Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘It all began the way most love stories start.

Once upon a time, I fell in love with you. But unfortunately for you, I’m a fucking writer. 

So, as things like this go — here I am now, attempting to write my first book (which will kind of be about you, if you didn’t get that) after spending the last twelve-ish years of my life half-hating and half-loving you because you’re a confusing, frustrating, unbearable piece of shit who just so happens to be my best friend who makes me really happy. And also really hard, sometimes. I mean, obviously you’re a lot more than that these days. It was a long and stressful process to get here and I almost considered killing you, but prison didn’t feel like the right place for me, you know? But that’s besides the point.

As I was saying, I’ve decided to write my first book about you. Well, technically it won’t be all about you but it’s written for you. To you, actually. I got the idea while I was drinking shitty, room temperature coffee and lamenting the fact that I’m an aspiring writer who never fucking writes. I was staring at the couch we’d recently broken because we forgot that we’re too big to be having sex on it and I thought to myself – hey wait, why don’t I write about the story of our relationship? What could be more romantic than a romantic story about two people who are absolute dogshit at romance, but ended up together anyway? Why don’t I take my years of disappointment and self-loathing then slap it onto a novel, so I can sell it for a bunch of money to buy us a new couch?

I can start with who I am, how we met, how we fell in love, talk about the devastation of it all, lament about when you left the fucking country, which is when you broke my heart part one, which will lead to when you broke my heart part two, of course, there’s all the life bullshit that happened in between, then the happy ending of you coming back to me, which will inevitably lead to all the lessons we learned that led us to the happy, healthy, stable relationship we have now. Right? 

Well, that’s the story in a nutshell. And here I am now, writing it, because we never really used to talk too much about our pasts. And I think maybe things would’ve been a lot easier for us if we did.

So, I guess I should start at the very beginning: Once upon a time, I got myself born. 

My twin brother, Osamu and I were born about ten days earlier than we were scheduled to be. It caused the worst physical pain of my mother’s life, then they had to cut her open, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, we were apparently trying to punch and claw our way out of the amniotic sac we were in. We shared one. Apparently, that’s really rare. And even rarer for us to be born punching the hell out of each other in it. But I guess if any pair of twins were going to come out of their mother throwing hands in a shared amniotic sac, it would be me and Samu. Apparently, the doctor also said, ‘Wow. They haven’t even opened their eyes yet and they’re already rebelling.’ Which, of course, we were. That sounds about right for us. The first thing we did after snuggling into our mom’s chest was try to hit each other in the face. 

We still do that, by the way.  

Anyhow, my dad was a half functioning alcoholic and my mom worked in a bank. They loved each other and hated each other in equal measure, and you could tell. Back then, it felt a lot like they were barely our parents and we were barely their children. I had Osamu, though. And Osamu had me. Life was complicated but what the two of us shared was simple and that made everything else simple. 

Back then, I thought most things in life were simple. I was born, I had a shitty father, a halfway good mother, and I had a twin brother. I liked to read, write, and eventually, I’d fall in love with volleyball. I’d join a team in elementary school and get complimented for being taller than everyone else – as if that was something I could help. 

And then, I’d get close with a classmate who stared at me like I was something beautiful, someone to kiss tenderly. Then, he actually did and I actually let him. After doing that, he’d hit me as if punishing me for it – as if his desire was something I could help. 

I’d turn thirteen and make out with a girl because she was there and I didn’t think there’d be anyone else, she agreed because I was there and she didn’t think there’d be anyone else. And we’d pretend it didn’t happen, choosing to ignore each other, as if we were punishing each other for not feeling the desire we were supposed to be feeling – as if it was something we could help. 

My parents would divorce and I’d study, train, and win volleyball games, because I convinced myself that everything would turn out fine as long as I was a good athlete, a good student, and a good son. And then, high school. And then, you. A lot of you. Years of you. 

Fuck you.

Because all of a sudden, it didn’t matter that I was a good athlete, a good student, and a good son because my life was gonna go to shit, anyway. Because all of a sudden, it became pretty clear that I liked guys. I mean, it was either that or you had the magic power to turn penises into Pinocchio’s nose whenever you played volleyball. 

Like I said, fuck you.

