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The cold air of Osaka bites at Atsumu’s ankles. He tucks his chin under the neck of his jacket, exhaling with slow breaths to warm his chapped lips. Fatigue stains his vision as he walks past silent storefronts and slips into a narrow alleyway.
It’s too late for any sober person to be out. Atsumu himself had been sleeping no more than ten minutes ago. His body itches for the comfort of his thick blankets, and he yawns, wanting nothing more than to sleep for another ten hours, but he has more important things to attend to.
Namely, the reason why he’s awake—and the reason why he’s strolling through the streets at two in the morning—is because Atsumu’s phone rang. The first time, he ignored it, digging his face into the pillows. The second time, Atsumu had sighed, fumbling around his nightstand to pull it from its charging cable and answer it.
He thought he was dreaming. It isn’t every day Sakusa Kiyoomi calls him, let alone in the middle of the night.
Atsumu picked it up without greeting. “Wadaya callin’ for? I’m sleepin’.”
There was a clamor of dishes and a smattering of voices in the background, but Sakusa’s voice cut through like shards of glass. “Miya.”
“What?” He paused when Sakusa didn’t respond. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
Atsumu knew he was lying. He could hear it in the drawn out syllables of both words, and he assumed so, too, because the rest of the MSBY Black Jackals had gone out for Adriah’s birthday. “Why’re you callin’ me?”
“I didn’t think you’d pick up.”
“You called me twice.”
“Mm.” Sakusa hummed, and Atsumu could picture him now—cheeks flushed from whatever whiskey Meian had ordered, disheveled curls pushed back from his face, eyelids heavy. He never did hold his liquor well. “I still thought you were going to ignore it. Sorry.”
Atsumu paused, torn between two options. The first was to hang up the phone and put his phone on silent before diving back under his covers. The second was slightly less straightforward, and Atsumu rubbed at his eyes as he groaned internally. “Are you with everyone still?”
“Yeah. I think they’re—they said they wanna go to a karaoke room.”
“Okay. Are you goin’ with them?”
“Um.”
Atsumu re-phrased the question. “Do you wanna go with them?”
When Sakusa didn’t reply, Atsumu strained to hear what was going on in the background. Sure enough, he heard Bokuto’s thundering voice and Hinata’s bright laughter. If Sakusa was calling him, there was only one reason. “Do you want me to come and getcha? Or can you get back yourself?”
Atsumu heard a frustrated huff before the line promptly went dead.
He stared at his phone, a bit stunned and annoyed, but when he attempted to call Sakusa back, he didn’t pick up.
Against better judgement, Atsumu decided to climb out of bed and pull on clothes, tugging on his jacket as he texted the Black Jackals’ group chat to confirm their location. He texted Sakusa, too, privately, but received no response.
That’s how he finds himself standing outside of a nearby izakaya, illuminated by flickering street lamps. It’s a familiar joint he and his teammates frequent for both occasions and casual outings, a ten minute walk from the apartment complex they live in. Atsumu’s lost track of the number of times he’s gotten shitfaced here before miraculously making it back to his room in one piece.
The moment he steps into the building, he hears Inunaki’s voice raised in a drunken stupor as he all but lunges for Adriah in an attempt to wrangle the nearly empty bottle of sake. The izakaya is surprisingly full at this late hour, bustling with tables that were mostly empty save for alcohol and cups. The Black Jackals are seated at the back left corner, and as Atsumu maneuvers around a few servers, offering polite smiles, Bokuto’s the first one to notice him.
“Tsum Tsum! Did you change your mind? Are you gonna come with us to karaoke?”
At the mention of his name, his entire team turns their attention to him. Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Nah, man. There’s no way I’m gonna subject myself to Wan-san tryin’ to sing K-pop songs again.” Atsumu offers Hinata a ruffle of his hair. “I’m surprised you’re still out. It’s gettin’ pretty late, ain’t it?”
Atsumu is starkly aware of how they’re all looking at him, almost expectantly. Everyone, that is, except one person.
“I’m here to pick up the one and only Sakusa Kiyoomi-san.” Atsumu eyes Sakusa’s profile. He’s seated at the end of the table, and he looks to be nodding off. Or maybe he’s pretending. Atsumu can’t tell. “I think it’s his bedtime.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to join for a drink?” Meian asks. “We still got a bottle left to go through.”
“I’m alright. Thanks.” Atsumu flips off Adriah. “Happy birthday, or what the fuck ever.”
Adriah snorts, a crooked smile on his face. He tilts his chin in Sakusa’s direction. “I, uh, might’ve gotten him to drink more than he originally planned. Tell him I’m sorry.”
