"I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul."
– Pablo Neruda, One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII
.
"Wow, ya still look like shit."
"Nice to see ya too, dear brother of mine."
"Seriously though," Osamu wipes his hands on his apron and worries at his bottom lip. "Are ya gettin' enough sleep, Tsumu?" He frets. "Enough rest?"
"Look who's talkin'." His brother frowns. Atsumu waves him off. "Yer soundin' a lot like Ma," he says instead, taking his seat at his usual spot by the counter and prompting Osamu to drop the subject.
"Fine, ya prick," Osamu sneers, "Don't tell me jack shit then. Anyway, I made a new batch of onigiri to experiment so since yer here leechin' off free food from me like the parasite ya are—"
"Not leechin' when I'm availin' of the family discount," Atsumu interrupts, raising a finger up to defend himself. "It's standard business practice, Samu," he says, pointing. "Hundred percent off."
Osamu ignores him and briefly heads to the back. Atsumu can hear the faint chatter of his brother talking to the rest of his kitchen staff before he returns to the front with a plate full of rice balls in hand.
There are four of them laid out in a square grid. They're larger than usual and Osamu explains that he's trying to come up with a premium platter of sorts so he can justify the price range he'll offer them with the increased portion sizes and fillings. Atsumu simply nods then goes for what he can first identify as his favorite.
"Of course, you'd start with the negitoro," Osamu sighs knowingly, and it sounds almost fond. He watches Atsumu take a bite. "Lemme know what ya think of them, yeah?"
"Ish really guuff," Atsumu says, careful not to let the food fly out of his mouth. Osamu had almost murdered him the last time he spewed rice grains over his countertop while talking, had called him a filthy pig and all that while muttering something about how his twin was a hazard to his restaurant's compliance with food hygiene regulations. "It's got like the usual citrus-y tang that ya put to make the fish taste fresh, but there's also some kind of rich kick to it so now it's all, like, fancy or somethin'." He swallows. "What'd ya put in it?"
"Truffle ponzu," Osamu tells him proudly. "Got a contact who works at Shoda, an' we struck a deal for 'em to supply me with the good stuff for cheap. Think it'll sell?"
"Hell yeah it will, ya have my seal of approval," Atsumu announces, wolfing down the rest of his rice ball like he'd just discovered Japan's next national treasure, "I'm givin' this negitoro the big O.K. from Miya Atsumu – world-class professional volleyball player an' certified tuna connoisseur." He takes a sip of water then reaches for another. "Sell this for high, Samu. I guarantee ya yer gonna turn up a wild profit."
"'kay, I'll keep that in mind," Osamu tips the rim of his cap, "thanks. Try the yaki onigiri next. I put a spin on it."
It's a grilled rice ball filled with tempura and cream cheese, he tells him. It's playful, Atsumu notes, in the way it lines his tongue with the faintest sprinkle of sriracha. Atsumu gives it another big thumbs up without further comment for improvement. It's perfect, is what he means, basically, brushing off Osamu's concerns as to whether or not he should've added more cheese. Atsumu sets the half-eaten experiment aside to make room as he takes a hearty bite out of the next rice ball and hums thoughtfully.
"Kakuni?" he asks mid-chew. Osamu nods and slots his fingers patiently, expecting to hear more of his twin's critique. "Mm, this one passes."
"Just passes?"
"Well," Atsumu stops to think, "I like it, but maybe ya could kinda tone down the chilies? Just by a bit. The spiciness of the miso's kinda competin' with the dongpo in my mouth an' I don't think ya can really enjoy the pork as much like that."
"Hmm–"
The bell chimes to interrupt them as a string of customers enter the store – a group of high schoolers, judging by their uniforms. They line up by the counter and Osamu excuses himself to help prepare their orders. Atsumu assumes their classes had ended just then.
When Osamu returns, Atsumu has already finished off his two post-reviewed experiments and packs his things up to go. His brother raises an eyebrow at the untouched rice ball sitting on the plate, abandoned but not quite forgotten. It's umeboshi combined with thin strips of fried tofu. Atsumu sneaks in another glance and thinks it looks somewhat lonely like this, lying under the cheap fluorescent light.
"Sorry, Samu," Atsumu grins, a feeble attempt, "I know ya'd rather kick my ass than let me waste good food but I'm pretty full an' Foster'll kill me if I don't stick to my diet."
"No problem," Osamu says, "want me to wrap that up for ya?"
"Mm. Maybe better not," he shakes his head, spewing out more excuses, "I'm headin' back to the gym for training 'til eight tonight so it might not keep, plus I probably gotta regulate my carbs 'cause the season's comin' up."
Osamu hums.
"But I'm sure it tastes great too, just like all yer other ones!" Atsumu promises, "Umeboshi plus aburaage, right? Sounds like a killer combo to me, cooking theory-wise. Trust me, I'm a culinary genius just like ya, it's in our Miya DNA – we just get food. Really wish I could taste it, li'l bro, but my belly is all maxed out right now an' I literally do not have any room to consume anythin' more or else I might puke on ya in yer store, y'know, then yer gonna call the food cops on me for bein' unsanitary agai–"
"Okay, okay," his brother cuts him off from the rest of his pitiful rambling. "I get it, Tsumu, jeez." Osamu makes subtle shooing gestures with his hands and lets him go, "Now scram before yer Coach chews ya out for being late to practice again."
.
scrub
scrub [19:37]:
R u busy this sat?
Me [20:18]:
nope y?
scrub [20:22]:
Come w/ me to the farm
Me [20:23]:
ur a big boy now can't u go by urself
i thought i already taught u how to navigate with waze or did u forget
shit for brains
scrub [20:24]:
It's not that u ass I just need an extra hand to pick up supplies
Plus Kita-san would want to see u I'm sure
It'll do u some good
Me [20:24]:
fine but ur drivin this time
scrub [20:25]:
Ok that's ayt
Let's meet 6AM
Me [20:26]:
6:30 or else imma tell sunarin bout the times u kissed his photo good night on ur wall
this was like back in 1st year iirc
u practically built him a shrine next to ur bed u scrub
don't think i didn't see
just bc it was ur turn to sleep on the top bunk that year doesnt make u safe
i saw AND heard it all
uugh
nasty shit now that i think bout it ngl
ptsd
samu u owe me now i gotta charge u
u need to pay for my therapy
scrub [20:27]:
Son of a bitch
Me [20:27]:
hey don't call our ma that
scrub [20:28]:
Ok
Me [20:33]:
so
6:30
scrub [20:36]:
K 6:30
.