“Who’re they?” I heard you ask who I later learned was your cousin, Komori Motoya, right after you (barely) won that first practice game against us, the afternoon we were hazed into the team. 

“You don’t know? That’s fucking weird, they’ve been like celebrities since elementary school.” 

So, I eavesdrop as he proceeds to tell you that me and my brother were the most famous twins in the history of high school volleyball. That we looked so much alike that people kept telling us, on an almost daily basis, to please bleach our hair different colors, so that people could tell the difference easier. (That’s not why we ended up bleaching our hair, by the way. That’s a story for a later time.) 

“People say the one with grey eyes is chill, but the one with brown eyes is an asshole. Just so you know.” 

Wow, I thought. Tell me how you really feel. 

Then, our eyes met and I saw a flicker of interest in them before you looked away. Later on, you told me, ‘I don’t know what it says about me that people saying you’re an asshole made me want to get to know you more.’ To which I said, ‘I don’t know what it says about me that when I heard someone tell you I’m an asshole, suddenly, I didn’t wanna be seen as one anymore.’  

Like I said, it all began the way most love stories start. So, here goes nothing. 

Dear Omi, 

Once upon a time, I fell in love with you. And unfortunately for me, you were the one who was a fucking asshole about it. 

Because who the hell moves to another country on their best friend’s birthday, you son of a bitch? 

Just in case you forgot, let me remind you: Fuck you.’ 

- Miya Atsumu, To You (Prologue)

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The Night Before Sakusa Kiyoomi’s Flight To San Diego and The Miya Twins’ 21st Birthday

“Wait. Who’s in charge of the penis cupcakes?!” 

“Tsumu, will ya fuckin’ relax? We have an hour to go.” Osamu says, but it’s more like he mumbles because there’s a spit-covered balloon in his mouth. “I’m pretty sure Sunarin’s got it covered.” 

“But what about the giant goodbye pizza?” Motoya adds, walking into the party area dragging two chairs behind him. “Oh fuck. Please tell me that someone already ordered the giant goodbye pizza.” 

“Bokuto-san’s doing it, right?” Suna yells from his position, tinkering with the tangle of wires by the twin speakers. “He said he made a request for them to write ‘Goodbye, Kiyoomi! ’ on the box and everything. Also, the penis cupcakes are arriving in ten minutes. Can one of you please– Bokuto-san! Have you ordered the giant goodbye pizza?”

“Hey, hey, hey! The giant pizza is on its way!” He announces, not unlike a sports announcer. “Hitoka-chan texted and said she picked it up with Hinata. They’ll be here soon!”

Bokuto Koutaro currently has an iPad in his hands and Atsumu can vaguely read the Youtube title ‘30 Minutes of HILARIOUS and HUGGABLE Bears 😍😂’ on the screen. Two bears are wrestling right now. He assumes it’s a coping mechanism and decides that there’s no point in asking. 

Instead, Atsumu takes a deep steadying breath and tries to focus on the task at hand, which is currently pumping air into balloons. Later, he’ll have to curate the party playlist, make sure everyone has their own party poppers, ensure that everyone’s in position before Kiyoomi walks in, so they can successfully give him a heart attack, and then he’ll be free to eat phallic shaped cupcakes and drink until he can’t think or feel or remember why they’re throwing this stupid party in the first place. 

“Tsumu.” Osamu’s giving him his ‘genuinely-worried-about-you’ look and it pisses him off, because he knows that look makes him cry and there’s no time for crying right now. They have to blow up the balloons, damn it. “Are you really gonna be okay tonight?”

What? What kind of a stupid fucking question is that? 

Of course not.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is moving to fucking San Diego tomorrow. And he’s doing it on his birthday. On his goddamn birthday.  

Sakusa Kiyoomi, who was his second friend and first enemy in high school. Sakusa Kiyoomi, who sat next to him in silence and listened to him curse and ramble whenever Osamu was being a piece of shit and nobody else was willing to listen to him curse and ramble anymore. Sakusa Kiyoomi, who sat next to him in silence when his dad got sick and Atsumu couldn’t bring himself to be anything but silent. Sakusa Kiyoomi, the only spiker other than his literal twin brother who never had any trouble keeping up with his sets. Sakusa Kiyoomi, who’d followed him all the way through high school into college and almost convinced Atsumu that he’d probably follow him everywhere else too. Sakusa Kiyoomi, who he figured he’d live fifteen minutes away from for the rest of his life. Sakusa Kiyoomi, who was always right there. Atsumu doesn’t remember anymore what it was like to have him anywhere other than right there. He was never supposed to be any-fucking-where else. 