“Tell him yourself, asshole.” Atsumu shuffles to the side to make room for a waiter passing by. “Hey. Let’s go.” He grips Sakusa’s shoulder and gives him a little shake, thankful his teammates resume their conversations. “Don’t tell me you’re changin’ yer mind about goin’ to karaoke. Otherwise you got me outta bed for nothin’.”
Sakusa’s head bobs to the side, and he has the nerve to look almost annoyed. “What’re you doin’ here?”
“You called me, dumbass. C’mon.”
When Atsumu tugs Sakusa by the elbow, he expects Sakusa to resist. When he slowly guides the chair back to make room for Sakusa to stand, he expects Sakusa to protest, citing all the reasons why Atsumu doesn’t have to help him. But Sakusa doesn’t fight it. He stumbles over his feet and mutters profanities under his breath and yanks his arm away from Atsumu. “I’m fine,” Sakusa mutters, but Atsumu knows better.
Atsumu sighs. He’s used to moments where Sakusa flinches and jerks away from him. It’s part of his personality at this point. “Just try to walk straight.”
“I’m fine.”
“If you’re so fine, then lead the way.”
Atsumu watches as Sakusa ambles towards the door, torso swaying a bit. It’s always amusing to see him drunk. He’s like a six-foot-four willow tree bending in the wind. Atsumu offers one last wave and a tight smile to his teammates before following after Sakusa. He can feel their eyes on his back as he departs, but he ignores it.
Sakusa is a slow walker, something that’s surprising given that he grew up in Tokyo. When he drinks, he might as well be crawling, because it’s almost painful how slow he is. They make it about one block before he comes to a complete halt, slapping a palm against his face while trying to rub his eyes.
“Hey. You’re gonna poke yourself in the eye.” Atsumu almost reaches for Sakusa, almost wraps his fingers around his bony wrists peeking out from the sleeve of his jacket. “Stop that.”
“Why’re you here, Atsumu?” Sakusa’s words sound smushed together. Atsumu doesn’t know if Sakusa has tried harder to keep the words in, or if it’s harder for him to force the words out. “I didn’t tell you to come.”
“You and I both know you hate karaoke. But they woulda dragged you along anyway.” Atsumu shrugs. He takes a few steps ahead, only to see that Sakusa isn’t following him. He stops and turns. “It’s cold. Let’s go.”
Sakusa runs his fingers through his hair. It sticks up at odd angles, but when it’s pushed back from his face like that, an ache twists in Atsumu’s stomach. “I shouldn’t have called you. Sorry. Forget I called you.”
“You’re bein’ stupid. Don’t worry about it.” Atsumu gestures for Sakusa to keep walking, and to his relief, Sakusa takes hesitant steps on the sidewalk. “Faster we get home, faster we can get to sleep.”
“You didn’t come tonight.”
“Uh. Yeah. ‘S okay though. I already told Adriah-kun I’d treat him to lunch next week.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Even with the groan of a few cars driving past, the silence between them is deafening. Atsumu chews his bottom lip and shivers in the breeze, hunching his shoulders as he tries to pry out what Sakusa is insinuating. Sakusa isn’t quick to pick fights—not when he’s sober, anyway. His direct nature leaves little conflict to be had. “Wadaya mean, that ain’t what you meant?”
Sakusa sighs. “I mean—you’re not—I know you avoid these things on purpose. And I just wanted to say—you don’t have to. You could’ve come out with the team.”
“I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”
“I mean in general.”
“Okay?”
Sakusa groans in frustration, and he mutters under his breath in tones so low even Atsumu can’t make out what he’s saying. It’s like any semblance of order and reason disintegrates the moment Sakusa gets a little too drunk. Trying to coax coherence out of him proves impossible. “Hey.” Atsumu grabs at Sakusa’s arm to pull him to the side when he’s about to run straight into a lamp post. “Get yer eyes off the ground before you knock yourself unconscious.”
“Stop doing that.”
“What?” Atsumu releases Sakusa quickly from his grip. Sakusa still isn’t looking at him.
“The thing where you’re all—nice. I hate it.” A humorless laugh erupts from his mouth, and it punches Atsumu straight in his gut. “I can’t stand it.”
Atsumu frowns, because this is opposite how their dynamic is supposed to go. Being ‘nice’ is what works. It makes having to deal with each other manageable, whether it’s in practice or during team outings. In some ways, it’s harder to not be nice, because not being nice requires being honest. “I’m sorry?”