On the morning of his 25th birthday, Atsumu receives a package in the mail.
He'd woken up to the sound of someone knocking on his door. Happy birthday to you, a small voice greets him as knuckles rap against the wood, singing in an offkey tenor, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Atsumu-san–
"Happy birthday to you!" Hinata finishes brightly as Atsumu opens the door, beaming.
"G'mornin' to ya too, Shoyo-kun," Atsumu greets, holding back a yawn. "Sorry, did I make ya wait long? I'm not really a mornin' person so I dunno how long it took before I woke up ta ya. Were ya singin' this whole time?"
"Well, yes," the spiker admits and then clears his throat to speak, "but don't worry, Atsumu-san! You don't have to apologize for anything. It's your special day after all! And you got up much earlier than I expected. Waking you up usually takes an hour, you know," Hinata smiles at him again like sunshine incarnate, "but I've only been here singing for thirty minutes today!"
"Is that so?" Atsumu returns the gesture with a wry smile of his own, grateful to have ended the impromptu concert of his teammate's well-meaning caterwauling. He'll have to apologize to the rest of their housemates in private later.
"Yes, it is so!" the orange-haired spiker nods with a level of enthusiasm seemingly too unreal for a human being to be capable of expressing at eight in the morning. Atsumu blinks back at him dumbly as Hinata flashes him another toothy grin. How this boy never runs out of smiles is a mystery Atsumu has yet to unravel. "This is a new record for you, Atsumu-san!"
"Gee, thanks."
"Anyway, I was told to give you this!" Hinata says, thrusting a box in his general direction with enough force to sucker punch Atsumu in the abdomen. "Here you go! Happy birthday, Atsumu-san!"
"Told by who?"
Hinata's expression freezes. "Huh? Oh. No one. Nobody," he laughs stiffly, his tone an awkward mix between stone-like and robotic. "No one told me anything." Hinata licks at his chapped lips and swallows. "It's from, er, an anonymous source," he averts his gaze, nose growing longer by the minute, "your secret admirer."
Atsumu watches as the shorter boy's eyes widen comically by a good fraction, a flicker of ill-veiled horror dawning on his features briefly. Something inside of him swells with fond affection. Oh Shoyo, you sweet summer child. Bless his heart. Poor boy can't even lie to save his damn life.
"Oh, shoot, wait, uh," Hinata is muttering mostly to himself, "can I even say that? Uhm, he—...she? They? No, he…?"
Atsumu leans his head against the doorframe and looks back at him patiently in wait.
"He– yes, yeah…he, " Hinata smiles back at Atsumu nervously and wracks his brains for an answer. "It's, uhm, h—he–" he stammers, "he who must not be named?"
Atsumu raises one eyebrow at this, clearly unimpressed. He holds the box up higher and jangles it noiselessly for good measure. There's a label by the postal service that marked it as fragile.
"Ya got told to give me a birthday gift by Voldemort?" Atsumu asks.
Hinata clings onto his words like a drowned man grasping for a lifeline. "Let's go with that, yeah."
Hinata averts his gaze. He looks like he wants to be anywhere else but here. Atsumu graces him with a benevolence one can only possess on his birthday and promptly lets it slide.
"A'ight," he says then, and decides to play along with Hinata's obnoxiously obvious lie. "Thanks fer this, Shoyo-kun. Uh. I gotta go call up Samu first to greet him, then I'll join y'all together downstairs after." He offers him an out in a small show of mercy, "Could'ya let me know when breakfast'll be ready by then?"
"OfcourseAtsumu-sangoaheadI'llgocheck!" Hinata all but squeaks in delight and speeds away to seek refuge in the cramped space of their communal kitchen. "Happy birthday again!"
"Mhm, thanks, ya go do that," Atsumu huffs out a laugh. He shoos him away with a wave of his hand and watches him go, Hinata's scampering figure skittling away to make his way down the stairs.
The package is unsigned. That isn't much of a problem, though, since Atsumu doesn't need it to be to figure out who it's from. Atsumu takes the box into his room and closes the door behind him. He sets it on top of his desk.
There's an envelope taped onto the surface, housing a quaint greeting card nestled inside. Atsumu flips the card open and reads its contents, letting his eyes drink in the fine print of familiar handwriting, the narrow spaces in between a hastily written scrawl:
One good turn deserves another.
Happy birthday, Atsumu.
.
Once, after the fall, Atsumu had touched himself to the memory of an old love. He wrapped his hand around the heat of himself and jerked off to the thought of obsidian curls and eyes the same shade as the night sky. Two stars, their own private constellation, dotted across the furrow of another's right brow. A name had lingered dangerously on the precipice of Atsumu's lips in that moment, lost in the white hot vision that danced underneath his eyelids, the song of their syllables a familiar tune that dangled between the narrow gap of his teeth and lined the edge of his tongue out of habit.
Atsumu did not dare to even speak.
Relief had come to him in seconds. A moment of weakness. The knowledge of how his body slit in perfectly with the taller man was always enough to get him off. They were perfect together, at least physically. Compatible. Atsumu admits this to himself more than he will to anyone, but it's not as if he's likely to have this kind of conversation soon or at any point in time at all to begin with, still: He doesn't think there can ever be anyone else.
But this was their reality now. They had nine hours left before Sakusa's eventual departure. It would not do to yearn for a man and let his own feelings fester in his absence — this, Atsumu knows — but against his better judgement, he had let the dream continue if only for the night. He needed to rid himself of all his pent-up restless energy after all, Atsumu had reasoned, and that was it. A utilitarian indulgence, less or more.
Atsumu drew in a breath as he had kept at the motions. It was a threadbare act at best, a paltry encore of his past attempt at hollow pleasure. He ignored the beads of salt that crusted at the corners of his eyes and the clawing roar of his heartbeat, the sting of emotion as it seared behind his retinas.
And so, in the split second between falling action and finale, Atsumu closed his eyes.
He did not will himself to open his mouth then, nor did he allow himself the idle mercy of openly reliving the bliss of his past. Instead, he'd bitten down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and muffled his whimpers into a closed fist. Tear tracks riveted down his cheeks. He wiped the mess down neatly when he finished then cleaned himself up with a tissue when he was done.