And yet, the fact remains that Sakusa Kiyoomi is moving to San Diego tomorrow. On his goddamn birthday . 

Now, here they are, throwing a surprise party to say goodbye with penis cupcakes, pizza, beer, vodka, tequila, and balloons. Nothing about this is okay. What about losing Sakusa Kiyoomi calls for fucking balloons? Why the hell are they throwing a party when Atsumu is probably literally going to drop dead on the spot once the plane takes off, huh? What then? Then, they’ll regret throwing a party in the first place because now they’re gonna have to plan a funeral. They’ll have to think of what to engrave on his tombstone and everything. 

Miya Atsumu, b. 1995 - d. 2016

IN LOVING MEMORY: We lost him the night before his 21st birthday due to abandonment and heartbreak. He had a dick cupcake caught in his esophagus. His last words were, ‘Omi-kun, don’t leave me here! I hate these fucking people!’ He died in his combat boots. 

Before he can voice any of these feelings out loud, the doorbell rings and he makes his escape. “I think the penis pastries are at the gate. I’ll go get ‘em.” 

Osamu tilts his head. “Huh. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.” 

__

‘Hey Omi, do you think it’s just part of human nature to want to look for ways to hide? 

I mean, as children, we all loved to build those flimsy blanket forts, look for secret hiding spots, create secret clubs with exclusive memberships that no one else could know about. For some reason, we’re born into this world looking for places to hide and feel safe in – as if somehow, we instinctively know that this world is eventually going to give us a reason to. 

We had a ‘Hiding Spot’ too. To us, it was called ‘The Spot.’ It was the rooftop of an abandoned building that smelled like decay and shit. And I mean, it was so bad that that was always my first thought whenever we were there. I never got used to it. No matter how many times we’d been up there, my first thought as I opened the door to that building and that rooftop was always, ‘Wow. It fucking stinks.’  

The Spot was once a clubhouse that they used for events like debuts or bingo tournaments for old people. Then, it was abandoned and it became a pisshole of a building with an easy-to-access rooftop that we claimed for ourselves, because we have big egos which means we like feeling taller when we’re sad. 

So there I was, opening the door to the rooftop and thinking, ‘Wow. It fucking stinks.’ And there you were, back hunched miserably, your silhouette all haloed by the sunset that you were dramatically watching like you were in some The 1975 music video. I would’ve laughed about it but there was always something really comforting about staring at you from behind. Sometimes, I felt like I could maybe do it forever. So before my thoughts could get any more dangerous than that, I plopped down next to you and made some dumb joke. It was probably something along the lines of; 

‘What did you call me here for now? Did your girlfriend dump you or something? I knew she’d figure out she could do better than you eventually.’

Then, you got this constipated look on your face and I was like, ‘Oh shit. I was just kidding.’ 

Then, you were like, ‘Well, she really did break up with me. Apparently, she cares about me but we want different things. She thought it’d be better if we just broke up before I went off to college.’ Or something like that. 

I remember getting the sudden urge to smoke a cigarette, but not doing it because you would always whine about how bad it was for my health. You were always fucking like that. It was as stupidly annoying as it was stupidly endearing. 

You asked, ‘Do you think that was just code for she doesn’t like me anymore and wants to date other people?’ 

And I answered, ‘Yeah, probably.’ 

And you were like, ‘God damn it, Atsumu. You’re supposed to tell me that’s not true to make me feel better.’ 

And I went, ‘We both know that’s not what you called me here for. If you wanted someone to be nice, you’d call Motoya. If you want someone to tell you the truth, you call me.’ 

And you didn’t say anything to that because you knew I was right. Of course, I was right. I’m always right.

