythm.

Some brothers call. Some text. Some drop in without knocking and lean on your prep table like they own the place.

Atsumu hovered.

And Osamu, for the most part, let him.

During the most recent visit, Osamu eventually glanced over, wiping his hands on a towel. “Ya here to eat or loiter?”

Atsumu shrugged. “Little of both.”

Osamu handed him a prep bowl. “Ya can peel eggs if yer gonna stand there.”

Atsumu took the bowl without complaint, grabbed a stool, and started methodically tapping shells against the lip. The motions helped, grounded him.

So far, Osamu didn’t push. Didn’t ask what was bothering Atsumu so much. Not yet. He was giving Atsumu time to sit with it.

He didn’t say anything the first few times Atsumu drifted behind the counter. Or when Atsumu lingered by the register during the tail end of the morning rush, chin hooked over his folded arms while Osamu rang up two takeout orders with his whole damn body pressed into the pastry display. Didn’t comment when Atsumu started drumming his fingers against the lids of soup pots while Osamu tried to scrub out the miso stains from the rice cooker tray. The steady tap-tap-tap of blunt fingers echoing louder than the dishwasher in the corner. Didn’t blink when he turned to grab a colander and nearly tripped over Atsumu’s sneakered foot, planted directly behind him like it had been growing out of the tile.

He let it happen for a while. Because Atsumu didn’t always come to talk. Sometimes he just came to exist. 

So Osamu let him orbit.

Even when he bumped into him once, then twice, with the edge of his elbow. Even when Atsumu tried to crowd behind him while he was sealing a row of tuna rolls.

Then came the third time.

Osamu turned with a stack of plastic prep trays—still damp from air-drying—and smacked the edge of them into Atsumu’s chest.

“Shit—” he muttered. Then added, sharper: “Tsumu. I love ya, but ya don’t gotta stand so close I can feel yer eyelashes blinkin’.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, ya were. I nearly took yer tit off with a tray. Go lean on somethin’ else before I chuck this stack at yer forehead.”

Atsumu sighed dramatically and flopped onto the stool behind the counter, chin in his palm, feet hooked around the stool legs like a moody teenager.

“You’re so mean to me.” He muttered.

Osamu didn’t even glance up. “Yer crowdin’ me like a lost dog. Yer lucky I don’t put a leash on ya.”

Atsumu grinned at that—barely. Then reached over and stole a triangle of tamagoyaki cooling on the side tray, popping it into his mouth without remorse.

“Ya act like ya don’t miss me when I ain’t here.” He said, chewing through it.

Osamu rolled his eyes. “Ya’ve been here every day this week. Ain’t much time to miss someone who’s been breathing down my neck like a humidifier.”

Atsumu just grumbled under his breath, and Osamu laughed a little.

It was close to eleven when Osamu flipped the sign to CLOSED.

Atsumu didn’t flinch, didn’t reach for his phone. He was already elbow-deep in suds, standing in front of the industrial sink, sleeves shoved up to his forearms. His hoodie was slouched and damp near the hem, and his sweatpants dipped ow on his hips.

And for once, he wasn’t bitching about it. No dramatic groaning. No “yer takin’ advantage of me” complaints. Just the low clink of ceramic bowls and the hiss of the spray nozzle cutting through the quiet. 

Which wasn’t normal.

Atsumu never did anything quietly.

Osamu was in the back office, counting yen. Every few moments, he would glance around the doorframe and watch Atsumu. Then went back to counting the till. He double-checked the receipts. Logged the cash. Updated his inventory sheet. The motions were all familiar by now, but every few minutes, his eyes darted up.

Still no sound from Atsumu. Not even a muttered insult when one of the metal trays clanged too loud. No humming. No whistling. 

The dishes were done ten minutes later. Dried. Put away.

Atsumu was wiping down the sink when Osamu came up behind him, kitchen rag slung over his shoulder, voice low and flat.

“Alright. Spill.”

Atsumu blinked. “Spill what?”

“Whatever’s got ya actin’ like a sad little ghost.”

“I’m not actin’ like a ghost.”

“Yer doin’ chores without bitchin. Where is my brother and what have ya done with him?”

Atsumu scoffed but didn’t look up.

Osamu tilted his head. “Ya gonna tell me, or am I gonna have to pry it outta ya while yer takin’ out the trash?”

Atsumu dried his hands on a towel, still not facing him. His shoulders rose and fell in a tight breath. “It’s stupid.”

Osamu leaned against the counter. “Good. I like stupid.”

A beat.

Then Atsumu turned and leaned his weight against the sink, hands bracing either side. “I told him I love him.” He said.

Osamu blinked. “Sakusa?”

“No, the fuckin’ old man that lives next door to me. Yes, Sakusa.”

Osamu didn’t react. Just nodded once. “Alright.”

“And he—he didn’t say anything.”

“Like, nothin’ at all?”

“Nope…and I…I didn’t even think—I just said it.” Atsumu’s voice got tight at the edges. He rubbed the back of his neck. “And then staff came in. Coaches. Managers. All that. I left. And now he’s at Komori’s, and we haven’t talked about it since.”

Osamu stayed quiet.

“He texted me once,” Atsumu said. “Once. To tell me his sling is annoying.”

His laugh was short and humorless. “Not what’d you mean by that or hey, I love ya too, or even fuck off, Miya. Just…how his fucking sling sucks.”

Atsumu ran a hand through his hair, pulling it tight at the roots. “I just—I don’t know, man. I said it, and he didn’t say anything, and now he’s out with a busted shoulder and probably thinkin’ about retirement or some shit, and I don’t know how to act.”

He looked down, voice quieter. “And the whole… what does this make me thing. I keep thinkin’ about that too. Like, I’m in love with a guy. That should mean I’m gay, right? But I still like girls. Always have. So I’m bi? I guess? And I know it shouldn’t matter. But it does. Especially when I got fuckin’ PR teams askin’ if I’m still available for Valentine’s campaigns.”

Osamu gave a short breath through his nose. “Didn’t know sexuality had to fit on a marketing brief.”

Atsumu laughed once, bitter. “Apparently it does.”

Osamu let him quiet down. And then, when Atsumu’s eyes looked glassy and his bottom lip twitched just a little, Osamu reached out and grabbed him gently by the back of the neck.

Not hard. Not sharp. Just enough to anchor him.

“Don’t be such a crybaby.” Osamu said, voice even.

Atsumu sniffed. Wiped at his nose with his sleeve. “Not cryin’.”

“Yer snifflin’ like a toddler.”

“Yer ugly.”

“We’re identical.”

“Nah, I’m the better lookin’ one.”

They stood there for a beat longer, Osamu’s hand warm on his neck. Atsumu let his eyes close for half a second, just breathing.

Then Osamu gave a light squeeze and let go. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go get some food.”

Atsumu blinked. “Now?”

“Yeah. And one drink.”

Atsumu squinted. “One?”

“One. We don’t need another PR nightmare for you.”

Atsumu managed a laugh. “Yeah. Alright.”

He wiped his face again, tugged his hoodie back into place, and followed Osamu out the back door into the alley..

The izakaya Osamu picked was low-ceilinged and warm, the kind of place that smelled like grilled mackerel and old cedar planks, tucked in behind a flower shop. There were just enough seats for regulars, but it was popular for the occasional young crowd looking for a new “underground” place to try.

Atsumu didn’t ask where they were going. Just slumped into the booth across from Osamu, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms.

“One drink.” Osamu reminded him, already waving over the server.

Atsumu rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He didn’t want to get drunk, not after the last time. His stomach still curled when he thought about the club bathroom and how his head had cracked against the stall and how Sakusa had kissed him too hard for someone so scared.

So, yeah. One drink was fine.

They ordered grilled skewers, tamagoyaki, and miso soup—“extra scallion,” Atsumu insisted. Osamu didn’t comment, just nodded at the server. The highball that showed up was more soda than whiskey, but Atsumu drank it anyway.

The first few minutes passed easy. Then, 

“What’re we gettin’ Ma for Christmas?” Atsumu asked finally.

“Not another fuckin’ scarf.” Osamu said.

“Right. She didn’t even wear the last one.”

“She pretended she liked it though.”

“Hinata keeps tryna get me to come to Brazil….when off season hits.” Atsumu said next, stabbing a chunk of daikon in his bowl.

Osamu tilted his head. “Ya gonna go?”

Atsumu shrugged. “I don’t know. He makes it sound like paradise. Beaches. Sand courts. Some kinda fruit that makes your dick hard or whatever.”

“Jesus.”

“His words, not mine.”

“Ya need the break though,” Osamu said, voice a little softer. “Time away might help.”

“Help with what?”

“Everything.”

Atsumu didn’t answer. Just kept eating.

He was half-listening to Osamu ramble about maybe changing his menu when the door swung open. Two girls walked in—laughter loud. 

Atsumu didn’t mean to look. But he did.

The second one through the door had long legs, a short skirt, and dark curls that bounced when she laughed. Her sweater was oversized, tugged halfway down one shoulder, and she sat with a kind of casual elegance—ankle hooked over her knee, skirt sliding higher Lipgloss shiny. Smile wide. Pretty.

Atsumu didn’t ogle. Just… looked. Noticed. The way her knee bobbed when she laughed. The way her fingers traced the rim of her drink.

Osamu was still talking. Atsumu nodded along, still half watching. Still quietly cataloging.

Dark hair. Curly. Good skirt. Bright laugh. Tall.

His type.

Then a foot jabbed his shin under the table.

Atsumu flinched. “Ow—what?”

Osamu gave him a look. “Don’t be a douche.”

Atsumu frowned. “I’m not.”

“You were starin’.”

“I wasn’t.”

Osamu raised an eyebrow. Waited.

Atsumu sighed, leaning back into the booth. “Heaven forbid a dude find a girl pretty.”

They were quiet a second. Atsumu blinked down at his empty highball glass. Then back up.

Osamu was still watching him. Not judging. Just… watching.

And Atsumu blinked again. Like his own words had just caught up to him.

Yeah. She was pretty. And something in him had stirred a little watching her sit like that—cross-legged and confident, curls bouncing a little when she turned or laughed.

He didn’t want to sleep with her. But he wanted to notice her. 

And that was… still real. Still true. Even if he was also in love with a man.

Osamu didn’t say anything. Just sipped his beer and let the moment settle.

Then—light, dry: “There ya go. Proof you’re bi. Now maybe you’ll stop spiralin’.”

Atsumu scowled. “Fuck you.”

“Yer welcome.”

A beat passed.

Then Atsumu, picking at a piece of pickled ginger, said, “So what—you’ve never wanted to kiss a dude?”

Osamu laughed once. “We’re not talkin’ about me.”

“Sounds like deflectin’.”

Osamu raised a brow. “Sounds like you’re desperate to not be the only gay Miya.”

“I’m not gay, I’m figurin’ it out.” Atsumu snapped, jabbing at his food.

Osamu just grinned. “Bi panic’s funny to watch.”

Atsumu flipped him off.

They went quiet again. Sipped broth. Then Atsumu, voice lower now, almost careful: “What happened to that girl y'were seein’? The sales rep. Cute one. Worked near that cafe you liked.”

Osamu paused, then shrugged once. “Didn’t work out.”

“That’s it?”

“She wanted weekends. I got a restaurant to run.”

Atsumu tilted his head. “Suna didn’t like her anyway.”

Osamu’s response was quick. Almost too quick. “Yeah. I know.”

Then before he could say anything more, Osamu changed the subject. Asked about how Bokuto was lifting now. Whether Hinata still had that awful playlist for stretching. If Atsumu had been icing his knee like he was supposed to.

Atsumu answered. Talked back. Rambled. Let himself exist in it—warm food, soft light, and the comfort that was his brother.

Eventually, Osamu glanced at him, voice even. “Look. About Sakusa.”

Atsumu groaned. “Can we not—”

“Just listen…”

“I’m not mad at him. I just—he didn’t say anything, y’know? I told him I loved him, and all I got was a fuckin’ sling text two days later.” Atsumu interrupted. 

“Some people don’t got the words right away.”

“I know.” Atsumu muttered. 

Osamu leaned back, eyes sharp. “He’s not you. He doesn’t live in his chest all loud and messy.”

“He’s not emotionally constipated.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Y'were thinking it.” Atsumu said again, quieter this time. “He just—he’s got too many feelings and no goddamn outlet. He shuts down. Not 'cause he don’t care. ‘Cause it’s too much. Like his brain’s short-circuitin’ from tryin’ to sort through it.”

Osamu didn’t argue. Just nodded. Then—“You love him.”

Atsumu shrugged, then nodded. Then shrugged again. “Yeah.”

They paid the tab, the girl in the skirt catching his eye again on the way out. She smiled. Kind of soft, kind of curious.

Atsumu smiled back. Just a little. Not to flirt. Not to chase. Just to recognize.

But he also had Sakusa’s name memorized into the grooves of his palms.

Both things could be true.

Outside, the cold bit his nose, and Osamu shoved his hands in his jacket.

“Ya gonna survive the night without makin’ it about your identity crisis?” He asked.

Atsumu laughed. “One drink did me good, I think.”

Osamu rolled his eyes. “Next time, I’m gettin’ you tea.”

“Jerk.”

“Crybaby.”

They walked in the dark. Shoulder to shoulder. Nothing pressing but the slow, steady beat of their feet on the sidewalk.

And for the first time in a long stretch of days, Atsumu didn’t feel like he was drowning in himself.

The elevator dinged low.

Atsumu stepped off with his keys spinning idly on his finger. He kept his eyes on the ground, watching the tile scuff under his sneakers, one foot in front of the other.

He rounded the corner, still chewing absently at one of his hoodie drawstrings.

Then stopped walking.

There, standing outside his apartment door, arms folded loosely across her chest like she wasn’t sure if she still belonged there, was Natsuki.

Atsumu blinked.

She looked… exactly the same. Soft black curls pulled into a messy updo. A skirt that clung just right. Jacket tight around her waist. Boots he remembered taking off of her more than once after late nights out. That same vanilla-floral perfume, light but specific, hit him like static.

He hadn’t smelled it in months. But his body still remembered it.

“Hey.” She said, voice small, almost sheepish.

His mouth was dry. “Uh. Hey. What…?”

She gave a soft smile, lopsided. “Got into it with my sister. Dumb fight. I just… didn’t wanna be home. So. I don’t know. I thought of you.”

Atsumu stared for a beat, then fumbled with the keys in his hand.

“Oh. Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

The door unlocked easier than he expected. He let her in with a jerk of his chin, catching the soft brush of her shoulder as she passed. She moved like she belonged there. Like nothing had changed.

He followed, closed the door behind her.

Her perfume drifted through the air, subtle and warm. It clung to her jacket, the ends of her hair. It used to cling to him, too—his sheets, his hoodies, the inside of his elbow.

“Tea?” he asked, mainly because he needed something to do with his hands.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’d be nice.”

He filled the kettle, pulled out the nicer mugs. Found the tea she liked without even thinking about it. She settled by the coffee table, already out of her boots, curled into a cushion like she’d never left.