“Why’re you here?” Sakusa demands, a distinct edge to his voice spurred on by alcohol. His jaw clenches, and if he were to look at Atsumu now, Atsumu can guess what he’d find. Annoyance. Frustration. Anger, probably. It’s just not clear who Sakusa’s feelings are directed at—Atsumu or himself.
“Well, why didja call me?” Atsumu’s beginning to lose patience now, because he’s tired and it’s late and his toes are starting to get cold. “You’re the one that called me first.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“You called me. Twice. Pretty sure you meant to.”
When Sakusa finally looks at him, eyes narrow, his gaze wavers.
Atsumu tries again. “You’re the one that called me, and I ain’t so much of an asshole where I’d leave you to the Jackals for another endless karaoke night. Alright? That’s all there is to it. Either you can complain about me comin’ to getcha, or you can walk yer ass home so I can go back to sleep. Or you can multitask. I don’t really care.”
“I know you didn’t come because of me,” Sakusa says. Atsumu keeps distance between them. It’s all he can do to keep from reaching out to steady Sakusa as he continues to sway back and forth while walking. “You keep doing that.”
Atsumu dismisses it with a shrug that masks the coil winding in his gut. “Maybe I’m just gettin’ tired of blowin’ my paychecks on wagyu beef.”
“We don’t even eat wagyu beef all the time.”
“I’m exaggeratin’.”
“I don’t like that.”
“What? That wagyu beef ain’t apart of yer regular diet? Or me exaggeratin’?”
Sakusa shakes his head, and he scrunches his nose, lips pressed in a thin and downturned line. “That you keep avoiding going out with us so you can avoid me.”
“Oh.” Atsumu rubs the back of his neck. “That.”
In all honesty, it’s not that Atsumu plans to avoid group outings with the Jackals. And he doesn’t plan to avoid Sakusa, either. He somehow happened to come up with excuses for some of them, which turned into most of them, which eventually became all of them. His teammates know, of course, that most of said excuses are ridiculous—like tonight’s, where Atsumu claimed he promised Osamu he’d wake up early with him to drive to Kita’s farm. Everyone knows Osamu would rather carry sixty pound bags back than have to sit in the car with Atsumu for extended periods of time.
But no one says anything, much like how no one had said anything earlier, when Atsumu arrived to pick up Sakusa. Atsumu more or less ignores the stares, knowing that, half the time, his teammates aren’t even aware they’re staring. He’s assumed Sakusa does the same thing, although judging from the deep furrow between his eyebrows, Sakusa isn’t happy about it. “It ain’t anythin’ personal. You know it’s not.”
“Yeah.” Sakusa kicks at the ground. “I noticed.”
“Huh?”
Sakusa shrugs noncommittally, and Atsumu grits his teeth. He hasn’t missed this—this gap of communication that comes along with trying to pull answers out of Sakusa when he’s upset. For all his blunt honesty, Sakusa sucks at being vulnerable. It is, objectively, one of Sakusa’s biggest flaws. Atsumu had only started to get used to it until, suddenly, there was no reason to be used to it anymore, and Sakusa carried on with his stubborn inability to express what he really feels.
Atsumu supposes he’s not any better. He’s brash and loud and obnoxious to a fault, and he runs his mouth when he’s mad and is quick to point a finger when someone does something wrong. But none of that measures up to the distress from having to crack open a vault of emotions that, for the most part, goes unacknowledged. Nothing good can come out of opening Pandora’s box. And nothing good can come out of Atsumu talking about what they’re desperately trying to not talk about.
So Atsumu clears his throat and rubs his hands together in an effort to warm them up and says, “Let’s getcha back to the—”
“It’s always you accommodating,” Sakusa blurts, and he sounds breathless and a little helpless, and his foot catches on an uneven sidewalk. Atsumu reaches out to catch Sakusa’s arms to hold him upright, gripping at Sakusa’s elbows, trying to ignore how Sakusa’s hands grip back. He straightens himself, still swaying forward, and the cloud of condensed breath between them has the distinct aroma of sake. “Even tonight when I—you still picked up the call. I wasn’t sure if you would. I didn’t think you were going to.”
“I didn’t want to,” Atsumu admits, and he takes a step back to pull his hands away, but Sakusa’s fingers tighten. Atsumu swallows. He tries to lean back, tries to look away, tries to look anywhere but Sakusa as he looms over him. The sudden proximity affects Atsumu more than he’d like to admit. His mind starts to reel. He somehow wants to pull away and stay here, too, just long enough that the space between them shrinks back to normal.