I did feel sorry that she dumped you, though. I think I told you that and I meant it. We both know that your high school girlfriend was a good person. Too good for you. Too good for the both of us. You tried to downplay it, saying you were only together for a couple months, but we all knew how much she meant to you because she meant something to us too. Hell, do you remember how you guys started dating? There was a fucking wedding. The whole shebang. 

No, guys (my dear readers), seriously, you’ve gotta listen to this shit. 

My boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend was a high school heartthrob. The day Yachi Hitoka transferred to our school in our second year, every girl crazy idiot from every year had taken turns trying to woo her. But guess what? There was only one who succeeded: My boyfriend. How? He did it by merely breathing and existing in her presence, because he tends to have that effect on people. He was deemed a legend for wooing her and that was annoying because he was already a legend for doing other things. Like being good-looking, athletic, and tall. Honestly? Fuck you. 

(Not you, readers, I’m talking to my boyfriend now.) 

I didn’t really understand why you decided to date her, you know? You’d never been that interested in girls before. I guess I understand it well enough now but back then, I remember feeling this deep bitterness and suffocating tightness in my chest that I refused to fully understand or deal with, convincing myself that it was just because I was jealous that you managed to do something that I couldn’t. 

We all liked her though and were just amazed at the fact that you were interested in dating at all, so we decided to help you make a big show out of it. I remember the day you awkwardly ‘proposed’ to her with a cheap ring as a way of asking her to be your girlfriend. (Motoya’s idea, of course.) Then, when she said yes we threw a fake wedding. A proper one, too. With chairs covered in white fabric, fake flowers, and a grand audience of ten people in the school gym. It was the most un-Sakusa Kiyoomi thing to ever happen and it was fucking glorious. 

Motoya officiated the wedding and looked ridiculous doing it. I was your best man and I was happy to be. I was happy for you. I really wasn’t pretending, then – but I was sad at the same time. I guess I kind of knew why, but my brain got really good at pretending like it didn’t know anything. 

Then, seven months later, you two broke up. And on that rooftop, you told me, ‘I’m less sad about it than I thought I’d be. I mean, she said she’d always be my friend. I think that’s all that matters to me.’

I felt a wave of relief wash over me hearing that… and then I swallowed it down, because why the fuck should I be relieved about that, right?

So instead of thinking about what that could’ve meant for me, I just said, ‘Girls come and go, Omi-Omi. But volleyball teammates are forever… or however that famous saying goes.’ 

That made you smile and I knew you’d probably be a bit sad for a little while longer but that soon enough, you’d be fine. I figured that it was the first breakup but wouldn’t be the last, that more girls would come and then go, more things will begin and then end – but we will stay. We’d always stay because that’s how it works and that’s what matters and that’s how things would always be.

You see, the story of Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi began the way most love stories probably do. It all began with;

An abandoned rooftop on a dimly-lit street, the night after Sakusa Kiyoomi and Yachi Hitoka’s child marriage failed.

Or, actually, maybe it was that strange night spent with Suna Rintarou after a particularly hellish practice, when I learned that maybe some things are better left unsaid. 

Maybe, it was that afternoon in that volleyball court, when I set a ball and you spiked it over a net and our entire world started to shift. 

Or was it that high school rivalry born out of competitiveness, testosterone, and ‘the unwillingness to admit that we started to care about each other more than we cared about the competition.’ (Osamu’s words.) 

Or maybe it was when I first heard about that tall, curly-haired, heartthrob volleyball player from Class 1. ‘You’d hate him’, they all said, and I kind of did. It just turned out that I loved you just as much. 

Or… was it the weird dream I had, the night after the first game we played as teammates, where you stroked my cheek and leaned in for a kiss, causing me to wake up and smack myself in the face three times, as if that would cancel out the dick-stirring feelings it evoked in me like it’s PEMDAS?

Actually, you know what? It really isn’t all that complicated. 

This is how it begins: Unfortunately, Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi meet.

And honestly, life is just never the same after that.’

- Miya Atsumu, To You (Chapter 1)

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The Night Before Sakusa Kiyoomi’s Flight To San Diego and The Miya Twins’ 21st Birthday

Kiyoomi blinks in some form of resigned awe at the table spread before him. “Am I… supposed to say thank you for this?” He asks, picking the confetti out of his curls.