It should’ve felt weird. But it didn’t.

That was the thing about Natsuki—it was always easy. Their thing had never been complicated. No big fights. No real mess. They’d text, hook up, eat takeout on the floor, sometimes talk for hours. She had this way of listening that made you feel like everything you said actually mattered. Like you didn’t have to explain too much.

And yeah, sometimes it got physical. Okay, a lot of the time. But it never felt heavy.

At least, not until the last time.

He still remembered it—her mouth on his throat, her fingers down the front of his body, and nothing. Just air in his lungs and a hard, tight knot in his chest and absolutely no reaction where there should’ve been one. Her arched in front of him, and he still just…couldn’t get his body to work.

Because he had been thinking about Sakusa.

He never texted Natsuki after that.

Now she was here.

He placed her tea down gently, brought her a floor cushion, and sat across from her with his own mug in hand. They sipped in silence for a moment, letting the steam fill the space.

“So,” she said, quiet but not cautious, “how’s the season going?”

“Long,” Atsumu replied. “Omi’s out. Shoulder’s fucked.”

She winced. “I saw that online. Must be rough.”

He nodded. “Yeah. The team’s hangin’ in though.”

She hummed, sipping again.

The conversation meandered from there. She asked about Osamu, about the restaurant, about Hinata’s dumb travel plans. He asked about her job. Her sister. A coworker she used to hate. And somehow, it was like they never stopped talking. Her voice hadn’t changed. Still that way she had of keeping her eyes soft, even when she was teasing.

Then she said it. “I saw the photos.”

He looked up.

“From the club,” she clarified. “The guy.”

He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes. “Yeah. That’s just tabloid shit. People makin’ it bigger than it was.”

She nodded, slow. “Sure.”

He cleared his throat. “So what was the fight about? With yer sister?”

“Nothing important. She thinks I’m uptight. I think she’s a slob. Probably both of us are right.”

He smiled, small. “You’re not uptight.”

“I can be.”

“Not with me.”

That hung between them too.

They moved to the couch not long after. She tugged her legs up under her, always neat. He stretched out, taking up more space than he needed, letting the quiet do most of the work.

They talked. About little things.Then he finally addressed the elephant in the room.

“I didn’t mean to ghost you.”

“I didn’t take it personally.” Another pause. “I just missed you sometimes.” She added, almost as an afterthought.

Atsumu blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like talking to you.”

He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closing for a second. “I missed you too.”

There it was again—that warmth between them. Simple. Familiar. That rhythm they always fell into without needing to try.

But there was still something else under it. Quiet.

Then she touched his knee.

At first, it was just that. A light rub. Her nails grazing over the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

Comfort. Familiarity.

Then her hand moved higher. Slid gently over the curve of his thigh, fingers trailing with a softness that wasn’t meant to be friendly.

Atsumu blinked.

His brain short-circuited for half a second.

She was still talking. Still looking at him like she wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary.

And maybe she wasn’t. Maybe this wasn’t that strange.

But Atsumu suddenly couldn’t hear what she was saying. Couldn’t think. Because her hand was creeping up, and his stomach turned inside out—not with desire—but with awareness.

Because this was Natsuki. Who he used to hook up with. Who had never made things complicated. Who had been patient and warm and smelled like something that reminded him of comfort.

But his heart was beating too loud.

And all he could think was—

Fuck.

“Natsuki,” he said, gently, quietly, reaching down and curling his fingers around her wrist to stop her. “Hey—look, you’re… you’re really pretty. And this is nice, talkin’ like this. Like it used to be.”

She looked at him. Face soft. Eyes knowing.

“But,” he said, trying to make it stick, “I just—”

She cut him off with a soft sound in her throat. Then she was sliding onto his lap, smooth as anything. Her legs on either side of his hips, arms wrapped around his neck like it hadn’t been months since the last time they touched.

“C’mon. Just like old times. I’m not tryin’ to make things messy, okay? Work’s been shit, my sister’s a nightmare—I just needed to get out. Needed something easy.” She whispered, tilting her head, breath warm against his cheek. 

She kissed the corner of his jaw.

Atsumu’s hands stayed limp at his sides, his heart thrumming too loud in his ears.

“Natsuki.” He said again, lower this time.

But she was already pressing her mouth to the side of his neck, kissing down, slow, familiar. Her teeth grazed the skin just under his ear and he flinched, involuntarily.

And that was when it happened.

His hips twitched. His stomach pulled tight. He felt himself thicken beneath his sweats—sudden, shameful, stupid.

No, no, no.

His whole body turned hot.

She felt it too. Of course she did.

She laughed—low, teasing—rocking her hips forward just a little. “Well…better than the last time we did this, huh?”

His jaw clenched. Her words landed sharp—because she was right. Last time, nothing happened. And now? Now she was grinding against him and he was hard, twitching through soft cotton like a goddamn idiot.

His hands finally moved. Gripped her hips—not to encourage. Just to stop.

“Natsuki,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m serious. No.”

She slowed, sat up just enough to look at him.

His eyes darted everywhere but her face—he looked over her shoulder, at the wall, the coffee table, anything that wasn’t the skin of her thighs tight around his hips or the soft cling of her perfume.

He could still feel her. Her softness. Her warmth. The way she felt against his chest—not sharp or biting like Sakusa, but different. Familiar in a way that wasn’t right anymore.

And that was the problem.

Because his body hadn’t figured that out yet.

He hated it. Hated how fast he reacted. Hated the way his dick pressed up against her like it had a mind of its own. Like everything he’d been learning, discovering, feeling for months just short-circuited because of a girl in a skirt and a whisper near his ear.

What did that make him?

A liar? A fuckin’ pervert?

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t—I’m seein’ someone.”

The words fell out in a breath. Blunt.

Natsuki froze.

He took her hips gently and lifted, shifting her off his lap. She moved, more surprised than hurt, though her eyes clouded.

He stood quickly, tugging the hem of his hoodie down, ashamed at the obvious shape still straining in his sweats.

“I didn’t mean to—” he started, then cut himself off. “I’m sorry.”

She stood too, smoothing down her skirt. Her face was calm, but her eyes flicked to his mouth like she hadn’t quite let go of the idea.

“It’s okay,” she said after a second. “I shouldn’t have… I…I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

Atsumu shook his head. “You couldn't have known. It's complicated. I just—fuck.”

He didn’t want her in that way, not anymore. But his body had reacted like it didn’t care. Like it wanted any touch, any warmth, just something that wasn’t alone.

“Guess you’re not broken after all.” She said, voice light, but her smile didn’t quite meet her eyes.

Atsumu laughed once, dry. “Guess not.”

They stood there for a second—still, quiet, the air between them thick with something neither of them wanted to name.

Atsumu rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking once to the floor, then to the door, like maybe she’d just go now, like maybe that’d be cleanest.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t even reach for her jacket. She just looked at him, eyes soft, voice barely above a breath when she finally said, “I still don’t want to go home.”

He looked up.

She didn’t say it like a question. Just a fact.

They stared at each other a beat longer—like they were both waiting for the other to come up with a reason. Or an excuse.

He sighed. “So… ya need a place to crash?”

She nodded.

Atsumu exhaled, long and quiet. “Yeah. Okay. That’s fine.” He turned toward the hallway. “I’ll get the room set up.”

He didn’t look back to see if she followed.

Atsumu moved through it fast, pushing back sheets, tossing the spare pillow onto the other side, the side Natsuki always used to crawl into without asking.

“Bed’s yers,” he said when she hovered in the doorway. “I’ll take the couch.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he said, a little too fast. “It’s fine. Seriously.”

He ducked into the hallway closet, grabbed a clean towel, then doubled back into his room. Dug out an old tee, a pair of drawstring shorts, and one of those worn-in sweatshirts she always liked borrowing when they were still… whatever they were.

“Here.” He said, placing everything on the edge of the bed.

She nodded, eyes flicking toward the bundle but not saying much.

They slipped into separate motions after that—her brushing her teeth in the bathroom while he folded up the blanket on the couch. Him stacking two throw pillows under his neck like it didn’t suck to sleep that way. Lights clicked off one by one.

By the time she came back out in his hoodie, bare legs visible beneath it, he was already stretched out on the couch, arms folded across his chest like armor.

She padded into the living room slowly, mug still in her hand.

“Thanks for letting me stay.” She said, voice gentle.

He nodded. “No problem.”

A pause.

Then, softer, “And… for everything else.”

He looked at her.

“I mean—letting me in. I know it’s kinda weird.”

He huffed. “This whole night’s been weird.”

She smiled, a tired one. “True.”

Atsumu sat up a little, resting his weight on one elbow. “Hey. Just so y’know… it wasn’t you.”

Her eyes found his.

“Why it didn’t work,” he said. “Why we didn’t. It wasn’t yer fault. Ya didn’t do anything wrong.”

She nodded slowly. “I get it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

She smiled again, smaller this time. Then—teasing, but soft: “So who’s the lucky girl that did win you over?”

Atsumu felt his ears go hot. He looked down, laughed once, quick and awkward. “Uh… they’re just… an old friend.”

They.

Natsuki tilted her head a little. Didn’t pry. Didn’t push. Just nodded. “Well. She is lucky, then.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

She stepped closer, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to his cheek—barely there, light as a breath.

“Goodnight.” She whispered.

Then she turned and disappeared down the hallway, her steps quiet, familiar. He heard the rustle of sheets. The creak of the mattress as she climbed into bed. The side she used to always take. The side Sakusa has been filling.

Atsumu let out a long breath. Pulled the blanket up to his chin. The couch wasn’t comfortable. It never had been. But it was enough.

He stared at the ceiling for a while.

Let the guilt wash over him again. Let his body finally settle.

And he couldn’t help but let out a short laugh of disbelief.

Because what the fuck was that? What the fuck just happened?

His eyes opened on their own just before five a.m. No alarm needed. Just years of conditioning and too many early morning drills hammered into muscle memory. 

The apartment was dim, the living room still wrapped in half-light, shadows stretching long over the couch where he lay twisted in his blanket, one foot poking out cold into the air.

He rubbed a hand down his face, cracked his neck, and sat up slow.

Natsuki was still in his bed. He could hear the low rise of her breath through the wall, the faint creak of the mattress when she shifted in her sleep.

Atsumu stood, moved through the apartment as quietly as he could. He stepped over the creaky board in the hall without thinking, brushed his teeth with the water running low, and didn’t turn on the bedroom light when he slipped inside.

She was curled under the covers, still facing the wall. One of his pillows was hugged tight to her chest. His hoodie still loose around her shoulders.

He didn’t look too long.

He just grabbed a pair of joggers and a moisture-wicking tee from the dresser, tugged them on, then retreated just as silently.

In the kitchen, he scribbled out a note on a spare receipt from the counter.

hey.
fridge is fair game. tea + coffee stuff is in the left cabinet.
lock up behind you if you leave before i get back. thank you xxx

He folded it and left it near the kettle, weighted with her mug from last night. Then he laced his sneakers, locked the door behind him, and started running.

The morning air was sharp, cutting through his lungs like ice. His headphones blared a steady rhythm, something too fast for a warm-up, but he didn’t care. He ran through it. Let his legs burn and his breath tighten. Let his brain keep time with his feet.

Not thinking. Just moving. Like maybe if he ran hard enough, the guilt wouldn’t catch up.

He wasn’t even sure what he was guilty of.

Nothing happened.

Except… it almost did.

He ended the run in the apartment gym. Stretched out his hamstrings, did a few sets of shoulder presses, deadlifts, low squats—his usual routine. Something to keep his hands busy. His head clear. It didn’t really work.

By the time the clock hit 8:30, the thought of walking back into his kitchen and seeing Natsuki standing there in his clothes pouring coffee like it was her kitchen made his stomach flip.

So he didn’t go back.

Instead, he headed two blocks down to a breakfast spot he was a regular at. He ordered steamed rice and grilled fish, black coffee, and a side of avocado toast he wasn’t sure he wanted.

His phone buzzed while he was still halfway through his first cup.

Group chat already alive.

[Bokkun]: HINATA SEND THAT VIDEO THE ONE WHERE YOU SLIPPED ON THE VOLLEYBALL

[Shoyo]: I am never letting that video see the light of day NO

Then there was the groupchat with his Inarizaki alumn. Suna blowing up the chat with videos and memes, with Osamu and Aran commenting. Kita chiming in occasionally.

Then, of course, his mom.

[Ma]: Good morning baby. Just checking in. Drink water today. I love you.

Atsumu smiled faintly at that one. 

Then he saw it.

The name that made everything else fade out.

[Omi]: How are you doing?

Atsumu stared at the screen like it might bite him.

His thumbs hovered. He typed: okay. you?

Then deleted it.

Typed again: fine, just busy. team’s been good.

Deleted that too.

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled through his nose, hard.

Then finally: 

i’m fine i miss you.

He stared at it. Watched the blinking cursor, like maybe it would give him a better option.

But none came.

So he hit send and tossed his phone face down on the table like it might catch fire. He didn’t look at it again. Just forced down the rest of his breakfast, leaving most of the toast untouched.

By 9:45, he was walking into his barber’s—his usual spot tucked between a tiny stationery shop and a place that sold overpriced bottled matcha. The bell above the door rang, the guy behind the chair nodded at him with a smirk.

“Lookin’ rough, superstar.”

“Thanks.” Atsumu laughed, dropping into the seat.

“Same cut?”

Atsumu paused. Ran a hand through his hair. “Nah. Take a little more off the top.”

His barber nodded. Clipped the cape around him. “Tired of the messy bleach dye?”

“My bleach job ain’t that bad. And it ain’t that long.”

“It could use a tone. I’ll let it be on the house.”

By the time he left, his undercut was tighter, cleaner. The top shorter than usual, lighter on his forehead, and a little more platinum. Because, yeah, he definitely needed a tone.

The thought of walking back into his apartment and maybe having to see Natsuki again—made his stomach tighten. He wasn’t ready for that. Wasn’t ready for her to ask about them. 

So he went to Onigiri Miya instead.

It was still early, but the place was already warm with prep—the scent of rice vinegar, sesame oil, and Osamu’s usual morning playlist playing too low from a Bluetooth speaker shoved on top of the fridge.

Atsumu let himself in through the back like he always did, tapping the doorframe twice in a rhythm only the twins knew.

Osamu glanced up from the prep table. “Yer early.”

Atsumu grunted, pulling off his hoodie. “Didn’t feel like goin’ home.”

Osamu didn’t ask. Just nodded toward the back sink. “You can rinse the tofu batch if yer bored.”

“Bless you.”

And it was only after an hour had passed, after his hands smelled like ginger and starch and his brain had finally started to quiet, that he pulled out his phone again.

One notification.

[Omi]: I miss you too

Atsumu blinked. His heart thumped once—low and unexpected.

Because… damn.

Sakusa was being nice? Over text?

He swallowed. Face going a little warm, not sure if it was the residual kitchen heat or the words themselves.