It’s a stupid wish, but Atsumu is stupid. So is Sakusa, who sticks so close that Atsumu’s core starts to strain.
“So why did you?” Sakusa asks. Desperation frays his words with newfound urgency. Atsumu flinches at the tone. He’s heard this before. “Why did you pick up?”
“You never call me.”
“Not since—”
“Yeah. Not for a while. So I thought it was prolly somethin’ important.” Atsumu leans back even further, but Sakusa follows the movement and, in turns, leans over him. “Which I guess it was. Since you needed someone to bail you outta there.” He gently guides Sakusa’s arm down and pries Sakusa’s finger out of the hold he’s bound Atsumu in. “Hey. Can you—”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“It doesn’t matter if I didn’t hafta. Cuz I did.”
“You’re just being—” Sakusa huffs another frustrated sigh. “—nice.”
“You keep sayin’ that like it’s a bad thing. Ain’t that what you wanted?”
Sakusa’s throat bobs as he swallows. “You don’t even call me by my name anymore,” he mumbles. “You don’t even address me directly.”
Another sting, this one palpable enough that the wind is knocked out of him. Atsumu stuffs his hands in his pockets again, surprised to find that his mouth forms the shape of words he knows he shouldn’t say—namely, that stupid nickname he’d given Sakusa ages ago, long before conscientious politeness came into play. “Yer name sounds weird from my mouth,” Atsumu says, playing it off as lighthearted as he can. “And I don’t think it’s appropriate to be callin’ you ‘Omi Omi’ anymore.”
This should be something Sakusa nods along with. It aligns with their decision to keep things professional and fits into the nice, clean distance they agreed to. The tight pout on Sakusa’s lips says otherwise. “You can’t just keep addressing me with ‘you’ and nothing else.”
“I dunno what you want me to say.”
Sakusa’s shoulders sag as he blinks lazily towards Atsumu. “I want you to talk to me like—like you’re actually talking to me. You don’t talk to me like that anymore.” His lower lip trembles for a microsecond, cut promptly by Sakusa pursing his lips. “I hate it.”
“Omi—”
“You’re always so nice to me and polite all the time, and whenever you use that fake laugh when I’m around it makes me think—well, I don’t even deserve to be upset about it.” Sakusa sniffles. “Especially since it’s my fault you’re acting that way in the first place.”
Atsumu stills. It’s hard enough having to fake the politeness and fake the smiles around Sakusa, but with Sakusa unravelling on the cold streets in front of him, Atsumu can feel himself treading the fine line between honesty and safety. “It ain’t yer fault,” he replies, lamely, because they both know it’s not true. “Stop thinkin’ about that.”
It was Sakusa who’d ended it, after all. I just can’t, Miya, he’d said.
And now, here he is, violating the decision they came to.
“I just can’t.” Sakusa’s voice cracks as he sways once more. His pained expression is exaggerated by the dim lights of the streets casting shadows over his face. “I think I’d prefer it if you were an asshole to me instead.”
If things were easy between them, Atsumu might crack a joke. Sounds like you got issues, he could say. Or, y’know, you gotta be careful when you say things like that. Sounds kinda kinky. But things aren’t easy between them. A cross of a hiccup and sigh comes out of his mouth, and Atsumu looks at him—really looks at him.
He’s as handsome as he’d been when they first met, knobby-kneed fifteen year olds spike serving at each other from across the net. Atsumu remembers being instantly infatuated with Sakusa right away while also simultaneously being infuriated. Because Sakusa Kiyoomi never showed any signs of weakness. He had a stable confidence, even back then, which translates to his reliability now. Sakusa is reliable—in all ways but one.
“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, though it’s little more than a whisper.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, though it’s not clear if it’s hopeful or shocked on Sakusa’s part.
Atsumu tries not to let his heart take over. His throat jumps as he tries to piece together when, exactly, their facade had started to fall apart. For the most part, Atsumu is able to compartmentalize. When he’s on the court, he doesn’t have time to think about how Sakusa’s gentle murmurs of Atsumu have morphed into cold and awkward indifference. He can set a perfect toss towards Sakusa without faltering over how Sakusa’s gaze skips over him when he’s in the room.
When he’s alone, it’s a completely different story. Time has helped, but it does little to let Atsumu forget that he and Sakusa existed before things went stale. Atsumu finds distractions in games, in movies, in going out with other people—but there’s still the dull ache in his chest that’s found amidst the wreckage of a painful breakup. Maybe if he were a little more mature, a little more put together, he’d have the strength to sift through it. But he’s not. He’s a coward, and he knows it, and it shows in how Atsumu is the first one to avert his eyes.