The penis cupcakes are impressively inclusive in terms of color and have icing in the form of pubic hair. Also, the message on the giant goodbye pizza box reads, ‘GOODBYE, GWIYOMI!’ and it feels kind of like a slur.

“Gwiyomi? Gwiyomi?” Suna repeats in disbelief, “What the fuck! Not only is that not how you spell his name, that’s not even Japanese! That’s fucking Korean!” 

Parties that start with disaster can only ever end in disaster, is what they always say. He doesn’t know who ‘they’ is, though. Maybe it was Shakespeare. 

This is far from being the first hot mess of a house party they’ve thrown at Komori Motoya’s place and it sure as hell isn’t going to be the last. That’s on account of the fact that he has the giant front yard, the massive pool, and most importantly… an obscene amount of nepotism money that they’ve mostly used for future liver disease purposes. But while this is not the first or the last, this is the last one that will include Sakusa Kiyoomi. Atsumu does not like thinking about that and he’s pretty sure the rest of them are trying not to think about it either. So, of course, they all do what any smart and emotionally mature man would do to cope with losing their best friend and ex-volleyball teammate to the land of the free or whatever land they call it: They get obscenely drunk. 

Bokuto ends up lying on the floor, only half conscious in a corner. His iPad stands upright on his stomach and the third season of Hunter x Hunter is playing at maximum volume, while tears steadily roll down his cheeks. It looks profoundly pathetic but also kind of cinematic. Suna takes a picture of the scene, of course. Hinata is hunched over on the table, a half empty bottle of Absolut Vodka sitting next to his head. He’s probably dead. Atsumu makes a mental note to check his pulse later. Motoya and Osamu are in the middle of some weirdly intense conversation about that new half-bar, half-hotpot restaurant that just opened, and Atsumu’s about to join in when he hears–

“You’re gonna be okay, Kiyoomi.” Yachi Hitoka says, patting his hand like he’s a scared child and she’s a supportive mother. “It’s you. You’ll be fine anywhere you go.” She’s obviously trying to sound comforting but she’s also crying and slurring all her words, so it’s not very effective. 

“I know.” Kiyoomi answers. “I know that, I’m just… I’m gonna miss all this chaos, I guess. I’m gonna miss you. All of you.” 

She smiles weakly. “We’re all gonna miss you too.” 

Their faces are so close that they can probably smell each other’s liquor breath. Kiyoomi even turns his hand over so that he’s squeezing hers, and she squeezes his right back. They’re both obviously drunk and everything about the situation they’re in screams Ideal Make Out Conditions … and you know what? They probably will, because that just sounds like something a legally divorced high school couple who stayed close friends would do when they’re drunk on tequila and one of them is about to move to the other side of the goddamn world. 

Fuck.

Atsumu grabs the half-empty bottle of Vodka next to Hinata’s head and walks away. Because he knows he shouldn’t be seeing this or hearing this and for some reason, he just really fucking doesn’t want to right now. Instead of unpacking those feelings and having a breakdown over it, he does the mature thing. 

He douses his emotions with 40% ABV. 

He’s not sure how long he’d been sitting by the pool in silence for but by the time he feels someone sit next to him, the bottle is long empty. Atsumu doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Kiyoomi. He’s been using the same stupid cologne and laundry detergent for years. Atsumu could sniff him out in a room. (And he has.) 

For a while, neither of them talk. What is there left to say to someone you don’t remember life without? What kind of goodbye do you say to someone who means what Kiyoomi does to him? They’ve already spent all these years talking, playing, fighting, crying, laughing, everything -ing. Anything that there is to say to each other, they’ve already said. Anything they haven’t said, they probably already know. And all the things in between, well — they’ve been left unsaid for a reason. 

“Are you okay?” Kiyoomi asks, after a lifetime.

“... Are you fucking stupid?” Atsumu responds, because it is fucking stupid. 

He snorts. “Hey, I’m just asking because you’ve been sitting all lonesome by the pool, broodily drinking hard liquor from the bottle for over an hour. It looks very depressing from afar. People are already passed out back there. You’re usually all busy playing drunk caretaker by now.” 

Atsumu turns to look at him, squinting and examining his face. “Tsk. You look like you’re fine. Why don’t you do it?”