(Across the hall, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoils of Atsumu's muscle memory and the battlefield caged in by his bedroom walls, Sakusa slept on.)
.
Osamu's pick-up truck is a once-a-month rental.
Atsumu had learned of the existence of the 2001 Toyota Hilux roughly two months after his brother's store's grand opening. He'd gotten it on a lease from a contact referred to him by a friend of a friend of an uncle's friend. It's a five-seater, more cherry red than it is vermilion, with a busted heating system and semi-functional air conditioning unit but a passenger seat that is spacious enough to fit all one hundred eighty-three point six centimeters of Atsumu with ample legroom to keep him from complaining.
The ride is quiet for the most part. Osamu is munching on a Mochifuwa Pancake he'd purchased from the 7-Eleven across the street, sipping his coffee in between bites to stay awake while he drives. Atsumu is riding shotgun. He puts on his earphones – a new pair, he splurged, purchasing the item two levels above his preferred price range – and blasts Too Late for Chocolate?, not one for small talk.
Atsumu stares outside and drinks in the scenery. He drowns himself deep in the view; watches as the sight of the Osaka cityscape blurs into fine lines of his hometown, the way the tinted morning sky morphs into something akin to impression sunrise. Osamu had insisted they keep the windows down to save on gas, too intent on cutting transportation costs to care for his own twin's discomfort. The cheapskate.
The wind whips at their faces as they drive up the expressway. There's a murmur of a promise, words as short-lived as the seconds that had passed with the draft – the fading rustle of a transient breeze. Atsumu increases the volume of his playlist with no remorse and doesn't miss the way Osamu sneaks in a concerned glance when he sets it loud enough that he can overhear Hanazawa Kana's bubbly scatting threaten to puncture through his eardrums.
"Eyes on the road, Samu," Atsumu reminds, gesturing towards the wheel and the cupholder standing like a barrier in between them. "Either ya take another sip of caffeine out of yer tumbler or better yet, admit that I'm the better lookin' twin."
Osamu scoffs at the remark but obliges anyway, steering carefully as they prepare to take the north exit. "Whatever, fuckface," he mutters, albeit without much bite.
Atsumu hums in agreement, satisfied. Osamu keeps driving. When the wind calls out to him again, Atsumu punches in his phone buttons and plays his music louder.
He does not hear the rest.
.
"What the fuck's he doin' here?!"
Suna Rintarou returns Atsumu's flabbergasted expression with his own half-hearted wave. "Yo," the middle blocker greets them, standing by the gate that led up to Kita's family property, tone devoid of any inflection, "Osamu invited me."
"Like I said," Osamu agrees, pocketing the keys to the Hilux, "I needed an extra hand to pick up supplies."
"And I volunteered," Suna nods. "Figured I could use the extra workout. It'll help me build muscle."
Atsumu makes a distressed noise. "Then what the hell am I here for?" he all but screams, fingers itching to claw his eyes out in sheer agony.
"Beats me," Suna shrugs. "I saw the harvest pile in the warehouse and I'm pretty sure Osamu and I can each carry half the load. We don't really need you to do anything, Atsumu."
"Hell no! I did not wake up at six just to ride with Samu in his shitty rented pick-up for nothing–"
"Maybe moral support?"
"Nah, Tsumu's the least supportive person I know," his brother – his own baby brother! – shoots him down and throws his existence under the bus. The betrayal. "Anyway, ya heard him. Rin an' I can hold the fort down 'ere on our own. Ya can just take a walk around ta relax, or somethin'. We don't need yer help anymore."
"But yer the one who invited me?" Atsumu squawks.
"Changed my mind," Osamu responds with an unenthused tilt of his head, "Now scram so I can flirt with my Olympian boyfriend an' admire the view in peace."
"What about yer Olympian brother?" Atsumu is screeching. He is this close to pulling at his own hair. "Sunarin an' I were both drafted as prospects for the National Team!"
Osamu raises an eyebrow up at him in challenge. "Ya tellin' me ya wanna stick around to watch me watch my boyfriend?"
"We're going to work up quite a sweat during our date," Suna butts in to add, like the shameless prick he is, "just so you know."
"Geh! Fine," Atsumu stomps his foot, kicking up a cloud of dust from his side of the dirt road as he does. "Didn't wanna be yer third wheel anyway," he grumbles, then turns on his heel, "M'gonna look for Kita-san."
It doesn't take long for Atsumu to find him. He spots his senior's figure tending to the fields, Kita's signature charcoal-silver hair stark in the midst of a goldenrod grid.
"Hello, Atsumu," comes Kita's warm greeting, when the rustle of the wind alerts him of Atsumu's presence and he turns around to face him. "It's been a while. Where is Osamu?"
"Dunno," Atsumu says and hunches his shoulders. "Makin' out, probably." He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. "Sunarin came with."
"I see."
Kita turns his gaze away. He is listening to something, face tilted skywards; a hose in his hand as he fills up the paddy field in a shallow flood. Cornflower trickles into spaces of burnt umber. Atsumu coughs softly and clears his throat to speak.
"So, uh, what're ya doin', Kita-san?" he asks. "I came here ta help — supposed ta, at least — but Samu an' Suna booted me out of yer warehouse so they could go on a date together so…" his voice trails off, hesitant. Atsumu scratches the back of his head almost shyly. "Is there anythin' I can do ta help ya?"
A hum. Water continues to trickle out of the hose. Atsumu follows Kita's line of sight out past the paddy fields and the snow-capped peaks of the mountain range, fixed at a faraway point somewhere Atsumu isn't sure if his eyes can even reach. Rokkosan stares back at them in all its muted glory, shrouded in the thin veil of distance and the dreamy haze of the early morning mist, jagged edges peeking out of the fog. Kita remains anchored in the middle of the rising flood. Atsumu stands at the edge of the field, unmoored.
"Kita-san?"
Atsumu can feel his hair being swept up by the breeze. He can hear the squeak of the metal as Kita twists the cap of his nozzle closed.
"I think it's about time I take a break," Kita announces. His voice cuts through the crisp morning air and shifts the world into a new state of calm. "Would'ya like to keep me company, Atsumu?" he offers, kindly, "I'd like to hear more 'bout how you've been."
.