He stayed at Onigiri Miya longer than necessary. He helped unload a delivery. Moved boxes of bottled tea from the back fridge. Ate cold rice and pickled radish in slow, disinterested bites. Stayed until the sun had started to turn orange, like if he held out long enough, he could stall whatever was waiting for him at home.

When he finally went back, the apartment was quiet. Natsuki was gone. He didn’t call out to check. Just stepped into the entryway, shoes still on, and scanned the space.

A note sat on the counter, folded in half, pinned beneath the kettle.

thanks for letting me crash again.
you know i still love you.
call me if you ever need anything.

His stomach tensed. Not sharp. Just tight. Like guilt sitting cross-legged in his gut.

He read it twice, then turned it over, then tossed it in the trash.

The shower was too hot, but he didn’t turn it down. Let the water sting his skin, tried to wash the scent of her off his neck. The ghost of her weight from his lap. The noise his own body had made without permission.

He brushed his teeth slow. Scrubbed his face until his skin was pink and raw around the eyes.

By the time he slid into bed, he was exhausted. But sleep didn’t come. Not even close.

The sheets were fresh, yeah—but his pillow smelled like her. Faint, but unmistakable. That warm vanilla, that soft floral tone she always wore. It used to be comforting. Used to stick to the back of his car seats and his hoodies and his throat.

Now it just made his head buzz.

He flipped the pillow over. That side smelled like detergent and maybe Sakusa’s shampoo. Not enough.

He stared at the ceiling. Stared at nothing. Counted the slow tick of the baseboard heater turning on and off.

His brain wouldn’t stop, kept dragging him in circles.

The sheets were too hot. The air too dry. His skin too tight around his bones. He turned over. Turned back.

Still awake.

Still wired.

And then—out of nowhere, not even dramatic—he thought:

I miss my mom.

Just like that.

Like a punch to the chest. Not painful. Just sudden. Clear.

He reached for his phone in the dark, thumb hovering for a second before he typed.

hey ma. i think i wanna come see you on my next day off. love ya. call me in the morning.

He stared at the screen a second longer, then hit send.

No read receipt, obviously. She was probably asleep. Probably wouldn’t see it till breakfast. 

He tossed the phone down, rolled out of bed, and pulled a hoodie over his head.

The couch was cold when he sank into it. He didn’t bother with lights. Just turned on the TV and queued up old game footage—Nationals. Training camps. One of Sakusa’s best defensive reels.

He let it play. Let it wash over him. Let it fill his brain with patterns and numbers and angles until the rest of the noise dulled.

He didn’t move for hours. Watched until his eyes stung. Until the lines blurred. Until the rhythm of the match slowed in his chest.

Until, finally, his body stopped fighting him. And his head dropped against the couch cushions, heavy.

Finally, he fell asleep.

The train ride out of Osaka felt longer than it was.

Atsumu sat in the window seat, hoodie hood up, mask over his nose to try and hide who he is. And he kept checking his phone without unlocking it.

The text from Sakusa was still there.

[Omi]: I miss you too

He hadn’t responded. It’d been almost two days now. Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he didn’t feel the same. But because—what the fuck was he supposed to say? Cool. Good to know. That’s nice.

It wasn’t enough. Not after everything.

So instead, he caught a late morning train out toward the neighborhood where he and Osamu had grown up. The streets hadn’t changed. Same telephone poles. Same old women gossiping by the post office. Same cracked sidewalk just before the hill.

By the time he reached the front gate of his old home, he felt his throat start to close.

The porch still creaked the same when he stepped up onto it. Same sliding screen door. Same ceramic wind chime with the chipped corner.

He exhaled once—deep, shaky.

The moment he stepped inside, he bowed his head lightly toward the kamidana, murmured his usual prayer for their grandma—hands pressed together, eyes closed, the way their mom taught them.

And then he turned the corner and saw her.

His mom. Hair clipped up, apron dusted with flour, mouth tugging into that warm, familiar smile the second she spotted him.

And that was it. Something cracked open in his chest, fast and sharp and completely overwhelming. He didn’t even know why. But standing there in his socks in the house he grew up in, his heart just tipped sideways.

Tears started falling before he could stop them.

His mom blinked once, then came straight over. She wrapped him up like he was eight years old again and had just skinned his knees in the driveway.

“Oh, baby,” she cooed, teasing through her Kansai twang. “What’s all this now, huh? Missed me that much?”

Atsumu laughed, or tried to. It cracked halfway out of his throat. His arms tightened around her without thinking. He pressed his face to her shoulder. Inhaled her perfume—same soft powdery floral she’d worn since forever—and something a little like soy sauce and fried tofu from whatever she’d been cooking all day.

She rubbed a hand over his back. Kissed his cheek. Teased, “Yer gonna drown my shirt, y’know that?”

“I’m not crying.” He mumbled into her collar.

“Yer cryin’.”

“I’m not.”

“Mmhmm.”

He laughed again, wetter this time. And still—he didn’t let go. Not for another thirty seconds. Maybe more.

Finally, she patted his side and said, “Alright now, goodness. Yer gonna break my bones with those strong-boy hugs.”

Atsumu sniffled, pulling back, rubbing at his face with the edge of his sleeve. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just come eat.”

He followed her to the kitchen, still sniffing, still a little overwhelmed by how safe it felt here. The familiar sound of the fan over the stove. The TV murmuring softly from the living room. The hum of something boiling on the back burner.

She motioned for him to sit. He did.

Immediately she started fussing—making his plate, stacking pickles and tamagoyaki like it was a bento box, setting down a folded napkin beside him like he hadn’t been feeding himself for years.

She smoothed her fingers over his hair as she passed by, trying to press it down in the back where it always stuck up. “It’s blonder than I remember.” She said, amused.

“Yeah,” Atsumu murmured, chewing slowly. “Barber toned it.”

“Looks good,” she said. “More grown up. A little tired though.”

He snorted. “That’s just my face.”

“Mm. Nah. It’s in yer shoulders too.”

He didn’t answer that, just looked down at his plate and exhaled.

She didn’t press. Just sat with him while he ate, replenishing the pickles, pouring him tea. Letting the quiet do what it needed to.

And after he ate, he basically went to work. Kept moving. Because that was the trick, right? Stay busy, keep the thoughts from pooling in the corners.

His mom handed him a list of stuff she’d been meaning to get done, and he took it without argument.

He got behind the washing machine first—her favorite old dishtowel had fallen back there months ago, apparently. It was wedged between the frame and the wall, half dusty, half damp.

Next, he moved the dresser in the guest room that she’d been complaining about since summer—something about how it blocked the good light. It took some effort, the legs snagged on the rug, but he got it there.

Then came the ceiling fans. He dusted all of them without being asked, standing on a chair in each room, shirt collar pulled up over his nose. It helped. The repetition. The low hum of cleaning music from the little radio on the kitchen windowsill.

But of course, she wasn’t done.

“Out back,” she said, nudging him toward the sliding door. “Lawn’s lookin’ a little wild. Don’t want the neighbors thinkin’ I raised barn boys.”

“Think it’s a little late for that.” He muttered, but grabbed the mower anyway.

The backyard looked the same. Faded patio chairs. Overgrown bush near the fence line. It was warm out—warm enough for sweat to collect along his hairline as he made slow laps around the lawn, the mower grumbling under his grip.

He didn’t think about much. Didn’t let himself.

Just pushed.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

When he finished, he rinsed off at the spigot, then headed upstairs to shower.

The water pressure was lower than he remembered. The hot water came in waves. The mirror fogged instantly, and the towel he grabbed had his name sewn into the corner in their grandma’s embroidery—Atsumu.

He changed into a loose tee and soft shorts. The air felt cleaner here. Easier. He flopped onto the living room couch, still towel-drying his hair when his mom came in with a fresh glass of barley tea and that too-casual tone she always used when she was about to pry.

“What’s on yer mind, baby?”

"It’s complicated.” He muttered.

“That don’t scare me.”

He breathed out through his nose. “I don’t even know how to start.”

“Start with the part where ya stop pretendin’ you’re fine.” She said, sitting down on the other end of the couch, tucking one leg beneath her.

He let the silence stretch. Then sat up, elbows on knees. “I, um…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I met someone.”

Instantly, her face lit up. “Oh? Which one? Don’t tell me it’s that girl I pointed out in the grocery store—what was her name—Misaki? The one with the bangs? Ya need someone sweet, ‘Tsumu, I’ve been telling ya—”

“It’s not… it’s not who ya think it is.”

She blinked. “Oh?”

He didn’t look at her. Just swallowed and kept talking. “I told them how I felt. Couple weeks ago. It just kind of… came out.”

“And?”

“And they didn’t really say anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Just—later. Like, a week later. They said they missed me.”

His mom hummed. “Yer being awfully vague.”

“I know.”

She didn’t press, not yet. Just reached for her own glass on the table and sipped her tea. “So what’s the problem?”

“They’re not great with feelings. Like—at all. They don’t really know how to say stuff.”

“That doesn’t mean ya have to shut up too.”

He glanced at her.

She gave him that familiar mom look—the one that said you know I’m right, so don’t bother trying to out-stubborn me.

“I just—I don’t know,” he muttered. “I don’t want to push them. But it sucks. I feel like I’m the only one standin’ in the open.”

She nodded. “And ya feel like if you say it again, you’ll scare them off.”

“Yeah.”

“But if ya don’t say it, you feel like you’re lying to yourself.”

Atsumu blinked fast. Looked down.

Yeah.

That was it.

Exactly.

She was quiet for a beat, then nudged his shin with her foot. “Tell me who it is. Yer mom should know, right?”

Atsumu went still. His throat worked around nothing. He let his head tip back, stared at the ceiling, eyes prickling again.

“I’m scared yer not gonna like the answer.” He said quietly.

She smiled gently, brows pulling together. “Baby. I don’t care who it is. As long as she treats ya right—”

“What if it’s not a she?”

The words came out in a single breath.

The room was still.

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

Until he felt her hand on his knee. Warm. Steady.

“Then I hope he treats ya right.”

Atsumu’s eyes snapped to hers.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t even frowning. She just looked at him. Her baby. Her boy. The same way she always had.

And that? That made the tears come back.

He swallowed hard, voice shaking. “Ya mean that?”

“I raised ya to tell the truth, didn’t I?” She said, smoothing her hand over his leg. “Ya think I did all that just to teach ya to be someone else?”

Atsumu dropped his head into her lap, just like when he was little. Her fingers found his hair immediately. Petting through it. Soft. Familiar.

“Yer a good boy, Atsumu,” she murmured, brushing the side of his face. “Ya feel things big. That’s never been the problem.”

He sniffled. Curled in closer.

“And whoever this boy is,” she added, tone a little sharper, “he better not make you cry like this too often. Y’hear me?”

Atsumu laughed wetly into her apron. “He’s kinda bad at feelings.”

“Well,” she said, brushing his hair back. “Lucky for him, you’ve always been good at speaking your mind.”

By the time the sun had started to dip lower in the sky, his mom had shuffled into the kitchen and started boiling water like there hadn’t just been a semi-existential crisis in the living room twenty minutes ago.

Atsumu stayed curled into the corner of the couch, a throw blanket across his lap. His eyes were swollen. His heart felt weirdly lighter.

She came back with a tray—two mugs, steam curling up in slow ribbons—and set one down in front of him. Evening tea. The one with ginger and roasted barley. The one she used to make when he or Osamu had a fever, or got dumped, or failed a test.

He stared at it, then looked at her.

“…Yer taking this oddly well.” He said slowly.

She blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno.” He shrugged, staring into the cup. “You just—like. Didn’t even blink.”

She laughed. Just one of those quiet, amused Kansai-mom laughs that said you’re cute for thinking I didn’t see you coming.

“Baby,” she said, sitting down beside him with her own cup. “Ya think I can’t read my own sons like the back of my hand?”

He looked at her sideways.

She continued, “Ya think I didn’t notice the way you were always just a little too interested in some of them boys from the volleyball circuit?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I’m your mama,” she said, patting his thigh. “I been watching you look at people yer whole life. And I’ve seen the way ya look at girls. And I’ve seen the way ya look at some boys. And baby, it wasn’t always friendly.”

Atsumu flushed hot, ears burning. “You—what?”

She smiled into her mug. “The eyes don’t lie, ‘Tsumu. Ya got a big heart. And a big mouth. But your eyes give you away every time.”

He stared at her.

She shrugged. “And yeah, sure, I tried to set ya up with girls. Ya seemed like you liked ‘em. So I figured, hey, why not. You’d come home talkin’ about pretty ones. Funny ones. Girls who liked ramen and lifted weights.”

Atsumu looked down again. The rim of the mug was warm against his palms.

“All I’ve ever wanted,” she said, quieter now, “was for you and yer brother to be happy. That’s it. That’s the dream.”

He nodded, throat tight again. “I know.”

“I don’t care who it is. I don’t care what label ya use. I care that they treat ya right. That you laugh more than you cry. That they show up for you when it matters.”

His eyes burned again. He blinked fast.

“And that you show up for you,” she added. “That ya don’t go getting all quiet and sad and pretend you’re fine when yer obviously not. Because yer a lot of things, Atsumu Miya, but subtle? You’ve never been.”

He laughed into the back of his hand, tears slipping out anyway.

She patted his knee again, then leaned back with a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Well,” she added, casual as anything, “actually, all I want is for ya to be an Olympic gold medalist—but y’know.”

Atsumu laughed, hoarse. “Yeah, I want that too, ma.”

Then he leaned back against the couch cushions, sighing. “I could’ve gone already, y’know. If they hadn’t picked Kageyama for Rio over me. I was ready.”

She huffed. “Don’t get me started.”

“Right?” He groaned, rubbing his eyes.

“You’ll get there this time. I know you will.” She said simply.

He looked at her. She smiled.

“And I’ll be right there watchin’,” she said, “with my little flag and my phone out and cryin’ in the stands. And I don’t care who ya kiss after they hang that medal around your neck.”

Atsumu blinked. Then smiled, slow and soft. “…Thanks, Mama.”

She stood, collecting the empty cups. “Now. Ya sit there and pull yourself together."

Atsumu nodded again, pressing his face into his hands briefly as she padded back to the kitchen.

He should’ve known all he needed was his mom.

Then his phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached for it without thinking, thumb already swiping the screen, expecting Osamu with some half-bored complaint about the night shift, or Suna sending memes, or Hinata trying to convince him to buy plane tickets to Brazil again.

But it wasn’t them.

It was Sakusa.

[Omi]: I’ll be back in Osaka tomorrow for the sponsorship gala

Atsumu blinked at the screen. He stared for a beat too long. Like: okay… and?

Was this supposed to be a heads-up?

An invitation?

A warning?

He exhaled, thumb hovering, then typed.

[Atsumu]: okay…are we going to see each other before then?

The response came fast.

Like, suspiciously fast. Like Sakusa already had the conversation window open.

[Omi]: Yes. I want to see you before then.

Atsumu stared at the words and it made something in his chest tighten.

He set the phone down beside him on the couch. Let his head tip back against the cushions.

