i worked on this project v closely with a dear friend of mine and i promised him i'd credit him anonymously but if he ever does stumble across this fic i know you'd know who you are. thank you for sharing your time, ideas, and endless patience with me. inspiration for this fic was drawn from my friend's short-lived fascination with wind directions and my own inability to eat lemon squares properly after a bad break up lmao

disclaimer 1: i do not own hq

disclaimer 2: as per my twt, this fic will not actually feature lemon squares


"The drive to the seaside by yourself is the loneliest ride."

– James Acaster, Repertoire

.

In the afternoon of their seventh anniversary, Sakusa Kiyoomi throws his heart out on the curbside of the Hanshin Expressway.

"Atsumu," Sakusa says, the words slipping out of him coolly, as if it were that easy, "let's break up."

The blond clutches the steering wheel and veers to the right as he swiftly merges lanes. His grip tightens. The road stretches on ahead. Atsumu purses his lips and blows out a long puff of air. Doesn't say a word.

He keeps driving.

.

The offer for the French League had come in last winter.

It came in the post together with their bills due for November, the letter packaged neatly in a white envelope lined with a black and green trim. From Tourcoing Lille Métropole Volley-Ball, read the header print, and at the footer: Addressed to Sakusa Kiyoomi. In all honesty, Atsumu would have been a liar to say that he hadn't been expecting it.

"Mornin', sweetheart," he'd greeted Sakusa once he walked into the common room, nursing his coffee as he watched his boyfriend disappear into the kitchen to fetch a cup for himself. Sakusa had only blinked back at him with a sleepy smile when he returned, always so slow to wake up in the mornings.

"Good morning."

"There's a letter for ya," Atsumu informed him.

Sakusa had quirked an eyebrow then, communicating a silent From who? as he sipped from his cup. Atsumu chugged the rest of his coffee, loud gulps echoing as he forced himself to swallow the rest of the bitter liquid.

"Ya should take it, Omi," Atsumu smiled back at him, encouraging, and left little room for debate. Sakusa tore open the envelope. He washed his mug in the sink. "Don't let me keep ya."

.

"Atsumu?" Sakusa calls out to him again, raising his voice only slightly. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Heard ya loud an' clear," Atsumu answers back with a small nod, keeping his eyes fixed on the sight of the road ahead. They take the exit at Izumisano. "Just gimme a min."

They stop at a gas station half a mile out of the highway. Atsumu blinks on the hazard light and parks just at the edge of the road, turning to his side in order to face Sakusa.

"Are ya sure about this, Omi?"

Sakusa nods.

"Okay," he says calmly, as if Sakusa hadn't just spit out his heart and chucked it in the trash alongside all their other belongings, like an emptied-out bottle of rubbing alcohol and their used sheets of sanitizing wipes. "Okay," he echoes the word again. "If that's what ya want, then that's fine with me."

The bastard even has the audacity to almost look pained. "Atsumu," Sakusa says, and it's pathetic how even now Atsumu still wishes he could wipe away the small furrow in between the other boy's brows. "I'm so–"

Atsumu shakes his head, raising his hands in a show of surrender.

"Nope! Don't apologize. I ain't gonna argue with ya," Atsumu tells him, knowing better to concede than to engage in a losing battle. He's too tired for this. Like all the fight has been knocked right out of him since the moment he'd uttered his first word. It's amazing his voice hasn't cracked yet. "Once you've made up yer mind, I know there's no stoppin' ya."

"Atsu–"

"Hey, yeah, Om–" he cuts him off and – whoops, there it is – his voice cracks right then and there. "Er, Sakusa?" Atsumu forces out a smile and blinks back the dampness in his eyes. "Sorry 'bout that," he says and forces himself to regain his composure, throat tight with the threatening weight of his tears. He unlocks the doors. "D'ya need me to drive ya to the station or would it be alright if ya get off here?"

.

It's three quarters past five when Atsumu makes it to his destination. He parks to the side as soon as he's greeted by the sight of the sea – the waves, blue from a distance, mock him with their idle tranquility. The horizon is dyed orange underneath the setting sun's light. Atsumu steps out of his car and surrounds himself in the sand.

He sits alone.

Sakusa had been gracious enough to reject his offer to sit through the remainder of the ride, insisting he'd be able to get an Uber at the next stop to send him back to the dorm. Atsumu settles close to the shore, plopping down on the white pebbles. It's March, the cusp of spring, and there are hardly any tourists around on the beachfront by now.

Atsumu looks up and catches sight of the tail end of a jetstream. Another journey. Another departure.

His eyes land onto the tide breakers. Sakusa had confessed to him here in the spring of their second year in high school, the two of them standing at the edge of the waterside. He imagines the blurring of their figures over space, over time. How long will it take until the tides run their course? Days? Months? Years? Atsumu stares out into the sea and thinks of the distance that'll grow between them, of the miles that will stretch out with the push and pull of the current.

The wind blows right then and jolts him out of his reverie, carrying with it the sound of Sakusa's voice – so crisp and clear it was almost as if he were right beside him.

I've always loved you, it tells him, a gentle echo of their past. I was just too afraid to say it.

"You handsome motherfucker," Atsumu curses back at the wind. His bottom lip quivers and he props up his jacket collar to ward away the cold. "I told ya that I loved ya every day," he chokes out in a warbled voice and watches as a plane flies overhead. His nails dig into the heels of his palms. He can taste the sharp sting of salt water as it rolls down his cheeks. "What the hell were ya even afraid of?"

.

The rest of the season continues without much fanfare and aplomb.