“It’s cold,” he says again, but the words fall flat. “We should get goin’.”
He ignores how, even in the dimness, he can see that Sakusa’s eyes are glassy and tinged with a familiar pink. If he notices it, then he can’t go on pretending like being ‘nice’ is easy. “You sure you can walk?”
Sakusa pulls away before Atsumu has a chance to make a grab for him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re walkin’ sideways.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Uh, yeah—watch it. You’re seriously gonna smash yer pretty nose and get it all broken and ugly.” Atsumu ignores Sakusa twisting away from his grip and pulls him to a stop. “C’mon. Lemme give you a ride. Otherwise at this rate we’ll get back when it’s time to wake up.”
Sakusa’s head flops to the side as his nose scrunches in confusion. He’s cute when he’s drunk, and Atsumu forces himself not to look too much at him. “You don’t have a car.”
“I ain’t talkin’ about a car, stupid.” Atsumu steps in front of him and crouches down. “Get on.”
Atsumu stares at the concrete beneath the scuffed toes of his shoes. Half of him expects Sakusa to step around him and keep walking. The other half expects that Sakusa will say something along the lines of, that’s absurd, Miya.
“Any day now,” Atsumu says once it’s been a good thirty seconds of silence. “Miya-mobile departs in—oof.”
He’s cut off by Sakusa flopping onto his back, arms enclosing around Atsumu’s shoulders. Atsumu almost topples over, but he catches himself, short of breath when Sakusa’s legs close around his waist. “Shit. You’re heavy.”
“Shut up.” Sakusa’s words feel warm against Atsumu’s skin, even through his shirt and his jacket. “You weigh more than I do.” Everything about Sakusa’s body feels warm, pressed against his back, and Atsumu braces himself before standing.
He’s done this before. He’s done this for Hinata and Inunaki and Bokuto and Suna at the end of drunken nights out, so there’s no reason for this to be weird. But with those times, Atsumu never thought twice about offering piggyback rides. Atsumu had gritted his teeth each time, and he’d done it out of begrudging necessity. Occasionally, Hinata would wiggle around and Bokuto would shout too hard in his ear. That’s how these things go.
Sakusa was the only one who’d whisper confessions incoherently against the nape of Atsumu’s neck, running his fingers through Atsumu’s hair. He’s heavy and tall, and his long limbs make for awkward positioning, but none of that mattered when Sakusa’s inhibitions were lowered by alcohol. The memory of Sakusa giggling as he pressed his lips behind the curve of Atsumu’s jaw is disorienting.
Atsumu knows it’s foolish, but he can’t stop himself. He indulges in the warmth Sakusa’s torso provides to his body. Even if it’s only for the walk back to the apartment, surely a small, stolen moment can’t hurt.
“What are you thinkin’ about?” Atsumu asks quietly. He walks with careful steps, adjusting his grip on Sakusa’s body every so often. His body has already started to protest, fatigue building little by little, but he pushes through.
Sakusa hums, and Atsumu can feel the sound vibrating through his chest. Sakusa readjusts himself, arms tightening around Atsumu’s shoulders. He’s silent for so long that Atsumu figures that he isn’t going to provide an answer, only to break the quiet barrier between them with a simple answer. “You.”
“Oh.” Atsumu chews his lip before responding. This is a dangerous conversation to have, and he feels almost—guilty, for having it while Sakusa is a little inebriated and definitely emotional. Not that he should feel guilty, because he isn’t the one that instigated this conversation in the first place.
Sakusa’s sigh brushes over the side of Atsumu’s face. “I miss when you weren’t polite to me.” The hairs on the back of Atsumu’s neck stand up. “Even when there’s—when I mess up a hit or something, you don’t even get mad anymore. You don’t tell me off. I hate it.”
“And here I thought me tellin’ you off made you pissed.”
“Yeah. It’s annoying. But you being nice—” There was that word again. Being ‘nice’ isn’t a bad thing. He knows it’s not. Coming from Sakusa, however, it might as well be the worst thing Atsumu could ever be. “—when you’re nice, I hate that way more.”
“Omi—”
“Because I know it’s all fake.” Sakusa’s voice falters. “It's not who you are. It makes me mad.”
“Ain’t it easier when I ain’t myself around you?”
“No.”
Atsumu resists shaking his head. His quads and back have begun to stiffen, but he presses on. “You don’t really mean that, Omi-kun. You’re drunk.”
“I don’t care if I’m drunk. I’m still mad.”
“You’re mad about me bein’ nice?”