“You haven’t talked to me all night.” 

“You were busy talking to Hitoka-chan.”

“So? That’s never stopped you before.”

“I just mean,” Atsumu sighs, “— that I got to be with you all the fuckin’ time. You haven’t seen some of these people in months. The point of this party was so they could say goodbye to you.”

Kiyoomi hums. “I guess it was alright… seeing everyone back together again. It’s been a while since the last time.”

He smirks. “Yeah, I saw you two had your little moment. Did you guys make out?”

Kiyoomi makes a face. “What? What the fuck. No. We’re not like that.”

“Okay. What are you like, then?”

“We’re just friends now, Atsumu. It’s been years. You know that.”

“Well, you two were sitting awfully close.”

“It’s just been a while.” He repeats, “And we were just saying goodbye.” 

Atsumu reflexively reaches for the bottle next to him, forgetting it’s empty. When he remembers, he huffs. “Yeah. It’s been a fuckin’ while and now you’re leaving us, so…”

“Are you still gonna be pissy about this? Come on, I thought we were past that stage.”   

Atsumu should be past this stage, is the thing. He’s had literal years to prepare himself for this moment. They knew it was going to happen, eventually. It’s only been a long waiting game all this time. A good chunk of Kiyoomi’s family has always lived in San Diego. His dad had always said that they were eventually going to settle down there, build a life there, that there’d be opportunities waiting for all of them. Kiyoomi’s been studying English since he was fifteen in preparation. And yet, Atsumu isn’t past this stage. He thinks he might be upset about this for the rest of his life. It’s hard to explain. The only thing that comes out of his mouth is;

“I hate you. You fuckin’ know how hard it’s gonna be for me to breathe without you.” 

Because that’s all it is, at the end of the day. It’s simple but it’s complicated. It’s simple in a sense that Miya Atsumu does not want to be without Sakusa Kiyoomi. It’s complicated in a sense that he does not want to, cannot, and will not explain why. 

He senses Kiyoomi moving closer, just slightly, until their arms and thighs are touching. Then, he says, “You’re so dramatic. You’re acting like I’m dying. Who the hell says you’ll be without me?”

You’re not dying, I am, Atsumu wants to say but doesn’t. He turns to glare at him, but their faces are so close that they can smell each other’s liquor breath and Kiyoomi seems to be looking straight into his soul with those wide concerned eyes, and suddenly there’s a fucking rock in his throat. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s tearing up until Kiyoomi reaches out, roughly wipes the bottom of his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and says, “God damn it, Atsumu. Don’t fucking cry.” Which is unfair, because Kiyoomi knows he’s a crybaby and telling him not to cry will just make him cry even more. 

He sniffs and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s drunk or sad or vulnerable right now, but he finds himself going, “... Hug me, then.”

Kiyoomi looks at him like he’s finally lost it. And maybe if they were any other pair of best friends, this reaction would be weird. But Atsumu gets it. Understandably, his best friend thinks he’s fucking broken because this isn’t really how their friendship works. They are not the type of friends who ask each other for hugs. They are not the type of friends who hug each other at all. In all honesty, most people are still confused whether they actually like each other or not despite the fact that they’re inseparable. 

Additionally, this breaks the Stupid Unspoken Bro Rule that they’ve always followed: When one is crying or sad about something, the other must silently sit next to him and pat him on the shoulder. Maybe a quick one-armed hug, if they’re feeling a little more risque. And that’s it. Otherwise, it starts to enter gay territory and they can’t have that.

But the thing is – he’s leaving. He’s fucking leaving and this fucking sucks and Atsumu says, “You hugged literally everyone else here. You’re fuckin’ flying to America tomorrow. Give me a goddamn hug.”

“Okay, you fucking freak. Come here, then. Before I change my mind.” 

It shouldn’t be a big deal for two teammates and best friends to hug each other, Atsumu tries to tell himself, and yet as Kiyoomi hesitates as he leans in, as he hovers awkwardly for a few painful seconds before eventually wrapping his arms around him, he realizes that it is. It is a big deal and it’s probably never going to happen again, so Atsumu buries his face in Kiyoomi’s shoulder, holds onto him, and cries. 