Everyone knows that Sakusa and Atsumu are no longer together. Bokuto may be an idiot in taxes, but he'd always been a genius in terms of relationships, so it is only natural for him to find out first. It didn't take that much longer for Hinata to figure it out either – Atsumu can bet half his life savings to say the kid's got the emotional sensitivity of an elephant. The rest of the Jackals catch on, much to Atsumu's chagrin, mostly because while his teammates are idiots with IQ levels in the negatives, they can be oddly perceptive when it comes to things like these.

It's not like they were being subtle about it, either. They didn't even need to weasel the news out of him. Just one look at Sakusa when he arrived home alone that faithful March afternoon and Atsumu when he drove back solo hours later in the night was enough for them to put two and two together.

The break-up isn't anything phenomenal, and neither of them let it interfere with their work. The paradigm shifts but only slightly, just enough to alter the team dynamic, yes, but not so much as to throw the balance of the Jackals all off the loop. Sakusa and Atsumu still manage to keep it professional, as they are legally obligated to do, but off the court is an entirely different story.

Sakusa partners up with Meian for their cool-down stretches after practice. Atsumu asks Barnes to spot him whenever he lifts weights at the gym. Inunaki stays behind with Sakusa so they can polish their serves and receives. Tomas joins Atsumu in the ungodly hours of 5 am to accompany him during his morning runs.

Sakusa doesn't talk to Atsumu any more than he needs to, and Atsumu still tosses to Sakusa during games but avoids making any eye contact with him whatsoever. He's lucky they've led the season to a close with a winning streak, with the media too caught up with congratulating Atsumu on the new arsenal of daredevil play strategies he'd been employing and interrogating Sakusa about the details of his soon-to-be new team to bother prying into the newfound tension that's been growing between them.

But when the press get to be a bit too much and Sakusa's social batteries are beginning to dwindle down to yet another low, Atsumu doesn't hesitate to step forward a bit further into the limelight. Atsumu spurs into action the moment the spiker's mouth twitches so much as it edges closer towards a pout, and he shoos the other boy away immediately under the ruse of asking him to refill his water bottle. Then, the setter stretches out his megawatt smile and pulls up another random anecdote; laughs a little louder. He offers to sign some more autographs. Jokingly asks when they can schedule his own solo interview. Anything to divert the attention all away from him.

Atsumu is, after all, a creature of habit. A slave to routine.

.

He sends Sakusa off at the airport.

It isn't entirely out of his own volition. Meian had insisted that the whole team should be present in a show of support and goodwill. Bokuto had been there to give Atsumu a small pat on the back in some sort of misplaced show of pity when the announcement had first been made.

They crowd around the departure gate of Kansai International Airport. Atsumu loiters by the rear end of the group with a paper bag in hand, Huzi Infinity Pillow tucked neatly inside like a tether to keep him from running away. Hinata accompanied him yesterday to help scope out a good travel pillow from his favorite brand when Atsumu had asked for a second opinion in shopping for a good farewell present. It'll be a more than 12-hour flight and Lord knows Sakusa would rather cut off his own head than allow himself to lean on the surface of a grimy plane window or worse – doze off on some random stranger's shoulder.

Ex-boyfriend or not, he still cares about Sakusa's sleep quality and wellbeing. Given that he's well aware of the other's exhaustive set of preferences, Atsumu insists it'd perfectly normal to gift his teammate with a 4,600 yen sleep aid for the journey – in said show of support and goodwill.

(Atsumu is a self-conflicted man.)

"Miya."

Atsumu stiffens. Bokuto ushers the team away and feigns searching for a Starbucks to grant the two of them some privacy. Now, he's alone with his ex and Atsumu simultaneously curses and thanks his lucky stars. Stupid Bokkun. Atsumu would have happily tasted peace had the spiker opted instead to let sleeping dogs lie.

"Do you have something to say to me?" the taller man asks, gaze dropping to meet Atsumu's eyes, curiously and without malice.

"Don't look at me like that," Atsumu spits out past the lump in his throat.

"Like what?"

Like you know me. Like you can understand. Like you're deliberately trying to get under my skin just so you can look at me through the lenses of my soul and pick me apart seamlessly with your hands.

Atsumu frowns. "Like I'm an idiot."

"Why not?" Sakusa raises a brow and smirks. "Aren't you?"

He's missed this, their casual back and forth. Their easy banter. Last night, Sakusa had just lived across the hall from his room. A measly five-step distance. Come tomorrow, Sakusa will live across the ocean from him. Exactly nine thousand four hundred and twenty-seven kilometers away.

He will miss all of this – of him, of them, and more.

"Don't–"

Hands ball into fists. Atsumu ducks his head and stares down at the floor tiles. The sight of it blurs into shades of pearl river and the smoky whitewash of steel. It's quiet. There's nothing but the rustle of the air conditioning and the distant chatter of the airport crowd – of passengers bustling in preparation for their respective journeys. The long roads ahead.

"Don't do that," Sakusa chides, tutting as he reaches to grab Atsumu's trembling hands, the way he always does since he's noticed Atsumu's habit when he tries to hold himself back from crying.

His mind dwells on the cautious weight of Sakusa's grip, the fleeting comfort. Hands held warmly in another's.

"Your hands," Sakusa scolds Atsumu, frowning as he inspects the narrow breaks of his skin. The angry moons in his palms. "You need to take care of them."

You need to take care of yourself better, he hears a familiar voice say, a carrier of memory.