"And what 'bout ya?" Kita asks gently, after Atsumu has finished updating him on the season's happenings, from the developments in the Jackals to Onigiri Miya's latest additions he'd taste-tested for Osamu's premium onigiri menu. They're loitering on the pathways that mark the division of the fields, sitting cross-legged on the solid ground. The sun is rising higher as they approach noon. "In the past half hour, I've listened to ya tell me 'bout the things an' people around ya," Kita pauses, "which are all good things, an' I'm happy fer them, yes — but I haven't heard ya say a single thing 'bout yerself all this time, Atsumu." At this, Atsumu sobers and forces himself to sit up straighter. "That's unlike ya."
"M'sorry."
"Don't be," Kita shakes his head gently, understanding. "Osamu informed me 'bout Sakusa when it happened," he says. There's no hand on his back when he speaks but Kita's eyes are on him with such unfaltering sincerity that it steadies Atsumu all the same. "How're ya feelin', Atsumu?"
Atsumu mumbles another apology and pauses to puff up his cheeks, blowing out a mouthful of air before he can muster the courage to continue. "It's…really dumb."
"I'm not here to judge. We both know there's no such thing as right or wrong when it comes to emotions," Kita says then. "There's no need to tell me everythin'. I'd be happy to listen up to whatever extent yer willin' to share."
"The plums."
Uncertainty paints itself vividly over his senior's features. "Plums?"
"I– just…" Atsumu begins, a choked sound at the back of his throat. The words tumble out of his mouth before he could even think to process the weight of them. "The plums," he says, a shaky breath, then starts again, "the damned plums," Atsumu digs his nails into his skin and focuses on the deep crescents they form in his palms. "I can't—" his voice breaks midway, "I can't eat them anymore."
The thing they don't tell you about falling out of love in your twenties is that you never really do fall out of it completely. The sentiment holds onto your heart with a savage grip, vice-like and unwilling, the memory of emotion woven so intimately into the muscle until it's too much a part of you that it can't easily be shaken off.
"They remind me of him," Atsumu confesses, and unfurls his grip. "Everythin' reminds me of him, damn it." He sniffs wetly. "I look fer him in everyone I meet. It hurts too much not to. It's stupid, an' I know it's stupid, but I dunno what to do 'nymore."
His eyes are beginning to sting. Atsumu brings his hands up to rub them, as if he could wipe the tears away when they fall.
"Adjusting is— it's…hard. Sometimes I think I'm doin' okay but then it hits me again an' I fall apart. Like, I just hear somethin' once an' all my progress is gone. Vanishes. Just goes–" he gestures abstractly with his hands, "–poof."
Atsumu continues.
"I miss him like a limb. The house is more quiet without him. Sure, Bokkun an' Shoyo-kun are there, but it's not the same–" Atsumu's breath catches, "–it's not the same, an' honestly, Kita-san, I don't think it ever will be. I've been tryin' to move on," he says, "but then the wind tells me things 'bout us, an' it makes me remember how much I miss him all over again." His soul is bleeding out. "Bought a pair of earphones so I wouldn't have ta listen to it everyday." Atsumu tells him, ignoring the way his bottom lip trembles, "but it's not enough."
Somewhere in between the quiver of his lips and the telltale hitch of his breath, Atsumu surrenders to his grief.
"'cause when Omi broke up with me— when he left, I was a mess. Puked all over the back of Samu's shop. A goddamn mess." He forces out a small laugh, paper-thin. "Omi told me he didn't wanna push fer long-distance, an' I didn't wanna push Omi to do somethin' he didn't wanna do. I was disappointed, y'know? But not as much as I was sad an' hurtin'. So I watched him leave. I let myself go. Now, I'm unravellin' at the seams an' I can barely keep it together." His voice is softer now when he speaks, "But the thing is, Kita-san, despite all that, I still can't stop myself from loving him."
Atsumu looks down at his hands – unkempt nails, calloused fingertips, moons on his palms. He shakes his head sadly.
"I cut him out of my life, but I always find myself wonderin' how he's doin'. Is he okay? Is he happy?"
Because that – at the very least, just that – would make it all worth it. The break-up is what Sakusa wanted, after all. It's what Sakusa deems is best. Who is Atsumu to ruin that for him? For them?
"Sometimes I stalk his profiles, just to know where he's gettin' at," he admits, "but social media can only go so far, not ta mention everythin' he posts is either borin' as bricks or scripted by his new PR team," Atsumu laughs again, quiet and bitter. "It doesn't tell me what I need ta know, Kita-san. It doesn't tell me if he's doin' well or if he's lonely. I can't help but still worry 'bout him . Who would take care of Omi over there when he's sick? Who would look out fer him when he needs help? But I can't reach out," Atsumu's voice wavers, "'cause I know he wouldn't want me ta," weakens.
Kita sits beside him in silence; waits for him to finish. The wind blows against their faces, a forlorn howl. The fields bend over to the breeze. The sun rises high above the clouds and saturates them in a patient warmth. A towel is wordlessly placed atop his head to help shield his face from its glare.
"Not me," Atsumu croaks, holding back a sob – a wretched thing. He presses his heels against his eyes; digs into the sensitive skin as if he could drain the ocean from them with the pressure. "Not anymore."
And in the quiet presence of his former captain, Atsumu finally allows himself to mourn.
.
Kita Shinsuke lost his parents when he was eight.
They had died in an accident. It was an unfortunate event involving a collision with a truck and the sleek roads in winter. Atsumu vaguely remembers seeing the feature report on the news with Osamu when they were waiting for announcements if their classes would push through for that day. He remembers hearing about a new transfer student joining their team roughly a week later, a year level above them and assigned to the second string, with an even voice and a steadfast gaze in his eyes.
"It was only natural fer me an' my siblings to stay with Baa-chan after that," Kita tells him, once Atsumu has finished scrubbing his red eyes raw and baring his tender heart whole. Tear tracks have dried up on his cheeks, the skin flushed and sticky from exertion. "We would visit her during the summer holidays an' my father would help till the fields, since the farm belonged ta his side of the family."
"Oh."
"Masahiro was still a baby at that time, so Sachiko-nee would stay back with Baa-chan to help look after him," Atsumu listens as Kita goes on, "but I remember back then, my mother would take me out here. We would sit at this corner of the field, an' together we would watch my father work."