“No.” Sakusa’s fingers gather the fabric of Atsumu’s jacket, and for a moment, Atsumu’s breath catches. “That you have to act.”
Atsumu shifts his grip on Sakusa’s legs as the apartment complex comes into sight. “I dunno what you’re lookin’ for me to say, Omi-kun.”
Atsumu can feel Sakusa’s head bobbing with every step Atsumu takes, chin bumping against his shoulder blades. It’s boney and borders on uncomfortable, but Sakusa turns his head, and the softness of his cheek presses firm against Atsumu. If Atsumu were to turn his head to the side, he’s sure he’d be able to smell traces of Sakusa’s peach-scented shampoo clinging to his curls.
“Did you love me?” Sakusa mumbles. Atsumu stiffens at one hand tracing the precise line of his undercut, where the short hairs meet smooth skin. It tickles a bit, a ghost of a touch. “When we were together.”
Atsumu swallows. “‘Course I did.”
“I wish you still did.”
“Omi—”
“Even though you stopped because I told you to in the first place.”
“Yeah.” Atsumu lets out a dry breath of laughter. “You did.”
If he retraces the steps back to before things got tangled up, Atsumu knows he never did anything wrong. He’d loved as readily as he’d been loved—at least, he thought it was love at the time. As far as Atsumu is aware, love doesn’t take one direct path from person A to person B. For Atsumu and Sakusa, it jumped and flipped and somersaulted, sometimes landing in the wrong spot, where it hurt like open wounds.
But it didn’t matter how much Atsumu had loved or been loved. In the end, it came down to whether or not Sakusa could keep up with him. At the time they’d ended things, Sakusa couldn’t.
Atsumu always considered it to be his fault, so he never blamed Sakusa for it. Atsumu had gone too fast, he’d reasoned. Too far, too fast, and too soon. He’d wanted to plow ahead with their relationship, not even considering that Sakusa might falter and hesitate and want to take his time before moving forward. It was his fault, not Sakusa’s. Sakusa merely quit as a result of Atsumu’s recklessness.
The concept of cold feet is familiar to Atsumu, and even if it’s not quite something he understands, he can’t fault people for feeling that way, whether it’s in games or relationships. After all, not everyone can be afforded the same fearless passion that Atsumu has. And not everyone will understand him, either.
“I never stopped,” Atsumu says quietly.
When Sakusa doesn’t respond, he assumes it means that Sakusa’s finally dozed off, and that alcohol will clean away the scuffs of their conversation that stain the edges of Sakusa’s dreams. But Atsumu feels how Sakusa’s arms tighten. There’s no ambiguity in Atsumu’s words, and he almost smiles to himself in sad amusement.
“Atsumu.”
“I know you think I didn’t anymore, to make it easier for you to deal with endin’ things. That’s what I did.” Atsumu winces at the way his muscles protest from carrying extra weight. He braces his core again, pulls his shoulders back, and focuses on taking one step at a time.
“You—”
“Never stopped. Not for a day. Not even for a moment.”
It goes like this, sometimes. When Atsumu was a bratty teenager learning to be a leader, who had higher expectations than people were willing to give. He learned early on that his demands couldn’t easily be met by his teammates and that the byproduct of such demands were isolation and loneliness. At the time, Atsumu hadn’t cared—he didn’t care much beyond scoring a point and winning a game. But with Sakusa, Atsumu knew there was no such thing as winning. Either you had it, or you didn’t. Atsumu had Sakusa, then he didn’t, and it’s as simple as that. Having him didn’t always feel like a win. Losing him doesn’t always feel like a loss.
He’d loved Sakusa. He still does, even after the time spent skirting around each other. And Atsumu continues to carry on in solitude much like how he chooses to guide Sakusa home after a long night of drinking. If this is love in its purest form, where Sakusa’s sake-stained breath coasts along the sensitive skin of Atsumu’s neck, where Atsumu knows there’s no promise of tomorrow—then so be it. He’ll take it.
“I regret it.” Sakusa sighs behind him. He presses his forehead against the curve of Atsumu’s skull. “I regret it, Atsumu.”
“Endin’ it with me?”
“Yeah, that. But more than that—” Sakusa hiccups before smacking his lips a couple of times. “I regret giving up.”
Atsumu nods. He thinks he feels Sakusa press further against his back, but he’s not sure if he’s imagining it. It’s deep into the night, the time where last night and tomorrow morning blend together, and Atsumu has a difficult time distinguishing past from present from future. And with Sakusa tracing gently along the curve of Atsumu’s collarbone, he has a difficult time distinguishing reality from dream from memory, as well.