He should’ve felt better. Should’ve felt relieved that Sakusa wanted to see him. That he wasn’t avoiding him. That maybe, finally, they were going to talk like actual human beings.

So why did it piss him off? Why did that quiet response, the flatness of it, the calm way Sakusa always said just enough but never more—why did that make his stomach twist?

Why did it feel like he was the only one flailing?

Even after everything. Even after the club. The jealousy. The PR mess that cracked them both open like raw eggs on pavement. After Sakusa had cried in his arms and sobbed things into his neck like he couldn’t hold them in anymore. After Atsumu had begged Sakusa to not be afraid of him. To just talk to him.

Even after all that—Atsumu still felt like they hadn’t moved.

Not really.

Still guessing. Still half-reading between the lines of every message. Still the only one saying things out loud.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight.

Because yeah. Maybe he missed him. Maybe he wanted to see him. Maybe he still felt everything he’d blurted out in that goddamn medical room.

But he was getting tired.

Of always being the one to bleed.

Shizuoka City

Sakusa went alone.

It wasn’t unusual. People did that here—came alone, prayed alone, bowed at the gate and walked slow up the stone paths like they were trying not to break something underfoot.

There were a few people milling about the Shinto shrine, tourists mostly—older couples, a student or two on break, someone holding a toddler and walking him gently across the gravel.

It was quiet.

He bowed at the gate before stepping through, careful with his footing. His right arm hung limp in the sling, stiff from lack of motion, the fabric pressing awkwardly against the line of his coat. He hated how uneven it made him feel—like half his body wasn’t real. Like everyone could see he wasn’t whole.

He washed his hands at the temizuya. One ladle. Left first. Then right. Mouth rinse. The water was freezing. It shocked his fingertips, grounded him for a moment, snapped something quiet and ancient into place.

He approached, clapped twice, bowed.

And stood there, still. Mask tugged up. Hair neat. Posture controlled. He didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t speak. He just stood and breathed.

His phone was heavy in his coat pocket.

He’d checked it ten times already since he texted Atsumu. Maybe more. The last message on the screen glared at him like it knew.

Atsumu hadn’t replied. Not yet.

And Sakusa didn’t know if he should be worried, or if he was just being stupid. Because maybe Atsumu was mad. Maybe he had every right to be.

After all, what had Sakusa given him since that night in the hotel? Since the club? Since the press scandal and that night when he sobbed in front of Atsumu like he couldn’t tell where pain ended and relief began?

Words? Not really.

Just I miss you in a text. Just I want to see you in a message he didn’t know how to follow up on.

And maybe it wasn’t enough.

Sakusa sat on the long bench off to the side of the shrine’s main walkway. The wood was cold beneath him. The sun was starting to dip behind the trees.

He didn’t know why he came here. He didn’t know if he was praying or apologizing. Didn’t know if he was here for comfort or for penance. But it was the only place he could sit still and let the noise in his chest be loud enough to hear.

And maybe that was because he’d been coming to places like this since he was a kid. Long before he understood anything about shame. Before love got complicated. Before he knew that quiet could hurt more than disapproval.

His parents had raised him inside all of this. The rituals. The reverence. The boundaries. He’d grown up sweeping shrine steps during New Year’s, folding omikuji fortunes into knots, washing his hands clean before approaching the altar like that could somehow make his soul more presentable.

It was in him. In the way he bowed. In the way he swallowed things whole.

And now—now he sat with his arm stiff in a sling and a weight in his throat that no prayer could smooth out.

He wasn’t here for absolution. Not really.

But some quiet part of him still wondered if this place—the kami, the gods, whatever moved in still air—could look at him and still see someone worthy.

Someone who loved a man and still bowed properly. Still paid respects. Still remembered how to be good.

He stared up at the edge of the roofline, at the sun bleeding down through branches, at the single crow perched on the top beam of the torii gate.

He didn’t ask for anything. Just thought -

I can be both.

A son and a sinner.

A man of tradition and a man who loves another man.

And maybe, if he repeated it often enough in places like this, it would start to feel true.

Because yeah, he still loved his parents. Still, he went home every so often and helped clean the house and accepted his mom’s neatly packaged meals and his dad’s wordless pats on the shoulder. Still, he bowed at the shrine with them when they went together.

But always with the same feeling coiled in his ribs—that if they could swap out one part of him, they would. Not the volleyball part. Not the success or the framed jersey in the living room or the media day photo on the shelf.

Just the part that didn’t fit the picture.

The part that loved someone they wouldn’t know how to speak to.

He shifted on the bench, arm aching in the sling. He hated the way it tugged on his shoulder. Hated the way it reminded him he was on the bench in more ways than one. That he was waiting—again—for his body to cooperate. For his mind to make sense. 

The worst part? The shame wasn’t even logical.

He loved Atsumu.

He did. He knew that.

He felt it in the way his breath always caught when Atsumu laughed at his own bad jokes. In the way he memorized the shape of Atsumu’s jaw when he was focused. In the way he still couldn’t sleep well unless he had something that smelled like him nearby. He loved him in a way that made his mouth dry and his head swim and his hands ache. 

But he hated how much it echoed with his parents’ silence.

Hated that even now, after saying it out loud—to Komori, to himself—he still felt like the earth might open up and swallow him whole for it.

His fingers tightened into the sleeve of his coat.

The wind shifted.

He looked up.

The sky was so clean it hurt.

He tucked his phone away and sat there a little longer. Back straight. Palms resting flat on his thighs.

He exhaled. Long. Steady.

It's quiet here. He thought. Finally. Quiet. 

Chapter Text

Atsumu woke up with a full-body jolt—shot upright so fast his head cracked against the wood of the top bunk.

“Fuck—ow—shit.” He hissed, hand flying to his skull, eyes still crusted with sleep.

It took a second. One long, groggy inhale before his brain caught up and the panic set in. He was definitely late.

“Fuck.”

He scrambled out of bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood with a slap, nearly tripping over the edge of the folded blanket his mom had tucked over him sometime after midnight. His duffel was half-zipped on the floor. The socks he wore yesterday were still balled up under the edge of the dresser.

He pulled his phone off the nightstand—only 20% battery left—and immediately saw the missed call.

Omi.

Timestamped forty minutes ago.

Atsumu cursed again under his breath, thumb already dialing back while hopping on one foot to shove it into his sock.

It rang once.

Then straight to voicemail. So, he shot off a quick text instead:

overslept at my mom’s, rushing to get back now. gotta meet with PR so probably won’t have time before the gala. sorry.

Sent.

He stared at the screen, watched it. And almost flinched when the “read” receipt appeared not even five seconds later.

The typing bubble popped up. Then disappeared. Then came back.

[Omi]: Okay. I’ll see you there I guess.

Atsumu sighed through his nose and rubbed his face hard with both palms, the edge of his thumbnail scraping his eyebrow. He could already feel his pulse climbing again. He typed back:

[Atsumu]: i’m sorry. i didn’t set my alarm. we can talk later tonight.

Then he shoved the phone deep into his duffel and didn’t look at it again.

His mom met him at the door, half-laughing as he shoved his jacket on sideways and kissed her cheek.

“Train’s gonna leave ya behind one of these days.” She teased, fixing the collar of his hoodie.

“Not my fault I always sleep like the dead when I’m here.” He muttered, then kissed her again, squeezing her tight. “Love ya.”

She smacked his back. “Ddon’t forget to eat somethin’ green.”

He caught the train with ten seconds to spare, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. The doors slid closed behind him with a hiss that sounded almost personal.

Time was a blur by the time he got back to Osaka.

Fast shower, quick change, chucking his duffel onto his bed without unpacking it. He threw on something easy, and shoved his damp hair back with his fingers. Barely remembered to grab his cologne. Texted his PR manager on the way as he dashed out the door.

Fittings. Wardrobe. Choosing between three near-identical tailored suits from the newest Adidas capsule line. Smoothing his hair again while one of the event interns tried to clip his mic in place. Going over his appearance schedule with his PR manager and two separate brand reps, nodding like he was listening, even though his brain was barely hanging on by a thread.

He didn’t like galas.

He knew how to handle them, sure. Smile. Shake hands. Compliment everyone. Sip expensive drinks and pretend he wasn’t anxious about which photos would end up trending on Twitter.

But it wasn’t his scene. It was noise and lights and too many perfect people in tighter suits and shorter skirts and the kind of charm that cost money to rehearse.

People always assumed he loved this kind of thing. That Atsumu Miya—spotlight chaser, pretty boy, cocky setter extraordinaire—thrived in rooms like this. That he craved the flash of cameras, the models laughing too hard at his jokes, the way reps and interns whispered his name as he walked by.

And, sure. He did love attention. He’d never denied that.

But not like this.

He cared about the spotlight when it was earned. When he was sweating through his jersey under the stadium lights. When the crowd was roaring because he’d just faked a dump or nailed a cross to Bokuto. When he felt alive and powerful and like he was doing what he was born to do.

That kind of spotlight? He’d fight for it.

This kind? This wasn’t the same.

Just because he had fangirls and looked good on a billboard didn’t mean he was some conceited, selfish asshole.

He just loved volleyball.

Still—he was loyal to his sponsors. He was grateful. Especially to Adidas and Molten. Molten was legacy. A name tied to every court he’d grown up training on. And Adidas? Yeah, they were one of the biggest international brands that had taken a chance on him. Billboards in airports. Campaigns on streaming ads. Global visibility.

So, yeah. He’d play the part.

He stepped into the cocktail reception half an hour late and immediately got flagged down by a rep from Adidas. She gave him a glossy grin, fixed his lapel, and pulled him toward the photo backdrop.

They brought in two of the campaign models. One tall, lean girl in leather and mesh. Another with honey-blonde curls and a backless dress. They flanked him, pressed in close. One hand on his shoulder, another curled lightly around his arm.

They laughed on cue. Whispered something in his ear he didn’t fully catch. He grinned anyway. Gave his best charmer-smile to the camera.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

When the next photo clicked, Atsumu could feel the weight of eyes across the room. His smile flickered, he turned his head slightly—like it was part of the pose.

And yeah. There he was.

Sakusa.

Across the floor, by the Nike installation—sleek, minimal, branded with cool lighting and straight lines. Standing in a sharp black suit, tie neat, his arm still tucked carefully in its sling. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense. Eyes locked on him.

Atsumu’s heart stuttered. Because there was no mistaking it.

Sakusa was glaring.

And Atsumu? He was smiling next to two girls posing like they were being paid to flirt with him—which they were.

He swallowed. Turned his face back to the camera. Let the next laugh come out a little too loud.

If Sakusa wanted to glare, fine. He could glare. But Atsumu had a job to do. A brand to sell.

Even if his stomach was starting to twist. Even if his palms were starting to sweat. Even if his heart, deep down, was pissed too.

Because he was the one who said I love you. And Sakusa had said nothing.

And now they were here, in a fucking ballroom full of executives and cameras and athletes and models—playing pretend. Acting like they weren’t a ticking bomb waiting to go off. Acting like they hadn’t both been thinking about this for weeks. Acting like they weren’t five seconds away from either screaming or kissing or both.

They didn’t cross paths all night.

Not really.

They were in the same room, sure. Breathed the same recycled gala air. But they didn’t speak. Didn’t drift within arm’s reach. Didn’t risk standing side by side unless someone forced it.

They didn’t look at each other.

Not directly.

Just glances. Across the rim of a glass. Across the shoulders of someone else. Across the room filled with curated smiles and curated playlists and curated distance.

Until—

The MSBY Black Jackals were called together for a group photo.

Atsumu was mid-conversation with an Adidas rep when someone tapped his shoulder. “Team photo.” They said.

He turned, already nodding, draining the last of his drink. He followed Bokuto to the backdrop area, already lit with professional flashes, the team name scrawled in stylized text behind them.

Someone from event staff nudged Atsumu forward, motioned for him to stand next to Sakusa—because of course. Of course they were put next to each other. Because the universe was funny that way.

Atsumu stepped into place, shoulders squaring. Sakusa didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his head. But Atsumu could feel it—the tension, stiff and hot, like static between them. Their elbows brushed once, and it was like touching an open flame.

Neither said anything.

The flash went off.

Another.

They stood there, less than six inches apart, posing like teammates. Like people who hadn’t been ignoring each other’s text messages. Like one of them hadn’t said I’m in love with you weeks ago and gotten silence in return.

Atsumu’s jaw ached from holding his smile.

When it was over, he stepped back fast. Mumbling something about needing the bathroom.

He didn’t use the one closest to the ballroom. He kept walking. Past the main hallway. Past the catering setup. Past the velvet roped VIP section and down a corridor quieter, darker, a little colder.

He found one near the coat check. Slipped inside.

He leaned against the sink. Let the water run cold. Cupped his hands under the stream and splashed his face once. Twice.

It felt good. Cold against his cheekbones.

He stared at himself in the mirror. Breathing.

Why the fuck did he want to cry?

He gripped the edge of the sink. Flexed his fingers until his knuckles whitened. Let go. Dried his face on the hand towel, then blew out a breath and turned to leave.

And in the hallway, just steps away, stood Sakusa.

Atsumu stopped short.

They stared at each other.

Neither moved.

Sakusa’s tie was still perfect. His hair slightly mussed. His lips parted just enough to look like he’d been about to say something and forgot how.

Atsumu exhaled. “If you’ve got somethin’ to say,” he muttered, “just say it.”

Sakusa’s mouth pressed into a line. “You said we’d talk.”

“I mean….I didn’t really mean here? At the fuckin’ event.” Atsumu said, voice low but sharp.

“You were the one who was late.”

That made Atsumu scoff, loud and bitter. “You left Osaka for two fuckin’ weeks.”

Sakusa’s jaw clenched. “And you didn’t reply to my text until today.”

“I was visiting my mom, Sakusa.”

The name came out harder than Atsumu meant it to—cutting, pointed. It hung there like a slap. And he saw it—clear as day—the way something flickered behind Sakusa’s eyes. A crack. A wince. Like hearing Sakusa instead of Omi hurt worse than any curse.

Atsumu kept going. “I slept in, almost missed the train and suddenly it’s a federal crime?”

Sakusa glared. “I’ve been dealing with this—” He gestured toward his shoulder, then let it drop. “—and maybe it’s news to you, but the world doesn’t revolve around you, Atsumu.”

“I know that,” Atsumu snapped, stepping closer. “I’m sorry about yer shoulder, okay? That sucks. But god, ya could at least try to consider me a little?”

“You think I don’t?”

“No! I don’t!” Atsumu barked, voice cracking. “Ya think I said all that shit just for fun? The shit I’ve been saying for months now? Ya think I’ve been fine walkin’ around waitin’ for ya to make this easier? I always consider you. I always think about you first. And it’s never returned.”

“That’s not true.”

“It feels true.”

“You think you’re the only one hurting?” Sakusa snapped. “I’m benched. I don’t even know if I’m going to be cleared to compete internationally, and you’re mad because I didn’t jump to reply to a text?”

“I’m mad,” Atsumu hissed, “because ya looked me in the eye after I said I loved you—and you said nothing.”

Sakusa flinched.