Most days, Kita tells him, his mother would talk to him and teach him new words in the middle of a conversation. On others, she would sing songs as they kept his father company. His father would chime along then, overhearing, and to his young childish delight, they would promptly burst into an impromptu duet. Kita tells him he liked those days the most.
"She's quite similar to ya, Atsumu," Kita notes warmly with an air of nostalgia, reminiscing, "My mother always loved to talk, an' back then, I was always happy ta listen. There was never a dull moment by her side."
"It's a few years too late," Atsumu mumbles his condolences, "but m'sorry to hear 'bout yer loss, Kita-san." He wrings at the towel with his hands. "I bet it's tough, missin' yer Ma an' Pa like that…"
"Yer right," Kita voices his agreement quietly, "it is."
Stories can only stay alive when people retell them. Memories can only exist when we let ourselves remember again.
"Baa-chan would often say that the wind is a messenger, but I like ta think of it as somethin' much more like an old friend," Kita says, and picks himself up from the ground. "It holds on to the things that we cherish, the memories we hold dear, an' gives it back to us all in due time. In the moments we need to hear them most."
Their hour together comes to an end. Kita makes his way back to the field, turning his head up towards the sky when a breeze passes them by. Atsumu watches him go. At this angle, Atsumu can see his profile clearly; notes the way the sun casts light against Kita's face, spies a sliver of the world reflected in his eyes.
"There's a lotta wisdom in listenin' ta yer old friends, Atsumu," Kita turns to face him with a knowing smile. The wind is cool when it kisses his cheeks. "It ain't so bad to get a repeat hearin' of it from time to time."
.
"Bless ya, ma'am, but that's too much," Atsumu plasters on a weak smile as Kita Yumie holds up a box loaded with six jars of umeboshi, freshly pickled, from the produce of her farm. "There's no way we could take back all these."
"Nonsense, Atsumu-kun," Yumie answers brightly with a smile. "They're yer favorite, aren't they? Ya always ate so much of 'em when ya visited Shin-chan 'ere back in highschool. An' Osamu-kun, too," she adds, dotingly, "though yer brother always ate so much of everythin'."
"Yer too kind, ma'am, but–"
"Tsumu!" Osamu interrupts as soon as he and Suna finish securing the cargo at the back of the truck, "Let's go! We gotta drop Rin off at the station first!"
They had extended their stay until a little past lunch. Atsumu is fortunate to have the whole day off, but the same can't be said for the rest of his companions. Osamu still has to open his store for the afternoon, and Suna will have to book it if he wants to catch the next Shizuoka-bound train to make it in time for evening practice with his team.
"Thank ya fer havin' us, Kita-san an' Baa-chan!" Osamu hollers again, then honks the horn. "Tsumu, hurry up!"
"Come now," Yumie insists, holding her gifts up higher in earnest, "ya don't gotta be so modest. I made these myself."
Atsumu looks back at the proffered bounty and scratches his head. Kita, who is standing by the gate, watches their exchange without a shred of judgement.
A small tug on his sleeve. "Atsumu-kun?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
Yumie gestures for him to come closer, reaching out with her free hand to ruffle his hair as Atsumu does so.
"I may not know what yer goin' through that's made ya so unhappy, dear, but just 'cause yer hurtin' now doesn't mean ya can't accept kindness from others," she whispers to him warmly, with the wisdom of an old woman who has helped raise Kita and his team long enough to call these boys her own. Yumie smiles at Atsumu gently then, crow's feet lining the corners of her eyes, and pats his cheek for good measure. She looks at him with enough sympathy to make Atsumu's heart ache for a second time. "Consider these a small thank ya fer droppin' by."
He takes the damn box.
.
[—shi Nihon Taifū. Tens of thousands of people have been evacuated from coastal areas across Japan as the super typhoon makes landfall. The typhoon has disrupted transport services as well as—]
"Looks like our game this Tuesday will be cancelled," Barnes remarks.
"It already is," Meian informs the rest of the team, eyes flickering down to his phone. "Foster just texted."
"Aw, maaaan," Hinata sighs and slumps into his seat beside him, "I was really looking forward to beating Kageyama, too."
"Better luck next time, kid." Hinata groans again in palpable frustration. Tomas pats his teammate on the shoulder to console him as Inunaki flips through the channels aimlessly with the remote. Atsumu wonders why he doesn't just read, but their libero is far too stubborn to bother referring to the hotel television guide to find the program of his choice. He settles for a gameshow instead. "Think they'll keep us here for another week?"
"Mm."
"Maybe three days, at most," Yonezaki chimes in.
"I'm gonna call Akaashi!"
The storm picks up during the night.
The team had gone out earlier in the afternoon to buy supplies. Atsumu had opted instead to stay behind, wary of stepping out into the heavy downpour, and had sent a quick text to Osamu to let him know he was okay before he decided to take a nap. The power is out by the time he wakes. There's a plastic bag with his name scrawled on it in pentel pen on his bedside table, and in it, a bottle of water plus a styrofoam package from the restaurant across the street. Dinner, probably. He must have missed it.
Atsumu takes the plastic bag and brings it to the wooden desk at the corner of the room. The window is open by a crack to let the air in, most likely to keep them from suffocating. Atsumu takes out the disposable chopsticks from their plastic wrapping and opens up the box.
In the dim light, he identifies his meal as vegetable stir fry and a lukewarm serving of shogayaki. Atsumu brings his hands together in prayer to mutter his thanks. He splits his chopsticks apart and begins to eat.
–ya know I hate it when ya keep the sink running while brushin' yer teeth like that.
Oh, yes, Atsu, god forbid I waste our precious water.
Turn the tap off, Omi.
Before you tell me what to do, how about you watch the things you do first?
Ya don't get to talk–
No, you don't get to talk. What was up with your attitude during dinner earlier?
My attitude?!
All you've been doing this evening is whine. If you had have kept your big mouth shut–
If I had have kept my big fuckin' mouth shut, then she'd still be here!
The wind howls, a sordid cry. Rain pounds like pin pricks against the glass surface of the window, the sky awash in a perpetual torrent. Ginger sauce coats his tongue. Atsumu pops another piece of pork in his mouth and chews.
Don't ya dare just walk away right now!
This wouldn't even be a problem if you wouldn't make one out of it.
How the fuck does that make it okay, Omi? I can't believe ya sometimes! Do ya even hear yourself right now?