“You wanted a clean break.”
“I did.”
“You told me you wanted to end things.”
“I know.”
“You asked me to stop—” Atsumu’s throat tightens. “—everythin’.”
Sakusa tucks his face into the crux of Atsumu’s neck. “Mmm. I’d take it back. If I could.”
Few things sting more than knowing Atsumu has a chance he knows he shouldn’t take. Sakusa doesn’t seem to notice how Atsumu doesn’t respond. Atsumu squats down to set Sakusa on his feet, nearly stumbling backwards when he loses balance. They’re at the door of their apartment complex, and Atsumu rummages through his pockets for the key. Sakusa’s standing upright, at least. “You feelin’ like you’re gonna be sick?”
Sakusa yawns as he rubs his face. “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Atsumu unlocks the door. “Let’s getcha home.”
“Why did you show up, Miya?” Sakusa shoves his way through the door and almost trips over the carpet at the entrance. He catches himself by the wall and grimaces. “Why’d you pick up the phone?”
“Cuz? You woulda done the same to me.”
“No.” The syllable slams into Atsumu’s lungs. “I wouldn’t have.”
Atsumu winces as he catches Sakusa by the elbow to haul him up the stairs. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m drunk off my ass lookin’ for someone to take me home.”
Sakusa glows in the dim light of the staircase. His face is completely neutral, save for the downturned slope of his mouth. Atsumu steps around him, careful not to get too close, and he takes a couple of steps up before he realizes that Sakusa isn’t following. “Omi-kun?”
“You could ask me to take it back,” Sakusa says, quiet enough that Atsumu thinks he must have misheard him.
Atsumu shakes his head. “Nah. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t always need to be given permission, y’know.” Atsumu slides his hand along the railing, cool to touch. He remembers days when he’d steal kisses while leaning over the railing as Sakusa left for the day. Or times where he’d come up the stairs behind Sakusa and pinch his ass playfully, only for Sakusa to whip around and give him a dirty look. “That ain’t how it works.”
“I don’t think I know how it works.”
“No, shit. You don’t need to tell me that.”
Sakusa lifts his chin, and for a second, Atsumu has a flash of fear that Sakusa will fall backwards from the staircase and wind up cracking the back of his head against the ground. Atsumu makes a grab for Sakusa’s wrist when he dips a bit too far for his liking, but Sakusa jerks forward the moment Atsumu’s fingers come in contact with his skin.
It almost kills Atsumu when he looks into Sakusa’s face, searching for an explanation, only to find a tender ache staring back at him. It’s the same look Sakusa gave him when he told Atsumu they should end things. Atsumu isn’t sure what to make of it, especially when in the midst of holding his breath, Sakusa pushes his hand far enough up the railing that his fingertips meet Atsumu’s.
“I think you’re a better person than me,” Sakusa says. His gaze averts to the side, though it’s unclear if it’s because he’s drunk and sleepy or because he finds it difficult to look at Atsumu. “It’s not fair.”
“What?”
“You’re not supposed to pick up. You’re not supposed to show up when I want to go home. That’s how I thought this—” Sakusa scoffs in frustration. “You’re ruining it.”
“I’m sorry.” Atsumu takes one step away, trying to coax Sakusa up the stairs, but he’s as immovable as a statue. “I can go back to bein’ an asshole.”
“That’s not gonna work, either.”
“Wadaya mean? Ain’t that what you said you want?”
“Well, yeah. But I fell for you when you were an asshole.”
Atsumu wants to laugh. “That’s true.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Not everythin’ has to have reason, Omi-kun. I know you want there to be. But.” Atsumu shrugs. “Sometimes there ain’t.”
“So does there have to be a reason for me to want you to ask me to take everything back?”
Atsumu’s breath catches at the question. The chill of the night air still seeps through the hallway, but his hands begin to warm, as does his face. It’s the most honest thing Sakusa has said to him since the day he asked Atsumu to back away, something Atsumu never thought he’d have a chance to see.
“Yer reason is that you’re drunk, Omi Omi.”
Sakusa’s lower lip trembles for a fraction of a sentence before he takes a shaky inhale. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I guess you’re right.”
Atsumu desperately wants to lean forward and wrap his arms around Sakusa’s waist and tell him, no, there doesn’t have to be a reason. He’s not selfish enough to say that. He knows it, and he knows Sakusa knows it, too.
“If I could take it back, I would,” Sakusa murmurs, and his palm slides up over Atsumu’s. His hands are cold to touch and impossibly soft.
“You still could.”