"Yer too good to me, Omi," Atsumu coughs out with a forced laugh, past a tender gust of wind, pulling away as he shoves the paper bag towards the other's direction. The seawater threatens to resurface. His voice is torn and sounds wet. "It's almost cruel."

He gives him back his heart. You've ruined me, it tells him, desperately, as if yearning for the other man to listen – a confession formed over the years, tucked between taut sinews and the hollow crevices of its ventricles. It beats an old but worthless thing, used up and shriveled dry, but he holds out the offering to Sakusa on a silver platter anyway, as if it were his greatest treasure, his most prized possession.

"Are ya sure–" Atsumu pauses and runs his tongue over his chapped lips. A flicker of hesitation. He looks back up at Sakusa and asks him once again, "Are ya sure ya want us to break up?"

(And in the small cage of his chest, where the organ connects in the narrow space between muscle and bone, lies a secret woven meticulously over the scabbed surface of his worn-out heart:

I do not know how to be without you.)

.

Let it be known that Miya Atsumu drinks like a fish. He gulps the sake down the way a duck takes to water, with half-hearted breaths and the shallow gasp of relief. He refills his glass and takes another swig. Then, when that's done, he steals the cup of his unfortunate seatmate and knocks back down another.

"Woah there, cowboy," Suna, said unfortunate seatmate, tells him off and snatches back his cup. They're drinking at Osamu's restaurant, ten minutes past closing after the rest of the Onigiri Miya staff left when they had finished cleaning up shop and taking inventory for tomorrow. "Slow the fuck down."

Osamu gestures to Suna to fetch them a glass of water. Atsumu gulps it down and Osamu nods in approval, satisfied. "Here," he grumbles and chucks his phone in Atsumu's direction to distract his brother from drinking more. "Go play some Candy Crush or something."

Atsumu slurs, "Whazza password?"

"My birthday," Osamu grunts.

"Okay, cool," Atsumu nods with every word, almost dizzyingly, "cool, cool, cool." He swipes at the bottom of the screen and lets his fingers hover over the keypad. There is silence for a while. Suna drums his fingers on the countertop.

Osamu's eyebrow raises expectantly in wait.

"So," Atsumu pauses again and clears his throat before he asks, "uh, Samu, when's yer birthday?"

Suna snorts and lets out a less than elegant peal of hyena-like laughter. Osamu rolls his eyes.

"The same as yours, dipshit," Atsumu hears him say, and watches as Osamu plucks the device out of his hands. Osamu types in the code and hands it back over, sighing loudly before he holds his head up in folded hands, utterly defeated. When Atsumu doesn't accept his offer, Osamu tucks the phone back into his pocket and reaches for the bowl of edamame. "I'm yer twin brother for fuck's sake."

Atsumu burps unceremoniously, sliding down to rest his face on the table. His left cheek lies smushed against the counter. He's lucky his twin had wiped it down for him with a cleaning rag ten minutes earlier. "Luv ya too, baby bro," Atsumu mumbles with a dopey smile. Osamu wrinkles his nose and stares back down at him in mild disgust.

"Gross."

Atsumu pouts and averts his gaze to address the other man beside him. "Sunariiiiiin," he grumbles, making grabby hands and wordlessly begging for an embrace.

"God, you're so out of it," Suna comments, failing to mask his amusement as he leans in and awkwardly returns the hug, patting the setter's shoulder all the while. Atsumu makes a contented noise and sinks into the warmth of him – indulging in the feeling of another body pressed close, the comfort of letting himself be held.

"Shit."

Suna's voice is laden with panic. A dark stain spreads through the thin cotton fabric as the middle blocker's shirt quickly grows damp. Osamu's eyes widen in alarm.

"Oy! Atsumu, are y–"

"I miss him," Atsumu forces the words to come out all of a sudden, blubbering, "Omi. I—...I miss him already. So much. So fucking much—"

Osamu sighs. "Tsumu…"

"Seven years, Samu," Atsumu sniffs. "I gave him seven years an' he threw me away just like that." A hand rests on his back and rubs soothing circles in the small space between his shoulder blades. "He didn't—" his voice is breaking, "he didn't even fight fer me, ya know?" The dam breaks loose. Atsumu falls apart. "Asshole didn't even wanna try."

They trade positions. Suna lets him go and mumbles something about stepping away to refill Atsumu's glass of water. Osamu takes over and Atsumu gives in, throwing himself into his brother's arms and burying his face into the nook of the other's shirt.

"I'm so stupid," he cries, "yer right, Samu, ya always were, I really am the idiot twin. A fuckin' moron." Osamu loosens his hold on him, but Atsumu just grips on even tighter. "I loved him, Samu," Atsumu whimpers. "He's gone now an' he left me for good but I still fucking love him." Atsumu takes a shuddering breath and cries even harder. "I'm so goddamn stupid."

Osamu shushes him and runs his fingers through Atsumu's hair. It's probably greasy or worse, slick with his sweat. He's disgusting and part of Atsumu knows he should probably feel the need to apologize for it, but at this point, he's too broken to care.

"Yer not stupid for loving someone, Tsumu," his brother murmurs calmly, tone gentle like a balm to soothe the ache. "Ya made a lot of mistakes before," Osamu agrees, "an' I'm helluva lot certain yer gonna be up ta doin' a shit ton more stupid crap you'll regret for the rest of yer life, sure," he continues, "but trust me when I say lovin' Sakusa is never gonna be one of them."

"Was I too much for him, d'ya think?" Atsumu asks. "Was it that? What if, maybe, I–"

"No," Osamu tells him, "no, ya weren't." Suna returns with a fresh glass of ice-cold water and his twin ushers him to sit upright and drink it down in small sips. Liquid sloshes in the pit of his stomach. Atsumu thinks he's gonna throw up.