Great. Really great, this is just perfect. I take you out with me to one harmless banquet hosted by my family because I thought you would enjoy it and now, suddenly I'm the bad guy.
Can ya listen to me fer once in yer life? Is it so goddamn hard not to look at yerself?
I am listening! Get that shit through your thick fucking skull. But all I'm hearing is you pinning your groundless accusations onto me when I didn't even do anything wrong! If you want to play the blame game, then fine, go ahead, be my guest, but don't point your fingers at me as if I'm the only one who has ever been in the wrong! You've been difficult company all night and I am at my wits end trying to figure out how to please you. Well, go on. Tell me then. What did you want in the beginning? What did you think would happen?!
Oh wow, okay, I'm sorry that you are so fuckin' dumb—
Why don't you trust me?
How could I? In that situation?
You know it's not like that.
Have ya never actually thought 'bout how I would feel about this? Listenin' to yer parents set ya up with some fancy richass princess an' watchin' her drape her arms all over ya? How could ya think that wouldn't hurt me? Christ, Kiyoomi, it's like ya don't even give a shit—
Silence. The rain stops abruptly. Clouds disperse around them, ensconcing the area in a surreal lull – an eye in a muted city. The wind softens its blow. Atsumu finishes his meal; twists open his bottle cap and takes a sip.
I'm sick of hiding, Omi.
I know ya wanted to keep our relationship a secret from the press an' I get that. Really. I don't wanna deal with the media getting up an' in our faces either. But even our families? Our friends? I can't even tell my own brother. What the hell. Samu knows everythin' 'bout me except us. Why don't ya want them to know about us? Am I a joke to ya or somethin', Omi?
Are ya ashamed of me, is that it? That some poor ol' country boy isn't up to yer golden Tokyoite standards?
Because I am. Up to yer standards, I mean.
Or at least I know I could be.
I could try.
Even if it takes me a thousand etiquette classes an' hours of practice of smilin' so wide it makes my cheeks hurt an' learnin' how ta be fluent in a whole new foreign language an' everythin' else yer parents would demand of me just ta meet their expectations of what makes someone a perfect partner for their son – I would try. For you, I'd try. If that's all it takes fer me to keep ya, Omi, then I'd do all that an' more.
Because I love ya, y'know? I would do anythin' for ya. An' I'm pretty damn serious 'bout ya, too, but if ya don't even feel the same way then just fuckin' say so.
So tell me, Kiyoomi.
What does any of this even mean for you?
Atsumu strains his ears to listen. The door to their hotel room opens with a firm click. Bokuto returns after having drained the last of his phone battery to talk to his husband. He had left when Atsumu was still asleep. He probably stepped out into the hall so as not to wake him earlier.
Bokuto halts in his motions, stopping to blink back at the sight of the setter sitting up under the low light. Atsumu waves back at him lazily in greeting. His teammate shoots him a knowing look, his lopsided smile partly mixed in with pity, and heads off to the bathroom without another word.
The wind picks up speed again.
It carries an old memory in its stead, words weathered by time, faint and flickering, from three years ago when Atsumu remembers they were still making headway into understanding each other better in their relationship.
I love you more than you think I do, it tells him, voice light as a zephyr, I'm sorry if I don't make it clear enough.
Atsumu closes his eyes and curls into himself, filling in the gaps where the world falls quiet.
I'm not like you, Atsu.
My family, they're— different. I don't want you to take this as a reason for you to doubt me and my feelings for you. It's just. What I would give to come from a loving and open family like yours. My parents and I aren't close. I don't know if they are as …understanding of our situation. Nor as accepting. I am afraid of falling out of their favor because I don't know what they could do to us. To you, especially, if they found out.
So, please. Atsumu. Don't make it harder for me than it already is.
I'm terrified of losing you, too.
The door creaks open. Bokuto steps out from his shower, still only half-dressed in his sweats, towel draped over his neck to catch the falling droplets. He rummages through his luggage for a fresh t-shirt and rolls it up over his head, slipping his arms through the fabric before poking his neck out through the collar hole.
"How goes the progress, Tsum-Tsum?" Bokuto finally asks, a poorly veiled attempt at concern. Atsumu watches his teammate shuffle towards his bed and tuck himself under the blankets. The rain falls once more. Bokuto blinks back owlishly at the sight of Atsumu and the open window. "Still feeling plat?"
"Nah," Atsumu props his chin up on his fist and turns his gaze away, the ghost of a smile when he realizes he actually means it. "I'd say things are beginnin' ta look up, Bokkun."
Outside, the world rages on.
.
The Jackals return to Osaka three days later when the weather clears, just as Yonezaki had predicted. Light catches on the street signs posted around the platform. Atsumu muffles a yawn as they step off the Shinkansen, ready to trek the rest of the route from the station back to their home.
The team disperses upon reaching the sharehouse, members trickling out to rest in their spaces one by one. Bokuto goes out to make a phone call on the balcony. Hinata, Yonezaki, and Tomas head for the kitchen. Inunaki lounges in that one corner of the sofa he'd marked as his territory since time immemorial. Tomas will likely join him later after he finishes grabbing himself some snacks. Meian and Barnes have retired in their respective rooms, as does Atsumu.
Atsumu makes quick work of unpacking his luggage when he reaches his bedroom. He sorts the dirty clothes out of his duffel bag and dumps them in the laundry hamper for him to attend to later. He puts away the toiletries he'd gotten (read: stolen) from the hotel for free. He adds to his growing pile of complimentary Nespresso pods to deposit in the communal pantry even though neither he nor any of his housemates own a Nespresso machine. He recycles the terry towel guest slippers. He throws away a stray candy wrapper. He opens up a rusty window and lets the air in.
The package from Sakusa rests innocently underneath the windowsill – an abandoned gift box that's been gathering dust on his desk for a while now. Atsumu picks it up gingerly and blows on its surface. Small specks of grey catch in the light. He rips off the seal and the remainder of the wrapping, lifting the flap up slowly as he opens his present.
"Omi, what the hell."
Inside lies a pair of headphones, colored jet black and fashioned with a sleek leather trim. The label on the box reads Sennheiser – which is one of the more expensive European brands on the market, Atsumu knows – the latest model flaunting its portability, 30-hour battery life, bluetooth, voice assistance and a whole bunch of other features far superior to his own. The earpieces are lined with thick padding to cushion his ears. The joints collapse to make it easier for him to carry it around on the go. There's a motion tracker programmed into the device to react to his movements and turn the headset on and off automatically in a seamless transition.