“It’s fine,” Atsumu said, backing up a step, voice duller now. “I just have to come to terms with it. Ya don’t feel the same way.”

“Stop saying that,” Sakusa bit out. “You know that’s not true.”

“How the hell would I know?!” Atsumu yelled, throwing his arms wide. “Ya act like I’m an obligation! Like yer only with me because I’m convenient or familiar or whatever.”

“That’s not—” Sakusa stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it, huh?” Atsumu said, eyes flashing. “Because I’m fuckin’ losing it over here, and all I get are half answers and delayed texts and a boyfriend who won't even call me that.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

Atsumu’s hands shook a little at his sides. Sakusa stared at the ground, then up again, his jaw twitching.

Then after a moment, Atsumu ran both hands through his hair, messing up the styling he’d paid good money for. “Ya think I don’t get it? That it’s hard? That not playing’s fuckin’ killing you? I do get it. I know what volleyball means to ya. And now ya can’t do it, and I get that. I do.”

He stepped back, pacing a little.

“But what about me, huh?” he said, motioning between them. “Why can’t ya just let me in? We talked about this, didn’t we? I said I wasn’t gonna leave. I promised I wouldn’t be someone ya had to hide from or be scared of. So why—why are you still—”

“I’m trying!” Sakusa snapped. “I am trying!”

“Try harder!” Atsumu yelled.

“It’s not—”

“Every time I reach for ya, you pull back. Every fuckin’ time.”

The clock in the hallway ticked. They stared, hearts beating so loud the other could almost hear it.

Then Atsumu laughed—sharp and humorless—and dragged a hand down his face. “Y’know what yer problem is?” he said, voice pitched lower, biting. “You’re fuckin’ emotionally constipated. No wonder ya idolize Ushijima so much. He’s the same way—silent, blank-faced, emotionally detached—just like ya.”

Sakusa’s jaw twitched. His shoulders stiffened, the breath in his chest gone suddenly tight.

Atsumu didn’t stop.

“Ya probably looked at him and thought, yeah, that’s what I should be like. Someone who doesn’t let anyone in.”

Sakusa flinched like it hit bone. And then he snapped.

“At least he knows who he is,” Sakusa spat. “You—God, Miya—you just needed some guy to get off on ‘cause girls weren’t doing it for you anymore.”

Atsumu’s face went still. “What?”

“Don’t act like this wasn’t some kind of fucked-up gay panic,” Sakusa said, voice shaking. “Like you just stumbled into this because it was new and exciting and I was convenient.”

Atsumu’s eyes burned. He took one slow step forward, right into Sakusa’s space.

“Fuck you,” he said, quiet and razor-edged. “Ya think it doesn’t fuck me up—loving you?”

Sakusa’s mouth parted like he wanted to answer, but Atsumu cut him off again, closer now, their foreheads nearly touching.

“You made me fall in love with you,” he whispered, like it physically hurt to say. “And now yer actin’ like I’m the bad guy for it?”

Sakusa’s breath hitched.

And that was the thing—it wasn’t just anger in Atsumu’s voice anymore. It was heartbreak. Full and thick and all-consuming.

“This wasn’t just some fucking fantasy,” Atsumu whispered. “It meant something to me. You mean something to me.”

Sakusa’s throat bobbed. His eyes welled. Then he broke the silence, voice tight and unsteady.

“I do feel the same way.”

Atsumu blinked fast, jaw set, fists clenched at his sides. He turned away, wiping his face roughly. “I need action at this point,” he muttered. “Not words. Not anymore.”

Neither of them moved for a second.

And then, quietly, finally—they both started to cry. Not loud. Not gasping. Just standing there, surrounded by echoing marble and recessed lighting and quiet, sterile hallway silence, with their stupid expensive suits on.

Sakusa swiped at his eyes, voice breaking again. “I just… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Atsumu blinked.

“My parents,” Sakusa said, voice suddenly hoarse. “You don’t get it. They’re already disappointed. But this—if they know about you—they’ll…”

He trailed off.

Atsumu stared.

“You’d be in the first line of fire,” Sakusa said finally, almost too quiet. “They’ll blame you. For all of it.”

A long silence stretched between them. The hallway somehow got colder.

Atsumu swallowed hard. “I don’t care.”

Sakusa looked up sharply.

“All I care about is ya wantin’ to love me,” Atsumu said, chest rising and falling. “And if yer too scared to do that, then I don’t know why we keep doing this.”

Sakusa reeled like he’d been slapped. “Are you saying you want to stop?”

Atsumu’s face crumpled, and he took a half-step back like he couldn’t believe the words had even come out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say it. God, he hadn’t even thought it before it left his mouth.

Why did this conversation feel like it was happening so fast? Why did his brain feel like it couldn’t catch up to his mouth?

His chest was tight. His heart was beating too fast. His hands felt numb. Everything was moving, spiraling, spinning, and he just wanted it to stop.

Sakusa was staring at him now, stunned. “You’re telling me you want to break up?”

“Were we even dating?” Atsumu said, voice cracking, both hands thrown up in disbelief. “I don’t know, Sakusa. Ya need to figure it out.”

He turned, fast—too fast—but Sakusa reached out and caught his wrist.

“You can’t drop that bomb on me and then just walk away from this.” Sakusa said, low and trembling.

“I’m not,” Atsumu snapped, yanking his arm back. “I just—fuck, can we not do this here? In the middle of some fancy hallway with a bunch of execs probably wonderin’ where we are?”

“No,” Sakusa said, stepping in his way. “You want out? Then say it to my face.”

“I didn’t say I wanted out,” Atsumu said. “I said I wanted to be let in.”

“Then just let me try…”

Atsumu interrupted him by stepping back. One full pace, like the space might stop the ache in his throat. He wiped at his face again—messy, half-assed, because his hands wouldn’t stop shaking—and let out a breath that sounded too much like a gasp.

“I can’t—” he choked, voice rough. “I can’t keep talkin’ about this here.”

His gaze didn’t even lift to meet Sakusa’s.

He turned and walked. Fast. Without thinking. Like his body knew what it needed before his brain could catch up. Like if he stayed in that hallway a second longer, he’d fucking collapse.

He could hear Sakusa call after him—just once, quiet, uncertain.

He didn’t stop.

The noise of the gala hit him like a spotlight when he stepped back through the doors. Music, conversation, glasses clinking. Laughter he couldn’t place. A flash from a camera.

Atsumu’s chest was a drumline. His lungs felt too full, too fast, like there was no room for breath. His pulse was in his mouth. Behind his eyes. He swore if he opened his lips, the panic would spill out in pieces, too sharp to swallow back.

Did I just break up with him?

His hands flexed. He wasn’t sure when he’d curled them into fists.

Were we even dating? Was that what that was? What the fuck just happened—

He forced himself to stop walking. Stood still for a beat.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Not here.

Because this room was full of cameras. Of league officials and brand reps. Of press and smiling faces and all the things that made up his fucking image.

The person who usually calmed him down in moments like this—the one person who could steady him with just a touch—was the same one who’d just gutted him clean.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel anything except the edges of his own skin.

So he did the only thing he could. Snatched a drink from a passing tray. Something clear, in a heavy glass. Downed it in two gulps. It hit the back of his throat cold and bitter, but at least it was something.

A second later, someone from Adidas waved him over.

He smiled.

Like nothing was wrong. Like his heart wasn’t trying to punch a hole through his ribs.

He could do this. He’d done worse.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.

Still no sign of Sakusa.

Not until Atsumu caught sight of him slipping back in through the side entrance—his black mask pulled up again, arm still in the sling, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t blinked in half an hour.

He didn’t look at Atsumu. Not even once.

And somehow, that hurt more than everything else.

Atsumu barely remembered how he got home.

Something about Bokuto at the after party pushing sake like it was vitamin water. Something about Hinata laughing so hard he snorted beer out of his nose. Something about saying yes when his brain was begging for sleep, because no felt too lonely, and yes meant noise loud enough to drown in.

The apartment door clicked shut behind him, and the silence hit like a slap.

He kicked his shoes off hard enough to knock one into the wall. He was already tugging at the buttons of his dress shirt—fingers clumsy, slipping. One popped off and skittered across the hardwood.

"Fuck.” He muttered, stumbling toward his room.

His skin felt too tight. His brain was cotton. His stomach sloshed and his blood was humming and he just needed—he didn’t even know what he needed.

He tossed the ruined shirt somewhere near the hamper. Shucked off his pants in the hallway. Kicked them aside.

Sweats. He needed his sweats. The old ones with the worn elastic and loose ankles and—

He knelt next to the laundry basket, swiping through it lazily - drunkenly.

And that’s when he saw it.

A hoodie. Not his.

He blinked, leaned closer.

Black. Soft. Faded logo on the chest.

Sakusa’s.

Atsumu reached for it before he could stop himself. Brought it to his face.

It still smelled like him. That clean, sharp, quiet scent he always carried. Soap and cedar and the faintest whisper of detergent. The one that clung to Atsumu’s pillowcase some nights. The one that liked to wrap around his shoulders like comfort.

Atsumu’ clumsily fell back, sitting on the floor, his back to his bed frame, the room tilting around him. He didn’t feel it. Not really. Not beyond the ache in his chest and the slow, dizzy pulse in his skull.

God, I miss him.

But now they were… broken up?

He didn’t know. Didn’t fucking know.

All he knew was that his cock was hard and his brain was broken and he missed Sakusa like a damn addict.

He didn’t even really process what he was doing until he had already yanked his briefs down, hoodie still crushed to his face.

"Fuck.” He groaned, low and pathetic, hand already wrapping around his dick.

He was so fucking hard it hurt. Every stroke was rough, fast, messy—like he was trying to chase the feeling down and fuck it out of himself.

Because he didn’t have Sakusa here. Just this. Just his hand. Just the goddamn smell of him. When, really, it should be them having makeup sex. That’s how they always fixed things—by fucking until they couldn’t be mad anymore.

He couldn’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t believe he was this pathetic. Jerking off on the floor of his own room, Sakusa’s dirty clothes pressed to his face, drunk off his ass.

It didn’t take long. He was too wound up. Too drunk. Too fucked in the head.

He came with a broken moan, loud and guttural and sharp—hot over his hand, his abs, the hoodie bunched under his hand.

He sat there after, chest heaving. Mind spinning. The silence roared. He stared at the ceiling. Jaw clenched. Swallowed hard.

Then, without thinking, he used the sleeve of the hoodie to wipe himself off. Next, he rolled over and reached for his phone.

Sakusa’s contact was already at the top.

His thumb hovered.

Don’t. Don’t call. Let it fucking go.

He hit dial.

Lifted the phone to his ear.

Let it ring.

No answer.

Atsumu stared at the screen, eyes glassy. Then he hit redial, thumb trembling, still sticky.

It rang twice this time before there was a click.

Sakusa’s voice came through low. Hoarse. Tired.

“If you called to fight more,” he said, slow, like each word was a bruise, “I don’t want to hear it.”

Atsumu exhaled through his nose. “No,” he slurred. “I want ya to come over and let me fuck you.”

Silence.

“…Excuse me?” Sakusa said, not quite sharp—just flat-out stunned.

“Y’heard me,” Atsumu mumbled, flopping back on the floor. His head hit the hardwood with a dull thud. He didn’t care. “Just—come over. I’ll make ya feel good. We don’t have to talk. I don’t wanna talk.”

“Miya…”

“We always fix shit like that anyway, right?” he pushed on, words sticking together, tangling up. “Why not now? I’m hard. We’re both pissed off. It’ll feel good. Always does when yer mad at me.”

There was a rustle on the line. A sigh. Fabric shifting. Sakusa inhaling like he was trying to stay patient. “You’re drunk.”

“So?” Atsumu huffed, his mouth dry. “Don’t act like ya don’t wanna fuck me too. Ya always wanna fuck me. I can tell. Ya get that look—y’know the one. Ya get so fuckin’ mean when you want it.”

“We can’t...”

“What?” Atsumu snapped, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair. “I’m not askin’ for a fight, okay? I miss ya. I want ya to come here and use me, alright? Just—just fuck me so I can stop thinking.”

Another pause. Sakusa’s breathing was louder now. More frustrated. “How much have you had to drink?”

Atsumu scoffed. “Why do you care?”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Sakusa muttered. “Don’t trip or hurt yourself until then.”

The call ended.

Atsumu blinked at the screen, frowned when it went dark. “Rude.” He muttered.

He shoved the phone aside, dragging himself upright. He managed a stagger toward the bathroom before he fell to his knees beside the toilet. The tile was freezing. But it felt good.

The knock came first—dull, polite, a little uneven. Atsumu barely twitched from where he was slumped over the toilet, the floor cold and hard against his knees.

Then the faint beep of the keypad. Four digits. He didn’t even remember giving Sakusa the code, but clearly he knew it. Of course he did.

He heard the door open. Then footsteps, soft and deliberate, not fast or frantic—because that wasn’t Sakusa. Then a hand on his shoulder. Gentle. Steady.

“Atsumu,” came the voice, quiet and low. “Hey. Have you thrown up yet?”

Atsumu shook his head, head heavy, breath fogging the cold porcelain.

“Do you need water?”

But Atsumu didn’t answer. He just turned his head, eyes glossy and face slack, and then suddenly pushed forward—mouth pressing against the front of Sakusa’s sweatpants, breath hot and heavy against the seam.

“I don’t need water,” he mumbled, voice thick. “I told ya. I wanna fuck you.”

Sakusa’s fingers curled fast in his hair, not yanking but pulling him back with enough force that their eyes met. His expression was blank, unreadable—but there was a flicker in it. Something tight.

“No.” He said simply.

Atsumu groaned, trying to push up to his knees again. “Why not? Ya came all the way over here—what’d ya think I wanted?”

“You’re drunk,” Sakusa said sharply. “You smell like a fucking bar floor.”

“And I’m still hard,” Atsumu shot back, gesturing sloppily down at the tent in his briefs. “So what? That’s what we’re good at, right? C’mon, ya always want me when I shut up and bend over—”

Before Atsumu could finish, he was hauled upward—surprisingly forcefully for a man with only one good arm—and shoved into the shower stall. The water turned on in a rush. Cold.

“Fuck!” Atsumu shrieked, slipping a little. “Shit, that’s freezing—”

“Stand still and shut up,” Sakusa snapped, grabbing the detachable shower head and hosing him down like a misbehaving cat. “You want to fuck someone? Try sobering up first.”

Atsumu sulked, but he didn’t fight it. Just stood there, teeth chattering, mumbling under his breath while Sakusa ignored him, focused on getting him clean.

Eventually, when Atsumu made a half-hearted effort to run shampoo through his hair and swipe some body wash across his chest - tossing his now soaked briefs aside - Sakusa turned the water off and started drying him off with a towel.

“Do you know how hard it is to deal with your dumbass like this with one fucking arm?” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu didn’t answer. He was already stumbling out of the bathroom, wet feet squeaking against the floor, body heavy and loose and half-falling onto the bed.