"I didn't ask him ta stay," Atsumu swears, breath stuttering, wiping his face as the tears fall down his cheeks freely, "Ya know I would never do that ta Omi." He can barely think straight now. "I never wanted ta hold him back."

"Yeah. We know," Osamu agrees with a small nod, rocking their figures slowly back and forth. "We know, Tsumu."

"Then tell me," Atsumu splutters, coughing harshly as he tries to speak past the snot that's clogged up his nose and the ongoing downpour of his tears. He feels like he's gonna be sick. "Tell me where I went wrong, Samu," he begs, "What did I do ta make Omi not want me anymore? Why wasn't I enough for him?" Atsumu continues weakly, "Why couldn't I be enough?"

"Shut yer trap, dumbass, you are enough," Osamu scolds, words harsh but tone gentle. "You are to me." He pinches the lobe of Atsumu's ear and instructs him to listen. "An' don't ya dare say my opinion doesn't count or I'm being biased just 'cause I'm yer twin," Osamu continues, "'cause ya can ask Ma an' Pa an' Rin an' Aran an' Kita-san — literally everyone else. Hell, even Sakusa."

"Especially Sakusa," Suna butts in quietly for support and Osamu agrees.

"Ask all the other people who've loved ya an' they'll just give ya the exact same answer." The hand returns to rub circles against his back. "Ya matter to us, Tsumu," Osamu's voice is softer this time, "so of course yer always gonna be enough."

.

He wakes up on the tatami next to his brother's bed. The sun shines through the windows, obnoxiously bright and searing past Atsumu's closed eyelids. Atsumu peels off the ratty blanket and finds himself wearing the same outfit from last night. It's noon, the apartment is empty, and there's a cold cup of coffee waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Osamu has already left for work.

His phone blinks, the screen littered with a series of notifications from LINE. Atsumu skims through most of them. There are messages from yesterday – Meian asking if they should be expecting him to return to the sharehouse, Hinata asking if he's made it home okay, Inunaki wondering if he's still even fucking alive, and Bokuto texting that he'd cover for him and tell Foster he won't be attending the next day.

Osamu sent him a message, too: it's a video of him throwing up in the back alley of Onigiri Miya. Wonderful. Atsumu's face is flushed red from the alcohol and an unsightly puddle is lying underneath his pitiful frame. Suna is the one who took it. In the shot, Osamu is hunched over next to him and rubbing Atsumu's back as he pukes outside over the grass.

'MIYA ATSUMU VERSUS GEKKEIKAN,' his brother has shamelessly decided to caption it, giving credit to his boyfriend for the footage Atsumu's sure they'll use against him as blackmail material at the nearest opportunity.

(In reality, Suna sent the recording to Osamu together with a promise that "they'll beat the shit out of that heartbreaker fucker Tsumu's just gotta say the word." Osamu is ready to throw hands at any moment's notice. Suna says they'll even book a flight to Paris if they have to — they don't, Sakusa is not in Paris and Tourcoing is a 3-hour car ride away if they want to successfully pursue a fistfight at their target's location, but Atsumu would be touched by the sentiment if he knew though, at the very least, since his Ma always said it's the thought that counts.)

'Yo bro what the fuck,' Atsumu types and appends a raised middle finger and five angry emojis for emphasis, 'deLETE THIS U CUNTFACE!'

'Good morning 2 u too dickwad let me remind u we share the same face,' his brother replies not more than two minutes later. He must've been waiting for Atsumu to contact him throughout his shift. 'There's ibuprofen on the night table.' Dots dance on the screen to indicate more typing. 'Go drink water,' Osamu tells him, 'also I bet ur hangover breath smells like smth died in there so brush ur teeth while ur at it.'

'Jackass,' Atsumu replies, flipping his twin off with another set of profound emojis, but does so anyway.

Atsumu drags himself out of his makeshift floor bed and helps himself to the stock of spare amenities stored in Osamu's apartment. He freshens up with a warm shower — there's a drawer with his own clothes tucked away somewhere in the unit — and brushes his teeth — he'd plucked out the spare orange toothbrush, still unused, from the back of the bathroom cabinet — and aggressively gargles a bottle of mouthwash — it was Listerine, the purple kind, which is oddly more of Suna's favorite even if Atsumu knows his brother agrees with him that the icy blue of cool mint is far more superior — before heading to the kitchen to cook his own lunch.

Later, as he's grilling the tuna belly over the stove, his phone lights up with a soft ping. Atsumu dials down the knob to lower the heat and peeks at the rice cooker to confirm the status of his meal before picking up his phone. He swipes right to unlock his screen.

It's from Sakusa.

'I heard you were crying last night.,' his message reads, in perfect spelling and with proper usage of punctuation marks, the absolute psychopath, 'Are you alright now?'

"What's it to ya," Atsumu mutters bitterly under his breath. His phone buzzes again.

'I heard that, Miya.'

'LIAR,' Atsumu types out, sending back an emoji with its tongue sticking out, 'the wind doesnt even go in ur direction'.

'I understand your mannerisms well enough to expect when you're cussing me out.'

'OK fair enough'

'You haven't answered my question.'

Atsumu rolls his eyes and sends an emoji to reflect the sentiment. 'Demanding much?' he teases, before tacking on, 'Dont worry bout me k? im fine'.

He's pretty sure Sakusa doesn't buy it, but he's kind enough not to call Atsumu out on his very blatant lie.