His lip wobbles. Atsumu looks at the crowded jungle of his convenience-store-bought earphones, tangled up and haphazardly stuffed into the small space of his desk drawer. He had broken four pairs over the course of the last three months from overuse and though his fifth was a tad bit more durable, having been purchased from a brand at a slightly higher price point than the rest, it failed to deliver the quality promised by the cash Atsumu had doled out to spend for it.
He laughs.
Adaptive Noise Cancellation, reads a shiny foil sticker slapped onto the bottom-left corner of the product box, automatically adjusts to your surroundings to suppress unwanted background noise for your ever-changing environments!
It's funny how now, seven months after their break up and more than five thousand miles apart, Atsumu finds that two of them are still in sync. That the distance never changed the way Sakusa had always managed to understand him. Or that they had always only ever been on the same page. That Sakusa still knows – had anticipated, even – what Atsumu needed even without him ever having to say it first.
"Ya sly jerk," Atsumu doesn't hold back on his laughter. He plucks the headphones out of the box and puts them on. They fit comfortably, pressed snug against his ears. Atsumu mutters under his breath, "How am I supposed ta get over ya like this?"
.
The months pass. November trickles into March. Winter thaws into new year blooms into spring. With the change in the seasons comes the annual event their team both dreads and looks forward to most:
Sharehouse spring cleaning.
"Hey, who left the yogurt cups in the fridge?"
"Me! I bought those."
"When?"
"Uh, for the Christmas party?"
"Hinata, what the shit–"
"They were on a promo with the chicken! KFC had coupons!"
"It's already March!"
"It's moldy…"
"Oh god. Is that some kind of colony?"
"Wow."
"Gross."
"Get that away from me!"
"Stop ogling the petri dish, Yonezaki, and just throw it already."
"Were we always this disgusting?"
"I miss Omi-san."
"Sakusa would have blown up our entire refrigerator if he saw what you've done to it."
"Atsumu-san, your phone is ringing!"
"Cockroach in the bathroom spotted!"
"Kill it with fire, Wan-san!"
"It's flying! I need back-up!"
"Adriah!"
"Where's the vinegar?"
"Miya, your phone!"
"Found the vinegar," Meian announces as he enters the kitchen to hand the bottle over to Atsumu. "And also your phone." The setter grins and takes them both.
"Thanks, Cap." He unloads the baking soda into the sink, pouring it down together with the vinegar and watching as the mixture bubbles down the drain.
Atsumu picks up his phone and excuses himself to head to the balcony, because it's the only place in the entire dorm out of earshot from the rest of the team to grant him some semblance of privacy. He does this with all his calls. Meian sends him away with a small wave and promises to take over the kitchen to supervise. Atsumu steps outside and presses the green button to accept the call.
"Look 'ere, ma'am, sir, whatever. Stop reachin' me about a car warranty, I don't have a license," he lies on instinct, before amending, "Or even if I did, I'm not interested. I also paid my phone bill last week. No, I'm not lookin' for a plan upgrade. An' if yer from the bank, don't ya dare cut off my credit line–"
"What are you talking about?"
It's an unknown number. Atsumu doesn't have an identity pinned onto the caller ID, and he doesn't have the sufficient neural capacity to memorize phone numbers outside of his own, his mother's, and the 110 emergency hotline. But something twists in the hollow of Atsumu's ribcage in that moment anyway, a resurfacing want, an inexplicable recognition.
There's no way he could let himself forget. Even if the sound of it is cast over with an underlying layer of static, dimmed by the distance, hushed by the wind – it's unmistakably, achingly familiar. The modulated tenor. The timbre of it.
"...Miya?"
He'd recognize the sound of Sakusa's voice anywhere.
"Hello? Miya, are you still there?"
"Yes!" Atsumu abruptly shouts into the receiver and winces. "Yes, um. Sorry. Hi."
A pause. He picks up the sounds of movement, the way Sakusa's voice softens and shifts. In the end, it settles for a gentle, "Hello."
"Hello," Atsumu echoes back and licks his chapped lips nervously. "So…uh, it's been a while, huh? How are ya d—"
"I made starter."
Skin meets metal as Atsumu slaps the balcony and grips onto it from surprise. "Oh, what, wow," he gasps, almost breathlessly, "that's, um, wow. Congrats, Om—Sakusa. That's great. I'm proud of ya, man. I knew ya would make it."
"Thank you. I just thought I should let you know," Sakusa tells him quietly. "I mean. I promised before, didn't I? That you would be the first to know about my successes. I just wanted to make good on my end of the deal."
Warmth settles in the pit of his stomach. Atsumu holds back a smile. "Thanks for tellin' me, then."
"Of course."
"When's yer first game?"
"Not until next month," Sakusa replies. "I think the ninth of April? I'll keep you posted once they release the official schedule."
"If they broadcast it, the team an' I'll set up a watch party." Atsumu promises. The world slows down around him. "So. How's France treatin' ya? What's yer new team like?"
"Fine. We have a very solid defense. They're all efficient on the court but–" Atsumu can imagine Sakusa's expression by the tone of his voice alone, can almost see his nose scrunching up sourly as he admits a reluctant truth, "they're all nosy busybodies off of it. Gossipmongers, all of them. I can see that they care and are trying to make me feel welcome, but one of our blockers, Theo, keeps asking me about you— Japan. About Japan."
The connection flits in and out on the other end of the line, and so Atsumu moves to the other side of the terrace to catch a better signal.
"He says he's a big fan of our culture, and that must make him sound like a big nerd, but I think the truth is he's just trying to show off to impress the daughter of his landlord. He doesn't live with us in communal housing," Sakusa explains before resuming his tirade. "My roommate never remembers to return my charger when he borrows it. And our libero Marceau is always poking into my affairs. Lucas and Rene keep taking me out for wine nights to get me to open up, but the problem is that they're lightweights and are always the ones who bear the brunt of the hit first. They're good people but a handful to take care of once they're drunk. Last week, we took a trip out to Montmarte an—...Sorry, am I boring you? Did you hang up?"
"Nah, ya aren't. I'm still here. Go on," Atsumu prompts him. "I'm listenin'."
He always has been.
.