Neither of them say anything for a long time. They just stay there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the sounds of chaos from the party getting more and more distant, the tightness in Atsumu’s chest slowly unfurling in Kiyoomi’s embrace, sinking into the smell of his dumb cologne, his laundry detergent, and his sweat making the perfect mix of that comforting and familiar Sakusa Kiyoomi scent. 

Atsumu really, really, really doesn’t want to let him go. 

Kiyoomi stays quiet but Atsumu can feel the unsteadiness of his breathing and he realizes he’s crying too. That’s what makes Atsumu finally pull away because while he is a crybaby, Kiyoomi sure isn’t. This is the first time he’s seen him cry since the last game they ever played together, when Atsumu crouched down to do a set and he felt something in his leg go and— actually, he doesn’t wanna think about that.  

When they pull away, they don’t pull away completely as if neither of them can bear to do it. Their eyes meet. 

Christ, their foreheads are still touching, what is this? What’s happening? 

It’s like all of a sudden, they can’t stop looking at each other. All of a sudden, it’s impossible to see or hear anything else. All of a sudden, this feels like a very big deal. And all of a sudden, an old memory pops up in Atsumu’s head, one that he doesn’t even realize he still remembered. 

It plays almost like a blurry film reel: His first year of high school, a night in Suna Rintarou’s bed, a sleepover that Osamu couldn’t come to because he was sick, and one that Kiyoomi wasn’t invited to because they weren’t exactly friends yet. Teenage boy bed sheets, sitting in the dark, a movie playing on Suna’s laptop, the sound of their breathing, skin against skin, halfway confessions that they never talked about again. He’d pushed that memory so far down that for a split second, he has to ask himself if it ever really happened.

Kiyoomi whispers, “Atsumu?” 

But most of Atsumu’s systems are currently down and the only thing he can focus on are his lips. He doesn’t get to see Kiyoomi’s lips from this close very often, so his body moves before he can even begin to think. 

His hand shakes as he reaches up and gently runs the pad of his thumb over the slope of Kiyoomi’s nose, down to his philtrum, touching his upper lip, then the cracks and ridges of his bottom lip, tracing its shape and memorizing the feeling. Atsumu feels him release a hot quivery breath against the skin of his hand. He looks up and sees that Kiyoomi is staring at his lips too, his gaze heavy with an emotion that he can only read because he feels it too. 

In the moment, it truly felt like there was only one thing they could possibly do next. 

Atsumu doesn’t know which one of them leans in first. But the next thing he knows, his fingers are in Kiyoomi’s curls and Kiyoomi’s hands are pulling him closer and they’re kissing. They’re kissing like it’s something they’ve always wanted but always feared, something they were always meant to do but were always meant to be punished for, crashing into each other like it’s less of a kiss and more of a reckoning. 

A part of him wishes he wasn’t so plastered so that his face didn’t feel so numb, but the other part of him knows that if he wasn’t this drunk, this wouldn’t be happening at all. He feels a tongue push its way into his mouth and he moans softly, not sure whether this is supposed to be happening, not sure whether he wants for it to stop or to never end. Then, Kiyoomi moans into his mouth and he stops thinking at all.

“Omi,” Atsumu gasps, pulling away to breathe. “We–” 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up–” Kiyoomi whisper-chants like he’s out of his mind, pulling him back in, kissing him some more, harder and deeper, like he’s making the most out of it, like he wants to breathe him in entirely. 

We’re so drunk, Atsumu reasons with himself. We’re really fucking drunk and that’s the only reason we’re doing this.

His body, still moving on its own, starts to press even closer, like he’s about to get on Kiyoomi’s lap and push him down onto the floor, like he’s about to do a lot more than just kiss him, and he thinks he might actually do it… until they’re interrupted by a loud crashing noise from somewhere behind them.

They practically jump apart in search of where the sound came from, only to be met with a drunk and frozen Bokuto standing next to a shattered flower pot, a cracked iPad screen, and a puddle of vomit. There’s something almost artistic about it. 

Like, still life: Drunk Idiot Breaks Flower Pot, iPad, and The Moment. 

Atsumu turns to look at Kiyoomi to find him already staring back at him, because this is definitely something they should be laughing about. But once their gazes meet, the gravity of what they just did hits them and suddenly it’s not so funny anymore, and all they can think is that they hope to fucking God nobody saw it. 