Sakusa followed. Tossed a clean pair of briefs on the mattress, started drying him off again with a second towel, rough but careful.

But the moment Sakusa knelt in front of him again, Atsumu surged forward—palming his ass, mouthing at his neck, grabbing at his crotch like a magnet he couldn’t pry himself from.

“Please,” Atsumu whispered. “Just let me—I’ll be good. I’ll take it, if that’s what ya want. Let me be good for ya.”

Sakusa’s hand stayed firm on Atsumu’s chest. “No.”

Atsumu’s face twisted. “Why not?” he bit out. “That’s all we’re good at, right? Ya don’t want me unless I’m on my knees or spread out. The second I say I love you, ya disappear.”

“I’m trying!” Sakusa shouted suddenly, the word cracking. “I’m trying the best I can and you—”

“—ya won’t even let me in,” Atsumu snapped. “You won’t let me take care of ya, ya won’t talk to me, ya don’t even want me to touch you unless we’re fucking—”

“That’s not true.”

“It feels true.” Atsumu shot back, sliding his hand between his own legs, palming himself shamelessly. “Look, I’m already hard. We can just fuck. We don’t have to fight.”

He jerked himself twice, slow and deliberate, moaning under his breath. “I’ll take it so good. Ya can call me whatever you want.”

Sakusa’s eyes flashed. “Atsumu.”

“I’ll be yer good little slut if that’s what it takes.”

Sakusa swatted his hand away with his good one, breathing hard. “Stop.”

And that’s when Atsumu stilled. Looked up at him with something sharp and trembling behind his flushed face. He blinked a few times, the messy strands of blond sticking to his forehead.

“This because I’m not like Ushijima?” he said suddenly.

Sakusa froze.

“What?”

“I’m not quiet and stoic and built like a goddamn brick wall. Is that the problem?”

“What are you even talking about—?”

“I see the way ya look at him,” Atsumu hissed, pushing himself upright again, even drunk and naked, chest heaving. “Ya told me he was yer gay awakening. Ya stare every time we’re on the court with him.”

Sakusa’s mouth opened. No words came out.

“I can be like him,” Atsumu snapped. “If that’s what ya want. I can be silent. I can be composed. I can fucking dominate ya if that’s what turns you on so much. Just say the word.”

“Atsumu. Stop. Talking.”

“Why?” Atsumu laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Because I’m right?”

“Because you sound fucking stupid.” Sakusa growled, eyes hard. “I don’t want you to be like Ushijima.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t believe ya.” Atsumu said bitterly, slumping back and turning his face away. “Not when I’m sitting here begging for scraps and you’re still looking at me like I’m a fucking burden.”

Sakusa stepped forward without answering, pressing the briefs to Atsumu’s hip again.

“Lift your legs.”

“I can be quiet,” Atsumu muttered. “I can be anything ya want.”

Sakusa dropped to one knee. “Shut the fuck up and cooperate.”

Atsumu sighed. But he did it—lifted his legs, let Sakusa pull the fabric up, let himself be taken care of.

When the briefs were mostly on, Sakusa leaned forward, grabbed Atsumu’s face in one hand, fingers tight on his cheeks.

“I don’t want Ushijima,” he said, slow and serious. “I want you. You’re just too drunk to believe that right now.”

Atsumu stared at him, breath shaking.

Sakusa’s voice lowered. “Now stop trying to crawl out of your skin to be someone else.”

And Atsumu did. For just a second. Quiet. Breathing. Then his shoulders started to shake.

At first, Sakusa thought it was just the cold. But then he heard it—the tiny, uneven breath through Atsumu’s nose. The hiccup of a sob that cracked the end of his next exhale.

“I don’t—fuck,” Atsumu whispered, blinking fast, eyes glassy again. “Let’s just have sex. Let’s just—fix it. That’s what always does it, right?”

He looked up at Sakusa, pleading. Face flushed and wet. “That’s how we started. That’s all this was. Ya pull me into bed and we wouldn’t talk. I just wanna feel ya close to me, Omi.”

He pushed forward again, clumsy, kissing Sakusa’s neck, mouthing at his jaw. “Ya can use me, I don’t care. Ya can do whatever you want. Just don’t—don’t keep pushing me away. Please.”

Sakusa’s chest cracked open. His good hand reached up, threaded into Atsumu’s damp hair. He sighed quietly, then tipped their foreheads together.

For a moment, they stayed like that. Then Sakusa leaned in and kissed him—deep, long, slow. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t rough. It was quiet and wet and heartbreakingly soft.

“We’ll talk about it…when you’re sober.” Sakusa whispered between their lips.

“Ya always say that but…” Atsumu cut in, tears bubbling up again, voice cracking.

Sakusa interrupted him. “I mean it this time.”

Atsumu blinked at him, suspicious. Hurt. “You promise?”

Sakusa nodded, pressing another kiss to his lips, this one shorter.. “I promise.”

Atsumu sniffled, his hands weak on Sakusa’s waist. “…Okay.” He mumbled.

They stayed there for a moment, Sakusa gently rubbing soft circles into Atsumu’s damp bare back with his one good hand. While Atsumu kept his head resting on Sakusa’s abdomen, Sakusa standing between Atsumu’s thighs. Like Atsumu just needed the comfort of a hug.

Then eventually, Sakusa patted his shoulder. “Lay down.”

Atsumu blinked, “Yer gonna stay…right?”

Sakusa exhaled. “I can stay for a little bit.”

Atsumu nodded and shuffled backward onto the bed, motioning clumsily. So Sakusa followed—sitting up against the headboard, legs stretched out, sling still snug around his shoulder. He shifted until he was comfortable, and the second he was settled, Atsumu curled into him, resting his head across Sakusa’s lap, arms looping around his waist like he needed to physically hold onto him.

Sakusa’s hand slid into Atsumu’s hair—threading carefully through the soft, damp strands. It was different. Shorter. Blonder. The ends tickled his palm.

Eventually, Atsumu’s breathing slowed. Grew heavier. A light snore started against his thigh. Sakusa could feel the heat of his cheek, the way his body had gone lax from exhaustion and alcohol and too many feelings all at once.

Sakusa kept his eyes on the ceiling. Until something on the nightstand caught the edge of his vision.

Small. Shiny.

He looked.

A pair of earrings.

Dangly. Feminine. Glittering faintly in the low light.

Not Atsumu’s.

Definitely not his.

Sakusa stared at them.

The rhythm of his fingers faltered for just a second. And then he went still.

Because what the fuck were those doing there?

The sun hit his eyes almost painfully.

Atsumu groaned, dragging a forearm over his face before blinking hard into the light cutting across his sheets. His head throbbed. His mouth tasted like cotton. The pillows smelled faintly like fabric softener and... something else. Someone else.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, squinting.

Phone: plugged in.

Suit: gone.

Body: clean, clothed only in briefs.

What the fuck?

He groaned again, this time louder, flopping face-first into the pillows to hide from the room spinning.

That’s when he heard it. Soft. Steady. The faint clinking of porcelain.

He sat up fast—too fast—and rubbed at his eyes again.

Had Sakusa come over last night? Or had that been a dream? A drunken, humiliating dream?

He dragged himself out of bed, groggy and half-naked, and wandered toward the hallway, feet scuffing against the floorboards. The light in the kitchen was softer, natural, filtered through the curtains. And there, standing by the stovetop, arm tucked carefully in a sling, was Sakusa.

He was making tea.

He looked freshly showered, curls still damp, skin still dewy with whatever cleanser he used that always smelled like cedar and eucalyptus. His profile was relaxed, lips parted slightly as steam rose from the kettle.

They stared at each other.

Then Sakusa blinked and turned slightly. “Sorry,” he said gently. “I was trying to be quiet.”

Atsumu just nodded. Scratched his arm. Cleared his throat.

“What…happened last night?”

Sakusa glanced at him, handed him a glass of water without answering right away. He turned back to the kettle. “You were drunk,” he said flatly. “You called me. So I came. Made sure you didn’t choke on your own puke.”

Atsumu nodded, brow furrowed, scratching the back of his neck.

Right.

It was coming back. Bits and pieces. Sakusa’s voice. The freezing water of the shower. The sheer force of being stripped down and shoved under the spray. The tears. The fight. Jerking off into Sakusa’s hoodie. Fuck.

He downed the water in one go.

Before he could even lower the glass, Sakusa refilled it. Nudged it back toward him.

“Drink again.”

Atsumu obeyed, slower this time. Then cleared his throat.

“I should know by now I can’t handle my alcohol.” He muttered, trying to play it off.

“Mm.” Sakusa hummed, nodding.

“So… ya stayed?”

“On the couch.”

A beat. Then Atsumu snorted. “Really? Sakusa Kiyoomi? Slept on a couch?”

Sakusa sipped his tea. “Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I wasn’t gonna leave you alone.”

They were quiet again. The kettle clicked off. Steam billowed faintly in the air.

“How’s yer shoulder?” Atsumu asked after a moment.

Sakusa shrugged—carefully. “Still hurts. I have PT later today. I’m on meds now, so… manageable.”

Atsumu nodded.

Then after a moment Sakusa exhaled. Not loud. But it sounded heavy. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly. “After my appointment? When you’re not… freshly hungover? Or do you want to talk now?”

Atsumu rubbed both hands over his face. Paused.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t fucking know what he wanted.

He only knew who he wanted.

“Can I—can I just ask somethin’?”

Sakusa swallowed hard. Then nodded.

Atsumu’s voice cracked. “What is it, Kiyoomi? What’s holdin’ you back?”

Sakusa stiffened. His mouth opened, then closed. A pause. A breath. A twitch of his fingers like he was trying to mold the answer into something he could live with saying out loud.

“I…” He started. Then stopped.

Atsumu waited. Watching his jaw tighten. Watching him blink, almost like it hurt.

“Ya what?” Atsumu pressed, softer this time. “Just… tell me.”

“I don’t…” Sakusa faltered, voice thin. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Atsumu nodded slowly, pushing through the weight in his chest. “Is it your parents?”

Another silence.

Sakusa’s jaw twitched again. He cleared his throat. Didn’t answer.

That was an answer.

Atsumu let out a slow breath, then filled the quiet himself, voice low, not accusing—just tired. “I get it. I do. I’d never tell ya to pick between me and yer family. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He rubbed at his chest like that would ease the ache. “But I need ya to give me somethin’. Anything. Just… just show me ya want me, Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa looked at him.

Atsumu swallowed. “Even if it’s just behind closed doors. Even if no one ever knows. I just—” He managed a laugh, but it was dry. “I’m already puttin’ my pride on the line for you. I’m out here… tryin’ to be honest with myself. Terrified, but doing it anyway. Because I fucking want ya.”

He looked back up. “So it hurts. That ya can’t do the same.”

Sakusa rubbed his hand over his face. Let it fall away. “I’m not you.” He said finally.

Atsumu blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s different for me.”

“How?”

Sakusa hesitated. “Because I’m not bi,” he said after a second. “I don’t like women at all.”

Atsumu frowned. “And that’s worse?”

“I don’t know!” Sakusa snapped. “I don’t know. But yeah. Sometimes it fucking feels like it.”

Atsumu stepped back. “Because why? I still look ‘normal’?”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

“You think that makes this easier for me?” Atsumu went on, incredulous. “Ya think it doesn’t mess with my head? That I haven’t spent every day since I kissed you the first time feeling like I don’t know who the fuck I am?”

Sakusa nearly winced. Then exhaled hard. “You could date a girl tomorrow. Bring her home. Your mom wouldn’t blink. The league and sponsors wouldn’t blink. No one would talk. No one would stare. No one would fucking care.”

“And ya think that makes it easier for me?” Atsumu said, stunned, voice rising. “Ya think that I’m not scared?”

“You don’t have to be scared the same way I do.”

Atsumu’s throat tightened. “Ya think I wanted this to be hard? Ya think I haven’t laid awake at night wishing I didn’t feel this way about you? But I’m putting that aside. For you. Because ya made me feel like I was worth that risk.”

Sakusa swallowed. Didn’t speak.

And Atsumu’s voice shook. “Why does it feel like I took five steps forward and yer takin’ five steps back?”

Sakusa’s breath hitched.

Atsumu’s eyes glistened. “I’m accepting who I am. Yer the one who kept pushin’ me to do that. You—” his voice cracked, “ya held me while I cried about it. Ya told me to just admit I like men. And now that I’m finally not scared of how I feel… you are?”

Sakusa blinked hard, a tear slipping down his cheek.

Atsumu just stared at him.. “I don’t get it. I really don’t.”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

So, Atsumu kept talking.

“I’m not mad at ya for being scared,” he said, after a long pause. “I’m mad because I let myself believe that ya weren’t.”

Sakusa didn’t move.

And Atsumu didn’t look up when he said, voice lower, “Ya told me I wasn’t just sex to you.”

Sakusa whispered, “You’re not.”

“Then why the fuck do I feel like that’s all I’ve been?”

Still no answer.

And Atsumu exhaled, barely audible. Just enough to stop himself from shaking..

“I just… I feel like you’re not willing to do it for me. Even after everything. Even after yer the one who kept—kept fuckin’ indulging in this. Kept takin’ what ya wanted. Kept kissin’ me. Takin’ me home. Touchin’ me like I meant somethin’. Ya kept goin’, Omi. And now you’re pullin’ away again.”

Sakusa stared at him. Face open. Shattered. His eyes shimmered like he wanted to say something—needed to—but nothing came.

So Atsumu let the silence sit.

Then eventually:

“I just want you.” He said. Voice rough, low. “That’s it. I want to be able to love ya. But if yer not ready for that… then maybe we should go back to being teammates.”

Sakusa froze.

“I mean…” Atsumu went on, wiping his face quickly. “I fucking love you, Kiyoomi. I got to the place ya wanted me to be.”

He sniffed hard. Tried not to break.

“Maybe ya thought I’d back out. Maybe ya just—maybe ya don’t want me, or maybe yer parents are more important than whatever this is. That’s fine. It is. I get it.”

Atsumu turned away, blinking fast. “We can be teammates. That’s easy. Just… just know that if we keep fucking, I’m gonna keep falling for ya harder. And I’m tired of crying about it.”

He rubbed his eyes, a hand on his forehead. Swallowed hard.

Silence.

Then he glanced back up.

Sakusa’s face was wet. Not a single sound had come from him, but his cheeks were streaked with tears, eyes glassy and red. He sniffed. Once. Twice. Then hiccuped back a sob that cracked out of him.

Atsumu’s heart shattered with it.

Sakusa set his mug down. Carefully. Quietly. Walked across the kitchen. And without saying a single word, he leaned down and kissed Atsumu’s forehead.

Soft. Gentle. Warm. Like it hurt to be that tender.

Then he whispered, voice low and hoarse, “I’m so sorry for hurting you.”

His hand hovered just for a second near Atsumu’s cheek, like he wanted to touch him again but didn’t know if he should.

“Maybe… maybe teammates is what’s best,” he murmured, not quite looking him in the eye. “I never wanted you to feel this way.”

Atsumu’s throat closed up.

And then Sakusa straightened.