'O.K.,' he replies, so unnervingly agreeable. It's almost uncanny. 'Thanks for the gift, by the way,' Sakusa says instead. 'I slept well on the plane.'

'Cool,' Atsumu replies and shoves the rest of his dark thoughts into the deepest pocket at the back of his mind. It's too early for this – he's still way too hungover to deal with any of whatever this shit is that's going on between him and he guesses the man he now should call his ex. 'Dont mention it.'

Atsumu exits the chat and plops down on the living room couch, lunch temporarily forgotten. He opens up his previous conversation with Osamu, spamming his brother with a flurry of keyboard smashes and a series of panicked ! to confirm whether or not he's shared the video with Sakusa. Who the hell sends footage of a grown and snivelling man getting plastered to the world's number 1 germophobe slash hygiene enthusiast? His evil twin, maybe. Atsumu bets Sakusa has now deemed his life value rankings to be even lesser than that of a cockroach's. Suna definitely didn't catch him at his best angle.

'No,' Osamu replies primly, before changing his mind, 'not yet,' a threat, 'but I will if I come home later tonight and find that u finished all my tuna w/o restocking my fridge.'

'SAMU'

No reply.

'SAMU,' Atsumu sends again, unhappy with the sudden hold-up. The silence stretches on for longer – approximately lapsing a whole entire minute. 'SAMUMUMUMUUUUUUUU'.

His phone vibrates with another message. Atsumu jolts back to life the moment the sensation registers and makes contact with his hand.

'Slr had a customer,' Osamu explains. 'Suna told Komori btw,' his brother informs him, 'we didn't think he'd tattle, sorry.'

Atsumu groans and slumps his head back against the couch. He stares up at the blank ceiling and sends a stage-whispered fuck you directed straight to the heavens. Then he counts to ten, shuts his eyes, and takes it all back before the deities deem to curse his already dismal fate in cultivating a love life even further. Atsumu puffs up his cheeks and lets out a long exhale instead.

'Wtf man,' he types, 'i want u to know i am cursing ur boyfriend rn under my minty fresh breath'.

'K.' His twin replies boredly, 'Cool.'

Osamu sounds unimpressed. This is not news. His younger brother almost always is. Osamu has been sporting the same blasé expression (and personality) since their early days of childhood and this has only evolved further in high school when he was crowned with the title of being some sort of poster boy for apathy. Regardless, Atsumu still finds the urge to scoff at the lack of enthusiasm being displayed over his updated status of dental hygiene.

'Yes, very,' he sends back. Atsumu runs his tongue over his chapped lips and changes tactics. 'That reminds me,' he says, 'u should buy more mouthwash! the cool mint ones'.

The reply comes only five minutes later. Atsumu guesses his twin had had to deal with another customer before having the luxury to pick up his phone to respond.

'Yea I know rin used up my last bottle since his violet one expired'

The pin drops. Atsumu blinks twice and stares down the screen to reread the words four – no, five – more times. A chill runs down his spine. Panic.

Atsumu allows his fingers to express his fury.

'HOL Y SHIT'

'?'

'WTFFFFF'

'?'

'WHAT THE FUCKIN FUCK SAMU I JUST USED THAT'

The dots pop up to dance on the screen again, taunting him, almost, as if they were relishing in his torment. 'Lol not so minty fresh anymore huh dumbass,' comes his brother's response, stone cold and as ruthless as ever, 'maybe read the fuckin labels next time.'

.

Miya Atsumu ✓ settermiya

u suck bettermiya sunarinejp

12:53 PM · June 29, 2021 · Twitter for iPhone

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Miya Osamu bettermiya

Replying to settermiya

Hmmm idk more like sucks 2 be u tbh

1:17 PM · June 29, 2021 · Twitter for Android

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Suna Rintarou ✓ sunarinejp

Replying to settermiya

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

1:18 PM · June 29, 2021 · Twitter for iPhone

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Miya Atsumu ✓ settermiya

Replying to sunarinejp

OH FCUK OFF SUNARIN THIS WOULDNT HAVE HAPPENED IF U JUST THREW UR DAMNED GARBAGE IN THE TRASH (ノಥ益ಥ)ノ 彡┻━┻

1:19 PM · June 29, 2021 · Twitter for iPhone

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Miya Osamu bettermiya

Replying to settermiya

it also wouldnt have happened if u just knew how to read moron ┐( ˘_˘ )┌

1:24 PM · June 29, 2021 · Twitter for Android

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Suna Rintarou ✓ sunarinejp

Replying to bettermiya

tragic.

1:26 PM · June 29, 2021 · Twitter for iPhone

Atsumu doesn't deign to grace his bullies with a response, opting instead to watch a video of Bokuto's cut shot that Hinata had taken during their morning practice and retweeting tired-faced fox memes that remind him of Suna. He scrolls through the rest of his feed absently for the next ten minutes when he finds a not-so-recent tweet that catches his eye.

Sakusa Kiyoomi ✓ sakusakiyoomi15

Landed.

10:44 AM · June 29, 2021 · Twitter for iPhone

Show this thread

That's all it says on his official account, so painfully straightforward and somewhat – dare Atsumu say it – bland.

The timestamp reads it was posted two hours ago. There is no photo attached. Atsumu can't even blame Sakusa for it because who in their right mind would take a post-journey selfie after flying for approximately thirteen hours straight?(?!) – To answer that question, Atsumu would, if you were wondering, but only at a flattering angle with a strategic selection of camera filters – but there isn't a single highlight to the story in Sakusa's case: not a snapshot of the airport runway, nor a picture of the arrival gate, nor a pretentious artistic panorama featuring the Tourcoing skyline. Not even an emoji! It's a tragedy, really. Tourcoing's PR Team is definitely gonna have the time of their lives directing this guy. Sakusa's a plain and simple dude, but sometimes he's just so plain it hurts.