Later, when time has run its course and they've both run out of anecdotes to share, a quiet quickly creeps in and settles over them.
"Y'know, Omi," Atsumu begins, tentatively. "The wind told me things about you."
"What did it say?"
"Mostly stuff from our past," Atsumu tells him. "How we used ta talk, I guess. What ya said when we first got together. Lots of stuff from back in our third year."
Sakusa hums.
"That time we bickered over where to get that fabric softener ya liked, too, if ya remember that. I stopped passing by that store for a while, to be honest. Avoided it entirely for weeks. Oh. Yeah. I got yer gift, by the way. One sec," Atsumu pulls the phone away briefly and switches sides. He presses the speaker against the shell of his other ear and brings it back, closer than before. "Hinata probably already told ya when he gave it, but I just wanna say it again, so ya can hear it straight from me this time. Thanks."
"You're welcome," Sakusa replies. "That present wasn't cheap, and neither was the shipping, so I would've sued the postal service if it failed to reach you safely in time."
"Yer killin' me here, Omi," Atsumu barks out a laugh. "Always sounding so formal. An' mean. Jeez. Yer brutally honest to a fault, y'know? But that's what I love about ya. We had a good seven years, no?"
"Mm."
Afternoon bleeds into dusk, the air edged with an uncertainty of whether or not to cross an unspoken line.
"Why did we break up, Omi?"
As usual, Atsumu is the first to break the silence.
"We had to, Atsumu," Sakusa replies stiffly – a feigned politeness. He can almost imagine the other boy frowning from across the line, brows knitted together, petulant. "You know that."
"Said who?"
"You told me to take the offer," Sakusa insists. "In France."
"Well. Yeah, but I didn't say we should break up! You did."
A sigh on the other end of the line. Atsumu flinches at the sound.
"You and I both know we can't handle long-distance," Sakusa's tone is even when he answers. Perfect, even, to the point that it almost sounds rehearsed. Atsumu wonders how many times he'd practiced and gone over this spiel, how many nights Sakusa had delivered these lines in front of a mirror just to run his tongue over the words, tripping through the sentences, weaving together a tapestry of articulate excuses and whitewashed justifications he didn't know whether they were built better to convince him or himself. "I did what was best for the both of us. We wouldn't be happy if we forced things like that—"
"Are you, then?"
"Am I–" he swallows, "…what, Miya?"
"Happy."
The rustle of static. The telltale whisper of the wind.
"Happy, Omi," Atsumu says again, reiterating his point before Sakusa can steer the conversation towards faux formalities in an indiscreet attempt to politely end their call. "I'm asking if yer happy with the way things are now."
"Of course not," he hears the other answer after a weighted pause. "I'm miserable without you."
Atsumu lets out a small laugh. "Yeah?" he chuckles into the receiver, the confession tumbling out of him like an unburdened sigh. Relief. "Good to know I'm not the only one, at least," Atsumu jokes, attempting to clear the air when Sakusa still doesn't grace him with a reply. "I fuckin' miss ya too, Omi-Omi."
Sakusa doesn't answer him right away. Atsumu holds in a breath and counts to three.
"I told the wind about you too."
His head snaps up in surprise. "What?"
"I spoke to the wind," Sakusa tells him, voice oddly tight, "when I knew you weren't listening. Or when I knew it wouldn't reach you–"
Atsumu blinks back the dampness in his eyes. Oh.
"I did it a lot back in Japan, especially when we were freshly broken up, but I find myself doing it even more now since I've moved. Sometimes I would get homesick," Sakusa confesses, and Atsumu swallows down the lump in his throat as he wills himself to listen, "so I would talk to the wind as if you were still there…as if you were still with me." A pause. "I missed you, Atsu," Something in his voice wavers. "I miss you. Still."
"Then come home, Omi."
Static crinkles from the speakers like feedback. Atsumu looks down and closes his hand around the railing, lets his fingers meet.
"I can…make it for Golden Week, probably?" Sakusa muffles a cough and clears his throat awkwardly. "Flights will be cheaper if I book them now. Do you–"
"No, not like that, I mean, not—" Atsumu tries to fight back the urge to roll his eyes, "Not right now, obviously. Idiot. Yer just about ta start the peak of yer career over there an' I'm not lettin' ya give all of that up just for li'l ol' me."
"Who said I'd be willing to give it all up just for you?" Sakusa scoffs.
"Cheeky brat," Atsumu teases in return, a clear admission: Who else would it be?
They fall into a familiar banter and speak in the ways they both only know how, a waltz choreographed out of mock insults and inside jokes. An old comfort. Atsumu loops his index finger around a stray thread on the hem of his shirt and tugs.
"Yer contract won't be finished until at least two more years, right?" Atsumu says, "Don't rush it. Take yer time. Just. Come back home soon, when ya can," he makes Sakusa promise, "when ya feel ya've done enough or when yer ready. I don't mind if that means ya gotta stay there for two years or five years or even ten years more, Omi. Go out there an' play yer best volleyball. Drink all yer damn wine. Live yer life over there to fullest. But when yer done–" he stops to catch his breath, "when yer done seeing things through to the end, come home. I'll be right here, Kiyoomi," Atsumu smiles into the receiver. "So come home to me."
He drums his fingers on the edge of the terrace railing. If Atsumu looks close enough, he can see the moon rise from across the horizon. A world tinted in scarlet pink and lilac skies.
"Well?" Atsumu prompts, gently. "Whadd'ya say?"
"I'd like that," Sakusa's voice trickles in quietly at last, soft and certain, "Thank you."
Sakusa ends the call first. Atsumu hangs onto the line until his last word. He sets his gaze forward onto the cityscape, the sight of the dimming Osaka skyline, and listens to the phone beep dully as he holds it against his ear. The evening breeze is cool when it hits his skin. Slowly, surely, Atsumu puffs up his cheeks and counts to ten.
He lets out a breath.
.
(I'm waiting.)
this fic was like taking a trip down trauma lane to be honest, as what most of my dozen other fics are since i often use them as a convenient excuse to project, but writing this story was nothing short of cathartic and i hope you all enjoy this journey as much as i did crafting it. and for those of you who, like me, are still hurting from the scars of our pasts, i sincerely hope we all find healing. or better yet, our happy endings. :)
thank you so much for reading. i'm nearly a month late but have a happy new year, folks. i hope u all stay safe and healthy always.