Turned.

And walked out the door.

Chapter Text

Atsumu couldn’t really remember the last time he’d been heartbroken. Or if he ever had been.

He’d had crushes, sure. Girls he chased on the playground in elementary school. A middle school girlfriend he held hands with between classes, who dumped him because he got too competitive during a round of volleyball at lunch.

In high school, volleyball took up most of his time. He liked the attention girls gave him—liked being wanted—but it never stuck. He was busy. Too many games, too many drills. Though he did get rejected for the first-year dance by a girl he swore had a thing for him. That one stung.

And there was that girl Osamu tried to set him up with who ghosted him after two dates. He’d felt bummed, yeah. A little bruised in the ego. But nothing like this.

Nothing like crying so hard he threw up.

He was curled over his toilet, knees pressed to the tile, sweat sticking to the back of his neck. He barely got the call out to Osamu—voice tight, breath hiccupping, words slurring into panic. And Osamu—his brother who never liked seeing him cry—came. He didn’t say a word, just sat on the floor and let Atsumu slump into his lap like they were kids again. Rubbed his back. Let him sob.

It was embarrassing. Humiliating, even.

Not because it was Osamu, but because of how broken he felt. Like something in him had split straight down the center and now he was just...leaking. Constantly. Through his throat. Through his eyes. Through his fucking bones.

Because what the fuck did you mean—just teammates? Like all of it meant nothing. Like Atsumu hadn’t mapped Sakusa's body in the dark. Like Sakusa hadn’t kissed every stretch mark on Atsumu’s body like he knew them. Like he loved them.

And now? Now he was supposed to just toss a ball to him like none of it happened?

Just teammates.

The words alone made Atsumu feel like his chest was full of gravel.

He was barely eating. Osamu kept trying. Bringing over bentos. Pointing to the rice and telling him he better finish it before it got cold. Sometimes Atsumu would pick at it. Most of the time he’d just nod like he meant it and then forget. He only really ate after practice, when his body screamed for it. Never because he had an appetite.

HIs mom called him everyday. He didn't tell her what happened. Didn't have to. He knew Osamu had filled in the blanks. She never asked. Not really. But she'd call and say, "How are ya, baby? I miss ya." Or "Don’t forget how amazing y'are." Or "Make sure ya drink water."

And it helped. Kind of.

Sometimes he kept her on the phone for hours. Just listening to her talk about the garden, about the neighbor’s cat, about what she made for dinner. He’d sit on his floor, back against the couch, and close his eyes and let her voice fill the room. 

He was a mama's boy. Always had been. Spoiled, babied, loved deeply and loudly. And right now? That was the only thing keeping him together.

That, and volleyball. Volleyball always made sense.

The court stayed the same. Drills stayed the same. His hands still knew the shape of the ball like muscle memory, like prayer. He felt good on the court. Useful. Competent.

And it helped that Sakusa wasn’t really around. He had physical therapy. Rehab. The occasional sideline appearance. But he wasn’t in drills. He wasn’t in Atsumu’s ear. He wasn’t fucking touching him or watching him or breathing near him. And that made it easier.

Easier didn’t mean painless.

Because Atsumu still caught him in his peripheral. Still saw the corner of Sakusa’s body from across the gym. Still remembered how it felt under his mouth.

Back to teammates.

All of that, just to go back to teammates.

Time passed.

One month. Two.

Eventually, Atsumu started seeing Natsuki again.

It wasn’t a grand decision. No overthinking. Just a text, a reply, a night that didn’t end in loneliness.

She was easy. Accessible. Didn’t ask questions. Didn't push. She came over when he wanted. Left when he asked. Let him press into her and forget.

He bought her flowers sometimes. Dropped off her favorite coffee if he had time after weightlifting. Took her to a movie one night, but didn’t remember the plot.

And they fucked. A lot. Like animals.

It was messy. Hot. Constant. Skin slapping skin. Her voice loud and raw in his ears, and him grunting into her neck, her thighs, her mouth. The room always smelled like sex after. Always left sweat on the sheets.

Whenever he was in a pouty mood, she climbed into his lap and rode him until he forgot why he was upset. If the press pissed him off, she spread her legs and he shoved his face between them like salvation. They couldn't even shower without her dropping to her knees and blowing him until his eyes rolled back.

He had to tighten the screws in his bed frame twice—from the way it kept slamming into the wall when he bent her over and pounded into her with everything he had, from how he folded her in half and slammed in so hard the headboard bruised the drywall.

And it felt like shit admitting that. Made him sound like a douchebag. Maybe he was. Maybe that was just who he was now—the guy who used people to fill the void in his chest.

It worked. For a while, at least. It distracted him. Made him feel something. Let him fuck the loneliness out of himself one orgasm at a time.

He felt bad about it. Deep down, he knew what he was doing. He couldn't give her what she wanted.

Because he still loved Sakusa.

As pretty as Natsuki was—she wasn't Sakusa.

Osamu and Suna gave him hell for it.

Especially the night Suna visited Osaka and they all ended up at Osamu’s house, half-drunk and loud over homemade curry and beers.

Suna leaned back against the couch. "You’ve been sleeping with this girl for how long and still don’t wanna date her?"

Atsumu rolled his eyes, tipping his beer toward him. "Not everyone needs to be tied down, y'know."

Suna snorted. "You’re such a fuckboy."

"Takes one to know one."

"Nah, I commit when it counts. You? You can’t even hold Natsuki’s hand in public."

Atsumu narrowed his eyes. "Don’t need to. She doesn’t care."

Osamu cut in then, voice calm but pointed. "Still. If ya don’t like her that much, why keep stringin’ her along?"

Atsumu scowled. "I get off when I want. Who cares?"

Osamu reached over and thumped the back of his head. "Hey," he said. "Don’t talk like that. That’s not how ma raised ya."

Atsumu blinked. Then turned away.

Because he wasn’t sure who he was right now. But he knew it didn’t feel good.

What he did know, is yeah, he’s bisexual.

He liked women.

Atsumu was able to confirm that every time he slipped between Natsuki’s thighs and made her cry his name. Confirmed it with the way the sex was good. Sometimes it was too good. The kind that made him come so hard his vision blurred and his knees buckled.

See? Still into women. So bisexual, yeah.

Then she started staying over more often. Slipped into his shirts after showers. Left her hair products on his sink. Her jewelry on his nightstand. Her panties, lacy and delicate, started showing up in his laundry basket, tangled with his socks. Her smell was in his sheets. Her voice filled the kitchen. Her life started creeping into his, and Atsumu let it happen.

Didn’t stop it. Didn’t stop her.

But even when she was curled against him in bed, soft and warm and sweetly asleep, he stared at the wall and thought,

I miss him.

God. It tore through him some nights. It sat in his chest like a fucking infection he couldn’t shake.

It hit hardest the day Sakusa was cleared from his injury. 

Sling gone. Curls a little longer than before. He’d been cleared for light practice, light drills. Not game-ready yet, but close. Close enough that Atsumu could see him on the court again. Could hear his voice in team huddles. Could feel the distance between them like a knife pressed into his ribs.

Atsumu barely made it through the cooldown. As soon as Coach dismissed them, he left. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Just grabbed his shit and walked. Cried the entire way home. Just raw, quiet, shoulder-hunched sobs, like his body was trying to crawl away from itself.

Because being "just teammates" was killing him.

And now—now he was in his fucking living room. Romcom playing half-muted in the background. Natsuki straddling him on the couch, her body flushed and bouncing, her mouth open in a moan as she fucked herself down on his cock.

Her dinner was half-eaten on the table. The lights were dim. His hands were on her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. Her tits were bouncing in front of him, perfect and flushed, and her thighs were shaking just a little from how long she’d been riding him.

His fingers dug into her ass. His mouth kissed blindly across her collarbone. He fucked up into her, hard enough to make the couch creak and the plates on the table rattle.

But his chest hurt.

It fucking hurt.

Because all he could think about was Sakusa. Sakusa’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck. Sakusa whispering his name like a command. Sakusa moaning low and dark when Atsumu hit just the right spot. Sakusa holding him after. 

This wasn’t that.

This was noise and heat and distraction. This was him trying to lose himself in someone else’s body because he couldn’t crawl back into the one he really wanted.

He kissed Natsuki’s shoulder and felt his throat burn. Because even with her shaking above him, even with her crying out and tightening around his cock, even with his own orgasm winding hot in his belly—he just felt sad.

So fucking sad.

Sakusa hated how quiet everything was.

He went to his rehab appointments. Did the exercises. Checked in with the team doctor and the strength coach. Ate meals Komori left for him. Replied to the occasional brand email. Watched training footage.

But it was like everything was happening through a thick sheet of glass. Like he could see the world moving but couldn’t quite hear it.

And yeah—he had a headache all the time.

After he left Atsumu’s apartment that night—the night they agreed to go back to being just teammates—the ache started behind his eyes.

Then he went to his PT appointment, where he started sobbing the second he walked in. Not loud. Not messy. But the second the trainer touched his arm and asked him to rotate his shoulder, the tears started falling harder. The MSBY team manager looked confused. His doctor even more so.

Sakusa just shook his head and muttered something about being frustrated with his shoulder. He didn’t offer anything else.

Because how the fuck was he supposed to explain that it wasn’t his rotator cuff that was broken?

He kept thinking about how Atsumu had looked when he said it. That he wanted to love Sakusa. Out loud. Openly. Like he’d made it to some mountaintop and was waving Sakusa up like, come on, it’s not so hard.

But Sakusa was still stuck halfway down the mountain, winded, knees scraped. Terrified of what he’d lose if he got there.

Because sure, Atsumu had done the work. Faced it. Owned it. Whatever.

But now what? Sakusa was just supposed to erase the decades of conditioning and shame? Just decide overnight that he could be that person? Hold Atsumu’s hand in public? Kiss him at the team hotel? Be the gay volleyball poster boy?

And it fucking hurt. More than he thought it would. It dug into his chest and settled there like a splinter that wouldn’t work itself out.

And he hated how often he wanted to call. How much he missed Atsumu’s laugh. His stupid texts. The way he always had some dumb story about Bokuto or a new weird workout trick.

So he kept quiet.

He tried to stay busy.

But there were only so many times Sakusa could reorganize his spice rack before it lost the thrill. Only so many times he could vacuum his already-immaculate floors. Re-fold his socks. Rewatch old MSBY matches and analyze plays he’d memorized months ago. He wasn’t just heartbroken.

He was bored. He’d never felt so fucking bored.

Sakusa would pace his apartment like a caged animal for an hour—and then end up flat on his back, panting through gritted teeth with his phone resting against his bare thigh. One hand tucked across his chest in its goddamn sling, the other wrapped around his cock, jaw clenched, muscles shaking.

He was used to burning this energy at practice, at the gym, on the court. All of that gone now. He couldn’t even jack off properly without feeling like someone was twisting a knife in his shoulder. It was pathetic. And worse—he was horny. Constantly. Inconveniently. Violently.

And there was only one person he wanted.

He didn’t even bother pretending anymore. He pulled up the hidden folder on his phone—the one with the passcode no one knew—the one labeled something boring like “scans” in case anyone ever saw it.

Photos of Atsumu sweaty and flushed after practice, his hand down his shorts in the locker room. Videos of him in bed at night, stroking himself slow and whispering Sakusa’s name. Nudes from hotel rooms. Nudes from the MSBY bathroom. Voice notes.

Sakusa didn’t even pretend to scroll anymore. Just clicked on the first video of Atsumu he could see.

It was awkward—his left hand clumsy, the angle all wrong—but he didn’t care.

He was desperate.

His skin felt hot. His abs tensed. His lips parted around a shaky breath as he remembered the way Atsumu used to sound when he was actually under him—when it wasn’t a video, when it was real. The sounds he made when Sakusa grabbed his hips, held him down, bit at his collarbone and fucked him hard enough to make the bed shake.

He imagined that again. The weight. The heat. Atsumu’s legs wrapped around his waist, fingernails clawing his back, body writhing under him.

Faster. Fuck, don’t stop. Deeper. Omi—

Sakusa came with a grunt, hips twitching, vision blanking out. He lay there afterward, his phone still balanced on his thigh. The video paused on a frame of Atsumu moaning his name with his hand between his legs.

Sakusa hated how fast it still worked.

How even now—angry and heartbroken—he still couldn’t stop wanting him.

He should hate him.

After months of I’m not gay, after all the nights Atsumu rolled over and said this doesn’t mean anything, after all the fucking times he refused to kiss Sakusa because it made it too real. 

Now he wanted love? 

Komori called him every day. Sweet, gentle, too-perceptive Komori.

Sometimes they talked about nonsense—new protein bars, a dumb commercial, stories from their childhood days. But Komori had this tone in his voice. Like he was waiting. Like he was hoping Sakusa would open up, would say the thing they were both thinking.

He didn’t.

Not because he couldn’t. But because if he started, he didn’t know where it would end.

Komori already knew. About the heartbreak. About Atsumu. About all of it. He knew Sakusa loved him. And he knew Sakusa wasn’t over it. Wasn’t over him.

But Komori also knew the rest of it—the part no one else said out loud.

That Atsumu was the one who used to say I’m not gay while wrapped around Sakusa’s cock. That Atsumu was the one - for awhile - who refused to talk about what they were. Who wouldn’t even look at him after some of those nights.

And now?

Now Atsumu’s figured it out. And Sakusa’s supposed to just forget everything. Wipe the slate clean and fall in line like nothing happened.

That’s what fucked Sakusa up the most.

The assumption. The… expectation. That because Atsumu finally got his head out of his ass, Sakusa would be waiting. Would be ready to play boyfriend.

But Sakusa wasn’t ready.

Not when his own parents wouldn’t even look him in the eye when he wore shorts above the knee. Not when his mom still sent him flyers for marriage mixers in Tokyo. Not when being this version of himself could rip his whole life apart.

Because if this thing with Atsumu broke again, Sakusa couldn’t just go back. He couldn’t flip a switch and suddenly date a girl and erase it all. He didn’t have that luxury. That freedom.

And yeah, it pissed him off. It pissed him off that Atsumu could fuck up for months, finally cry about it, and somehow make Sakusa feel like the one being difficult.

Like he was the problem.

Sakusa couldn’t stand how unfair it all was.

Suddenly, after all the weeks—all the months—of denying, dodging, confusion, Atsumu was in love.

Now Atsumu knew who he was. Now he wanted to hold hands and kiss in daylight and be honest about everything that Sakusa had spent years compartmentalizing just to survive.

Like, oh—whoops. Turns out I’m not straight. Even though I kept claiming I was. You good?

Sakusa pressed the heel of his palm to his eye until it ached. He was sitting on the floor of his living room, back against the couch, legs stretched out, one arm still in his sling. The room was dim. The silence rang.

He could still hear Atsumu’s voice in his head. Those throwaway comments. That infuriating nervous laugh. The way he used to roll over after they fucked, pull the blanket up to his chin, and say I’m still straight, you know. Or - give me some time to figure myself out.

And Sakusa—like a fucking idiot—would stay quiet.