Atsumu taps the heart and hits like.

They aren't friends. They aren't even teammates (anymore). Atsumu has been demoted to the status of a partially secret ex-boyfriend. They never made their relationship public, having only admitted their feelings for one another to a few select close friends and family, and even then only a handful are aware of the recent, somewhat clandestine, break-up. Still, even if Atsumu doesn't have the right to love Sakusa the way he does at this point, there's nobody else in this world who would support his spiker's decision to take the risk and further his career more than him.

Atsumu's fingers hover over the screen. He reads the tweet again and presses on the small space underneath the original post, takes a deep breath. He types.

Miya Atsumu ✓ settermiya

Replying to sakusakiyoomi15

Show em what youre made of

1:37 PM · June 29, 2021 · Twitter for iPhone

.

They don't talk anymore after that.

It was a one-time thing. A solitary interaction. Atsumu doesn't let himself dwell on it. Radio silence stretches on on both ends for the next few months. Atsumu carries on, busying himself with volleyball training and press work as he bullheadedly embraces the lifestyle of being a single bachelor in his attempt to get over him. He deletes Omi 3 from his contacts, unfollows Sakusa on all his accounts, mutes Tourcoing from his notifications, and even blacklists the mention of 'Sakusa Kiyoomi' on all his social media.

It doesn't work.

Atsumu can't catch a break. Try as he might, he can't escape the past, the sneaky motherfucker. The wind carries the sound of his name being called anyway. It whispers to him in the faded tenor of a familiar voice and the gentle timbre of casual exchanges: Atsu, it says, when he lazes around on his days off and the breeze sneaks in through his windows alongside the rays of the noontime sun, painting the room in bright tones of warm yellow. Atsu, it prods, tone impatient, before he's made to give an opinion on two different brands of dishwashing liquid, or on which scent of detergent he liked best.

(Atsumu, it whispers, softer and more intimate, when the wind blows beneath the moonlight and Atsumu has stayed behind late again for extra practice, making his way back on the old roads they've once walked together on their way home.)

In August, Atsumu buys himself a pair of earphones. It's a cheap pair and falls apart after roughly three weeks of use. Atsumu briefly mourns its loss. It didn't block out the wind entirely, but it was just enough to help him tune out the noise by a little. Atsumu makes a mental note to himself to save up for a pricier brand with more durable models when he gets his next paycheck, albeit begrudgingly, for he was never the type to splurge on gadgets before.

It's a Saturday night when he winds up in the snack aisle of the convenience store.

The Jackals have decided to celebrate their recent win against the Falcons by pigging out and watching B-rated foreign films together under the guise of a movie night and the premise of team building. It was Inunaki's idea. In reality, Atsumu knows it was just their libero's excuse to use up their once-a-month cheat day which normally should not exist while they're in season.

Atsumu, Hinata, Bokuto, and Tomas are assigned to buy the alcohol and snacks. The four of them part ways as soon as the 7-Eleven is in sight, with Bokuto and Tomas heading straight to the chillers for the alcohol and Hinata speeding away to search for his guilty pleasure pork buns.

Atsumu lags behind from the rest of the group as he strolls at a leisurely pace. A gust of wind blows in his face as he enters the konbini and with it rises bits and pieces of an old conversation Atsumu can vaguely recall having years ago:

–yer favorite flavor, Omi?

What are you plotting?

Pick one. I'll treat ya.

If there's something you want from me, just say so. I don't like owing people favors.

Nah, I ain't got no hidden agendas up my sleeve here, babe. You don't owe me nothin'.

This is so you can get out of washing the dishes next week, isn't it? You can't bribe me. You should know better than to skimp on your chores, Atsu.

No, no. It's not a bribe, ya prickly sea urchin. Ya got more service aces than me last game, remember?

And so?

An' so it's only fair that the winner gets a prize, duh! Now, flavor. Gimme it. C'mon, my treat.

That's not what— wait, weren't you saving up to buy something for your brother? I remember you mentioned he needed some tools for his classes.

Yeah, an' what about it? Ya think one measly riceball is gonna break my bank? Omi, please, have some faith in yer star setter. What's the point of our li'l competitions if we're just aiming fer bragging rights? We gotta raise the stakes, ya know! I'm in it to win it.

Yeah, but…

Don'cha worry yer pretty li'l head, ya baby, I'll beat ya fair an' square next time. Buy me a riceball then. For future reference, my favorite flavor is negitoro. Well, I mean, it was umeboshi before but when Samu decided to pursue culinary instead of going pro, he started using me as his guinea pig then he made me this fatty tuna roll one time an' I've been a changed man ever since an— oh shit, it's Bokkun, quick, Omi-Omi, hurry up an' pick one already so I can pay fer it, 'cause we gotta skedaddle before Bokkun sees us an' remembers I still owe him a meal for our bet from last week too—

Fine, fine, I'll get—

"–tting…umu-san?" A tentative finger taps him gingerly on his shoulder, and Atsumu startles with surprise, turning around to meet its owner and finding himself faced with a shock of orange hair in greeting.

"Shoyo-kun?"

"I asked if that was all you're getting, Atsumu-san," Hinata repeats himself with a patient smile, speaking slowly as if Atsumu didn't get the message the first time – which, well, he very obviously didn't.