“But you said—”
“I said I ain’t tellin’ you what to do. That ain’t fair for you to put that on me, and that ain’t fair for me to ask you to.” Atsumu flinches when Sakusa’s fingers tighten on his hand, almost painful. He pulls his hand from the railing and pulls at Sakusa gently. Sakusa doesn’t resist. “Upstairs. C’mon.”
“If you didn’t pick up, I was going to quit thinking about you,” Sakusa mumbles. “ That’s how it was supposed to work.”
“Then you underestimated me, Omi.”
“Atsumu.”
“What?”
They’re at his door now, and Atsumu reaches for the right pocket of Sakusa’s jacket. He knows there’ll be a wallet and Sakusa’s keys in there, and Sakusa doesn’t push him away. Atsumu’s throat jumps when Sakusa leans in, forehead resting against Atsumu’s temple, and much to his foolishness, Atsumu does not pull away.
“I take it back,” Sakusa says. His soft voice thunders in the empty hallway, and within seconds Atsumu’s mind is reeling.
“Tell me that in the mornin’.”
“Why not now?”
“Cuz you’re drunk. And I’m tired. And if you really feel that way, Omi, then you’ll feel that way tomorrow.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t.” Atsumu clicks open Sakusa’s door after wrangling with the rested key, and he steps out from under Sakusa’s presence to let him step in. “Don’t you go rushin’ into the same mistakes I made.”
“Was I a mistake to you?”
“‘Course not. You could never be a mistake.”
Sakusa steps into his apartment, unzipping his jacket, but he pauses. He looks at Atsumu, still in the hallway of their apartment building, head tilted to the side. Sakusa hasn’t moved to turn on the lights, nor has he closed the door. Atsumu wonders if it’s an invitation, but he keeps his feet planted firmly outside of Sakusa’s doorway.
If Sakusa invited him in, Atsumu knows he’d cave. He’s never had impulse control. He’s greedy and selfish while somehow too giving and too ready to throw himself off track just to make Sakusa happy. He’s a walking oxymoron, and the cause of his flailing stands in front of him, hair ruffled, unmistakable ache in his eyes.
“Don’t worry about tomorrow,” Atsumu finally says. He reaches for Sakusa’s hand, picking it up gently, limp in his. He places Sakusa’s key in his palm and gently guides Sakusa’s fingers to close in a fist around it. “Get some rest, alright? I’ll see you.”
When Atsumu turns, he hears one last, “Miya.”
He stills. “Yeah?”
There's a pause that compels Atsumu to turn back around. “Thank you.” Sakusa’s voice wavers in the middle, a flicker of emotion strung up like a tightrope. His face is strangely serene. “For coming to get me.”
“Nothin’ to thank me for, Omi.”
“I’ll come get you. Next time.”
“You said you wouldn’t,” Atsumu blurts, and he finds his impulsive brashness rising to head like it once did around Sakusa. “You said earlier—ten minutes ago—you said you wouldn’t have—”
“I think I would,” Sakusa responds, almost breathless. “Maybe.”
Atsumu allows himself one thing. He takes a single step towards Sakusa, then another, then one more; just enough to reach up to gently push the hairs out of Sakusa’s face. Sakusa’s breath catches, a devastating sound that says enough to make Atsumu’s heart clench. It’s something he knows violates the stalemate they’ve backed themselves into, but in the moment where Sakusa looks at him with the unwavering gaze he used to, Atsumu finds that he doesn’t care. One thumb strokes across Sakusa’s cheek, whose eyelids flutter shut.
When he steps away, Sakusa’s eyes open, and his throat bobs as he swallows thickly.
Atsumu offers a small smile. “I look forward to it,” he says as he backs into the hall. “G’night, Omi-kun.”
“See you tomorrow.” Sakusa’s tone is low and warm, and it pricks at Atsumu’s memories from the murmurs of affection Sakusa once gave him.
He doesn’t know if Sakusa really means it, or if Sakusa really is that drunk. When Sakusa shuts the door with a thud, lock clicking into place, Atsumu breathes a sigh that’s a mix of relief and disappointment. It’s not safe to cling to promises that are rocky and fragmented, but Atsumu does it anyway. Nothing is guaranteed, and he knows that. He knows that better than anyone else.
As he returns to his room, all but collapsing onto his bed, his mind wanders back to Sakusa’s body pressed up against his. This, Atsumu tells himself, is enough. But as he falls asleep to the steady lull of his chest rising and falling like waves, Sakusa’s gentle confessions shelter themselves soundly in his heart, a single lifeline tugging Atsumu back to shore and into the morning to come.