Would let him say that. Let him mean it. Let him fuck Sakusa in doggy because it was easier if we don’t look at each other—easier to pretend it wasn’t a man under him. That it wasn’t gay.

Sakusa started to get used to the ache in his chest. The burn in his throat. The feeling of being wanted but not seen.

And sure—eventually the sex got more comfortable. More intimate. They started kissing more. Started keeping the lights on. But Sakusa couldn’t forget the beginning. Couldn’t forget what it meant.

Couldn’t forget how many times Atsumu insisted they only do it in positions where their faces never met. Couldn’t forget how often Atsumu’s hand would linger on his shoulder, and then he’d pull it away, like touching Sakusa too long would make it real.

Couldn’t forget catching dating apps open on Atsumu’s phone—apps for girls. Profiles still active. Notifications coming through while Sakusa was literally lying next to him in bed.

Couldn’t forget the way Atsumu once snapped, don’t put me in a gay box, Kiyoomi right after Sakusa had dared to confront him about his sexuality. About the back and forth.

So Sakusa didn’t. He shut up. He waited.

Because what else was he supposed to do?

What else could he do, when he wasn’t sure if he was anything more than an experiment?

A trial run?

A phase?

Sakusa hated that word—phase. But it stuck to his skin, no matter how hard he tried to scrub it off. Because sometimes Atsumu would touch him like he meant it, and sometimes Atsumu would look at him like he was trying not to see him.

And he won’t forget the time they were at Atsumu’s place, after that match where Hinata admitted he heard them late at night through the thin hotel walls. Sakusa was on all fours on the bed, sweat dripping down his spine, breathing hard as Atsumu fucked into him from behind. Atsumu’s fingers were tight on his hips, rhythm harsh, his voice nothing but gasps and curses and the slap of skin.

It had been rough that night. Desperate. Good.

And when they both came—when Atsumu pulled out, chest heaving, sweat dampening his hair—he leaned over Sakusa’s back, kissed his shoulder, and murmured:

I made sure Shoyo won’t tell anyone what we’re doing.

Just like that. Like a favor.

And Sakusa had nodded. Mindlessly. Quietly.

Because yeah. Of course Atsumu didn’t want anyone to know.

And now?

Now Atsumu wanted to talk about love? Now he was ready? Now he wanted Sakusa to catch up, to forget all of that, to fall into step and smile like it hadn’t nearly destroyed him?

He didn’t know how to do that.

He didn’t know how to let it go. How to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop—waiting for the day Atsumu would meet another guy who was out and proud and loud, who didn’t carry the kind of trauma Sakusa carried, and realize he didn’t need Sakusa anymore.

He didn’t know how to believe that Atsumu wasn’t going to leave him for something easier. Something less complicated.

Because Sakusa didn’t get to try it out. Didn’t get to run back to girls and straightness and comfort if it didn’t work.

Sakusa didn’t get a phase.

And it hurt like hell to think that maybe—just maybe—that was all he was to Atsumu.

It made him tired.

Because no one cared about Sakusa’s timing. No one gave a shit about how hard it was for him to open up. To hold a man’s hand in daylight. To picture a future that looked nothing like the one his family had built for him since he was ten.

On top of that, he was still benched. Still unable to train. Still lying awake at night wondering if this tear was going to fuck up his future. If the pain would linger. If he’d ever serve the same again. If he’d become replaceable.

Volleyball was the only thing that made sense in his life. And now even that was out of reach.

Yeah, okay, maybe Atsumu needed someone. Maybe he was hurting. But Sakusa was already being torn apart in ten different directions. His chest already felt like it was being squeezed in a vice every day.

And now he was supposed to be the emotionally available one?

Just because now Atsumu was ready?

God, it made him want to scream.

Especially when his mother called earlier. Told him, ever-so-sweetly, that the daughter of her friend from med school was in Osaka this month. Lovely girl. His age. Beautiful. Smart. Soft.

“She’d make a good partner,” his mom had said. “It’s time to start thinking seriously, Kiyoomi.”

Start thinking seriously.

Like he hadn’t been thinking seriously since he was twelve and realized something about himself didn’t quite match what they wanted from him. Like he hadn’t tried to be the perfect son. Like he hadn’t held himself back in every way imaginable just to stay palatable to people who would never really know him.

Sakusa could never give them what they wanted. Couldn’t smile through a marriage with a girl and pretend he wasn’t unraveling at night. Couldn’t wake up next to someone soft and sweet and full of warmth and know that she’d never make him feel what Atsumu made him feel with one fucking glance.

Because yeah, he was gay.

And he hated it sometimes. Not because he was ashamed of loving men. But because it made life harder. Lonelier. Unfair.

Atsumu could, at any moment, pivot. Turn around and marry a woman and have two kids and be the golden boy of Japan all over again.

Sakusa couldn’t. There was no “normal” for him to retreat to.

And yeah—maybe that made him bitter. Maybe that made him an asshole. Maybe it made him unfairly cold toward people who could live in the middle of sexuality. Biphobic? Is that the word he is looking for? 

He sat there, shoulders curled in, a lump in his throat he didn’t know what to do with.

And for all his effort to stay detached—above it—untouched—he still wanted to call Atsumu. He wanted to hear his voice. Just to know he was still out there. Still him. Still the same dumb, loud, magnetic, infuriating boy that Sakusa had fallen for against all better judgment.

Sakusa didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t even hear her key in the lock. He was sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through emails on his tablet. His head turned only when he felt a kiss press against his cheek.

His sister—quiet elegance and gold jewelry, the same dark curls, the same serious eyes—dropped a grocery bag on the counter and said, “You look rough.”

“Hello to you too.” Sakusa muttered.

She smiled, already pulling ingredients from the bag. Vegetables, eggs, chicken. She didn’t ask before opening his fridge. She didn’t have to. The way she clicked her tongue told him she already knew it was empty. Then she just started chopping onions with the kind of precision that came from years of watching their grandmother cook.

She filled the air easily. Talking about her week, her now-fiancé, gossip about their cousin’s wedding, a story about one of her coworkers. And then, casually, like she was testing the temperature, she mentioned their parents.

Sakusa flinched.

It was subtle. Barely a twitch of his shoulders. But she noticed.

She didn’t press. Didn’t say a word about it. Just kept slicing, stirring, talking like normal. And he let her.

They ate together on the couch, him curled to one side, her on the other. She placed two of his pain meds in his hand and watched to make sure he actually swallowed them. 

Later, they sat on the balcony, the evening breeze cooler than expected. She tugged a throw blanket over both of their legs and swung the bench gently with her foot, their shoulders touching.

For a long time, they said nothing.

Then she asked, “So what’s on your mind?”

He shrugged. Looked away.

The tears came fast. Not dramatic. Just a steady sting behind his eyes, then the slow slide of salt across his cheek. He sniffed and blinked toward the sky, trying to keep his throat from closing.

She didn’t push. Just sat with him. Quiet. Patient.

Until she said, gently, “Komori filled me in a little bit.”

Sakusa exhaled hard through his nose, bitter. “Yeah? What does he think’s going on.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “Just that you’re in love with someone. That it’s complicated. And that you two are… taking a break.”

His eyes flicked toward her. Then he let out a choked, frustrated sound and wiped at his eyes. “I just feel so fucking stupid. Crying like this. All the time.”

She moved closer, careful of his sling. She brushed the curls away from his forehead the same way she used to when he was a kid with a fever. Her hand was soft. Warm.

“It’s not stupid." She said softly. 

His mouth trembled. He looked away again.

“I don’t even know if I want to be with this person,” He said finally, voice low. “It’s like… now they’re okay with everything. With who they are. After months of telling me they weren’t sure. That they were straight. That it didn’t mean anything. All while we were…”

He swallowed.

Her expression didn’t change. She just listened.

“And now they’re sure,” Sakusa went on. “Now they’re fine. And I’m just supposed to be happy about that. I’m supposed to forget all the times they couldn’t even look me in the eye after we fucked. All the times they wanted it from behind so they didn’t have to see my face.”

He sucked in a shaky breath. Her hand was still in his hair, steady, grounding.

“What if next month they decide no, actually, they do only like women, and I was just—” He stopped himself, then exhaled. “It hurts. Because now I’m the bad guy because I need a second to breathe?”

“You’re not the bad guy, Kiyo.” She softly assured.

His chest caved a little. Shoulders curled in on themselves.

“I keep wondering if I made it worse by waiting,” he whispered. “Letting him say things and not say things. For not confronting him more. For not having those serious conversations with him. I avoided conversations because I was scared.”

She slid her hand from his arm to his back, drawing little circles there like she had when he was a kid. 

“You were trying to protect your heart,” she said. “That’s not a crime.”

“I’m scared of what mom and dad would say.” He admitted. 

She didn’t speak right away. Let the words settle. 

He kept talking: 

“They’re still trying to set me up with that girl. That one from our neighborhood. She’s a med student.” He said. “They talk about it like it’s already written. Like it’s still going to happen, eventually.”

His sister sighed through her nose. Then, “You don’t need to keep living for them, Kiyoomi.”

“And have no family?” His voice cracked. “Sure. That sounds great.”

Her hand found his, warm and steady, curling over his knuckles. “You’ll still have me,” she said, like it was obvious. “You’ll always have me. And Komori. Even if Mom and Dad can’t figure it out—you don’t have to twist yourself inside out to make them comfortable.”

He turned his face away, jaw clenched, trying to keep it together. But his mouth trembled, and his eyes burned.

She scooted closer, pulled his head gently to her shoulder, and kissed his curls. 

“Kiyoomi,” she said softly, “if you keep trying to live their life instead of yours, you’re gonna be miserable forever." 

He nodded, just once, small and sharp. Then again. Wiped his eyes with his good hand.

“I know,” he said, hoarse. “I just… I wish it didn’t feel like choosing one thing meant losing the other.”

She exhaled. "I know." 

The crowd was screaming like they’d just won nationals, even though this was just a regular season game.

But it was Sakusa Kiyoomi’s first time back on the court since the injury.

Not a full return. Nothing dramatic. No signature jump serve. No diving saves. Just a few careful rotations. Some conservative receives.

But it was enough to send the crowd into a frenzy. Enough to make Atsumu’s chest seize the second he heard the roar swell as Sakusa stepped onto the court with black KT tape peeking just slightly beneath the collar seam. It was subtle. The average fan wouldn’t notice it. But Atsumu had seen it in the locker room earlier—seen Sakusa tape his shoulder in slow, practiced movements, quiet and calm like it was any other day. No sling.

They were on the same side of the net, same team, even ended up standing shoulder to shoulder during one of the rotations. But it felt like there was a canyon between them. An impossible, silent gap.

Because yeah—just teammates.

After sharing beds for months. After brushing their teeth side by side, lips still swollen from kissing each other awake. After they mixed up whose sweatpants were whose in the laundry pile. After Atsumu learned that Sakusa liked his hangers spaced evenly in the closet and needed his toothbrush angled just so on the sink counter. After Sakusa started making Atsumu’s favorite breakfast unprompted—soft scrambled eggs, rice, and miso with just a little tofu—and remembered every time which mochi flavor Atsumu liked best when they passed that one shop after weights.

After all of that.

Just teammates.

Atsumu stood at the edge of the rotation line, watching Sakusa sub out after his final play. And for a second, their eyes caught—barely a moment. Not even a real look. But it cracked something open in Atsumu’s chest so wide he swore the air left him.

There was sweat on Sakusa’s neck, his lips parted as he exhaled. His curls were damp and stuck to his forehead and he looked exactly like the version of him Atsumu used to wake up next to.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Atsumu’s fingers twitched with the urge to reach out. Grab his jersey. Say something. Scream something. Drag him into the locker room and demand to know how he could look so composed when Atsumu felt like he was bleeding out every time they brushed shoulders.

But instead, he offered him a small nod. Something professional. Teammate-like.

And maybe it was the adrenaline. Or maybe it was the burn in Atsumu’s lungs after match point. Or maybe it was the sick, bittersweet way Sakusa still looked like home even when he felt like a stranger. But Atsumu felt like something inside him was caving in.

Because Sakusa was back. Back on the court. Back in his periphery.

Right where he belonged.

And it was unbearable.

And Atsumu’s body remembered Sakusa’s before his brain could stop it. The way Sakusa used to press a palm to his lower back when they left a room together. The way he’d kiss Atsumu’s temple when it was just the two of them in the locker room. The way his lips tasted when he was tired and quiet and just awake enough to mumble, don’t forget to turn the kitchen light off.

Now Atsumu just swallowed hard, clapped his teammates on the back, and tried to forget that everything he ever wanted was standing inches away, and felt miles out of reach.

The interview was the final punch in the gut.

Their manager’s voice rang out—“Miya, Sakusa, you’re up”—and Atsumu almost laughed. Of course they were. Because why not put two men with a shared sexual history and unresolved feelings and a metric fuckton of trauma on camera together.

He followed Sakusa to the press corner, keeping a half-step behind. Watched the way his jersey clung to his lower back. The way he ran a towel over his neck once, then left it to hang there.

They stood side by side under the lights. Close. Too close. The host gave them a smile, mic already in her hand, and the cameraman adjusted the angle.

Atsumu could feel Sakusa’s heat beside him. The way their arms brushed, barely, every few seconds. The way neither of them moved away.

It was muscle memory. It was torture.

The questions were fine at first. Expected.

“Sakusa-san, how does it feel to be back?”

“I’m grateful. Missed the court.”

“Miya-san, did you feel the difference having him back in rotation?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu said, mouth working before he could think. “It just... clicks with him, y’know? Doesn’t need a full sentence—just a glance, a shift in posture. We pick it up fast.”

He felt Sakusa shift slightly beside him. Couldn’t tell if it was discomfort or something else.

The next question dragged them into the shallow end of hell.

“You two have an incredibly tight dynamic on court. What’s your relationship like off it?”

Sakusa didn’t even blink.

“We’re just teammates,” he said. “We work well together.”

The words dropped like a guillotine.

Atsumu swallowed.

Just teammates.

Right. Teammates who’ve sucked each other off in hotel bathrooms. Who’ve fucked in silence and in gasps and with spit drying on their chests. Who’ve shared toothbrushes and sobs and whispered half-confessions between thigh-spread desperation. Teammates who knew the sound the other made when the orgasm was too much to handle. Who knew what food they liked post-practice, what brand of detergent they used, what part of the neck made the other groan just a little louder.

“Yeah,” Atsumu said finally, “Just teammates.”

The interview wrapped quickly after that. They nodded, smiled. Played their parts.

They walked down the tunnel together in silence. Footsteps echoing off the walls. Damp shirts sticking to their backs.

Atsumu was about to veer off toward the showers when he felt it.

A hand. Gentle but firm. On the back of his neck.

Sakusa's palm was warm. Familiar. The pad of his thumb dragged slow over the curve of Atsumu’s nape, just like he used to do after they kissed, or when they were in bed and Atsumu was panicking about press, or family, or his own goddamn brain.

Atsumu stopped walking. So did Sakusa.