The shorter boy gestures to the onigiri in Atsumu's current possession before pointing down to the contents of his own basket.

"They were out of pork buns so I went for onigiri instead," Hinata explains. "I got some of the ones with salmon fillings and Adriah-san apparently really likes natto rolls, so we have a lot of that now. The tuna ones you like are on the bottom shelf, too, if you w–"

"Found it!" Bokuto cheers from the next aisle over, interrupting them. Atsumu and Hinata's brows shoot up in equal parts of confusion. Hinata abandons Atsumu in an instant, rushing over to the back chillers to investigate the source of the commotion and perhaps add fuel to his mentor's excitement, too piqued by his curiosity to do otherwise. Atsumu blinks slowly as he watches the wing spiker dash away and refocuses his gaze, staring back at a harmless saran-wrapped ball of umeboshi onigiri cradled in his hand.

"Damned plums," Atsumu grumbles under his breath, expression sour, as he shoves the rice ball back in its rightful place and picks out another flavor from the bottom shelf instead.

.

Atsumu walks out of the locker room and spots Inunaki and Komori warming up by the benches. They're playing EJP this week at the Kotobuki Arena, in an informal game organized by their respective captains to prepare for the upcoming season. The game is scheduled at 2, but Meian had overestimated the traffic situation and had the bus depart from Osaka early enough this morning that they already reached Nagano by noon. Hinata and the others had gone out to grab themselves a quick lunch since they had more than an hour to spare.

"Hey, Atsumu," Komori waves at him in greeting.

"Hi, Toya-kun, good to see ya," Atsumu grins back at him and returns the gesture. He plops down on the floor nearby to join them, folding up his right leg as he straightens out his left for a hamstring stretch. The rest of EJP aren't due to arrive until later. "Where's Sunarin?"

"Outside," Komori says, "on a call with your brother."

"Oh, yuck." Atsumu scrunches up his face and pretends to gag. He stretches his right hamstring next. "I bet he was all soft an' smiley then, wasn't he?"

"Yep."

"Disgusting."

"Absolutely," Komori agrees. He sticks the soles of his feet together into a butterfly. "Hence, why I'm here to avoid spectating." Atsumu nods with great understanding. "So how've you been lately? You know, since–"

Atsumu shrugs. "Plat."

A rounded brow raises up in confusion. "You mean flat?" Komori asks politely, offering a bemused smile as he does.

"He means flat," Inunaki interrupts, choosing to join their conversation at this very moment just to spite him. Atsumu's number one critic.

"No, plat. As in, from 'plateau.'" Atsumu shakes his head, directing a small glare at the white-haired libero. "Ya know how when yer workin' out for gains then after a while yer results get pretty stagnant so it's like yeah sure yer doin' okay but 'cause ya keep doin' the same thing yer not getting very far so yer progress just plateaus? It's like that but for emotions," he clarifies and then stretches out both his legs, "so, plat."

Judging by his expression, it doesn't seem like Komori follows. Atsumu holds back a sigh and picks himself up from the floor.

"Metaphorically, I mean there is no progress," he explains while stepping forward to do a lunge. "No developments."

"It's not a thing," Inunaki insists, following suit. "Stop trying to make it a thing, Miya."

Atsumu switches sides and sticks his tongue out in protest. "That's what they all told Shakespeare until he proved to them otherwise."

"Oooh! What did they tell Shakespeare?" Bokuto slides in, entering the picture as his eyes shine with owlish curiosity. The spiker leans in closer as if hoping to be let in on a secret, his voice still three volumes too loud for his attempt at a stage whisper as he asks, "Hey, Komori-kun, what're you and Tsum-tsum talking about with Wan-san?"

"Atsumu was just explaining his thing about plat–"

"Plat, again?" Meian remarks, overhearing them. "Really, Atsumu?"

Bokuto sighs dramatically and repeats the question. "Yeah. Really, Tsum-Tsum?"

"Cap!" Atsumu yells, frowning, "Stop dissing me with Bokkun!"

"Is that even a word?" Tomas wonders.

"It will be, someday!" hollers Atsumu.

"It already is, Atsumu-san," says Hinata.

"See, what'd I tell ya?" Atsumu.

"Don't encourage him!" Inunaki.

"Is it in the scrabble dictionary?" Barnes.

"Yes, it's in the scrabble dictionary." Hinata again. Komori is listening.

"Oh my god," Inunaki groans, raising a hand up to rub at his temples as he curses in the background. Atsumu elects to ignore him.

"But unfortunately it doesn't mean what you say it means, Atsumu-san," Hinata cuts in to inform them all with a disappointed tone, scrolling through his phone screen as he continues to read off the google search results page. "Apparently, plat as a noun pertains a plot of land, but if you use it as a verb then it means 'to plan out or make a map of an area of land, especially a proposed site for construction.'"

"Google schmoogle," Atsumu scoffs. Inunaki shoots him back with a withering look. "Yer all skeptics. Why d'ya gotta rain on my parade, anyway? News flash, language changes, folks! It evolves. So stop keeping yerselves trapped in the ancient ways of the past an' open yer mind up to the realm of possibilities!"

"Wooo! That's the spirit, Tsum-Tsum," Bokuto cheers in support. "Potential is limitless!"

"Then I guess we don't have a problem then," Hinata concludes with a sunny smile, "since that means plat could mean lots of things."

"Like a plot of land…" Inunaki mutters under his breath.

"So is a plateau, you fuck," Atsumu scowls. "Can it."

The conversation ends as Meian announces that the rest of the team should begin to jog and properly warm up before they start the scrimmage. The teams line up and shake hands underneath the net as they exchange greetings.

"Lookin' forward to kickin' yer ass this season, Sunarin," Atsumu grins.

"Likewise," Suna calmly smiles back.

The Raijins are the first up to serve. Their #8 goes for an overhand with a nasty topspin which Hinata receives easily, bumping it up high enough to break its momentum before it reaches the setter's direction. Their new outside hitter, Yonezaki, shuffles to prepare for a run up and Atsumu doesn't waste a second to anchor his weight to his back as he bends over to toss the ball up in a perfect arc.

Yonezaki jumps up high and swings his arm to land a spike, the leatherlike squeak of the ball making contact with his palm resounding for only a fraction of a second before it slams loudly against a far corner of the court.

"In!" Bokuto announces, marking their first point. The team bursts into cheers and Atsumu joins the rest of them as they crowd their spiker with a flurry of high-fives. "Nice one, Tatsuyan!"

"Lucky!" Yonezaki exclaims. "I thought I almost overshot it! I'll do better next ti— ah, Miya-san, did you get injured?"

"Huh?" Atsumu looks up to meet the spiker's gaze, tracing it back down to his open palm. "Oh. Nah, I'm good." He shakes his head. "It's fine."

Yonezaki doesn't seem to believe him. He cocks his head to the side and squints. "Are you sure?" he asks, eyes narrowed at Atsumu's hand with concern. "You don't look it."

"Yeah, m'sure, was just thinkin' of gettin' my fingers taped," Atsumu explains coolly, dodging what seems to be an impending interrogation. He doesn't deal well with questions from Yonezaki – he has nothing against his teammate, because why would he, Yonezaki is earnest and it's pretty easy for Atsumu to match up with his energy at any time, but the younger boy's words are always clean-cut and straightforward, just like his spikes, and there's something about it that, if Atsumu could be honest, he finds is a little bit unnerving. He spares a quick glance back down at his fingertips. "Maybe later during our water break."

"I have a spare roll in my bag if you'd like," Yonezaki offers.

"Uh, thanks but no thanks, Tatsuya-kun. I'm gonna steal from Inunaki's stash later to piss him off," Atsumu whispers as if letting the other boy in on a secret, the telltale twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes. "Don't tell 'im." His tone of voice perks back up. "Anyway, ya needed somethin'?"

"Ah, yes!" Yonezaki gasps, as though remembering, and bows slightly, "The last set was good, Miya-san, but would it be okay if you toss it a little farther from the net next time?"

"Sure thing," Atsumu shoots him a thumbs up and smiles. Yonezaki raises his head to beam at him again in return and settles back into formation. A whistle blows as they resume the game. Atsumu glances back down on his hands and bites the inside of his cheek. Holds in a breath.

It's not the same.

.

In his dreams, Sakusa is warmer.

It is a memory Atsumu often finds himself going back to in the tender hours of the night: the sight of Sakusa's pale wrist, the milky white of his skin. He'd known since high school that Sakusa had always been the type to bruise easily. It is etched vividly behind his eyelids – the way violet blooms underneath Atsumu's grasp. The feeling of his lips pressed against warm porcelain.

The scenes differ with each passing night: a hotel room in Honmachi, the parking lot behind their gym, Sakusa's off-season getaway apartment in Namba. Once, in the bottom bunk during a training camp when they were sixteen. The outcome is the same no matter where they go.

But Atsumu, too, is different in his dreams.

He is kinder. More gentle. Atsumu remembers the delicate curl of Sakusa's wrist, veins stretching over the fragile expanse of the joint, cruel in the way he cannot be touched. Two moles perfectly aligned above Sakusa's right brow. The simmering heat of his hands. Atsumu peppers kisses tirelessly on the other's forehead. Works his way down to Sakusa's mouth slowly but with practiced ease, tongue tracing teeth, a silent question begging for permission before entry.

Atsumu savors every second. Allows Sakusa to turn him around.

Hands wrap around his waist. Lips dance across his ribcage. Fingers curl into sheets as Sakusa holds him up from behind. The world shifts, saturates, splinters. Atsumu drowns in pure sentiment and listens closely to the music – their stilted breaths, the race of his pulse, the low pitch of Sakusa's moans. A carnal pleasure. He lets out a pleased noise at the back of his throat. Sakusa thrusts his hips as Atsumu watches the way their silhouettes overlap across the empty walls, two bodies carved in the figure of desire.

A finger brushes away the wetness that has formed at the edges of his lashes. Atsumu reaches for Sakusa's hand and kisses the back of his bony knuckles, the tender underside of his wrist. Please, he murmurs softly, and asks him to do it again. Sakusa obliges and digs in deeper; comes inside of him. Atsumu takes him in easily then and presses him close, long-limbed and with wanting.

(Most nights, he remembers, after they've swapped out the sheets and cleaned up after themselves, Atsumu sleeps on his stomach, wrapped up in strong arms as Sakusa rests his hand on his back with a gentle pressure, a reminder of his presence. He remembers the ice of his feet leeching warmth as Sakusa pressed them against the side of Atsumu's calf. He remembers the weight of him — quiet, soundless, and steady — a wordless reassurance of skin against skin.

Tonight, Atsumu falls asleep on his side, wrapped up in one duvet and three blankets too many, and tucks the cloth underneath his weight, a tether to his memory. He feels the tension of the fabric pull, taut and tight and altogether artificial, and pretends it's just Sakusa once again, still near.)