“God fucking damn it, Bokuto-san! My mom’s gonna fucking kill me!” Motoya yells in despair over the sound of Osamu and Suna’s loud cackling. 

Kiyoomi shakily gets to his feet. “Uh. I should probably help take care of that.” 

Atsumu nods, looking away. “Yeah.”

They don’t talk or look at each other for the rest of the night and the crushing weight in Atsumu’s chest feels so familiar. Because it’s almost like they’re punishing each other for their desire – as if it’s something they can help. 

Man. Atsumu is starting to see a really depressing pattern when it comes to the people who kiss him. 

Most of them end up sleeping over and assume their usual positions. Motoya and Kiyoomi share the bed, Atsumu and Osamu share the extra mattress, while Suna crashes on the giant couch. 

The next morning, Kiyoomi starts doing this horrible performance of a man who actually got a wink of sleep, when it’s so painfully obvious that he barely even closed his eyes. In a sad attempt of making it more believable, he laughs as he says, “God. I was so drunk last night, I can’t remember a single thing past my sixth shot.” 

So, what the hell else was there for him to do? 

Atsumu can only snort, shake his head, and say, “Yeah. Same.” Because he doesn’t really have it in him to put on a performance as believable as his.  

“Is that so? Well, you two better pull your fucking selves together ‘cause we have to drive Kiyoomi home, get all his shit, and take him to the airport in a few hours.” Suna grumbles. “Oh and hey. Happy birthday, twins.”

“Shit, I forgot about that. Thanks.” Osamu says with his eyes still closed.

Oh yeah. It’s his goddamn birthday. It’s his birthday and he has to go drive his best friend to the airport, just so he can watch him leave.  

Atsumu stares up at the ceiling, as if he’s staring up at the sky, as if he’s staring straight into God’s eyes, and then he says, “Fuck you.”

Nobody knows who exactly he’s saying it to, but nobody says anything about it either. They probably all agree. 

They eventually pull themselves together and drive Kiyoomi home, they greet his parents, help them lug all their shit into the two vans, and then drive him to the airport. It’s uncharacteristically quiet all the way there. Atsumu spends the ride staring out the window and cursing the world.

When they arrive and finish rolling all the luggage towards the airport doors, he can only bring himself to stare at his shoes as Kiyoomi says his goodbyes to everyone one by one, while they all try not to cry. (They all fail.)

Atsumu bites his tongue as he listens to everyone’s last exchanges. 

“Have fun out there. Make sure to do everything you think I would do.” Suna says into their hug and Atsumu can almost see him winking, which Kiyoomi responds to with an, “Absolutely fucking not.”

“Good luck, Omi-kun. You’ll… probably be fine.” Osamu says and Kiyoomi snorts. “Well, that’s comforting.”

Hinata definitely says something nice but he’s also sobbing through it, so it kind of sounds something like, “Mginamishusomuuhuuuhuuuch”. Kiyoomi just pats his head and says, “I don’t know if I heard that right but me too, I think.” 

Bokuto gives him books to read on the plane, which is surprisingly sweet. The one on top reads, How To Date A White Woman. Sure. Why not. Kiyoomi immediately chokes on his spit, then hides it from view from his parents for obvious reasons. 

Kiyoomi and Motoya take a particularly long time saying goodbye to each other and Atsumu doesn’t dare look at the cousins, because he knows they’re crying and that’s gonna make him start crying, and he’s done enough of that. 

Then, the moment that he’s been dreading finally comes. He sees Kiyoomi’s shoes stop in front of him. Atsumu does not look up. He can’t . But Kiyoomi doesn’t ask him to, of course he doesn’t, because he knows him too well. Instead, he silently yanks him forward and pulls him into an embrace. It feels both too long and too short. Too much and too little. They pat each other’s backs roughly and then pull away. It’s not enough, but nothing could be. They look at each other, both of them refusing to cry like it’s a competition they have to win, and then Kiyoomi says only one thing.

“I’m sorry this is happening today.” He whispers.

Atsumu digs his nails into his palms so hard that he’s scared they might bleed. “I know.” 

“Bye.” Kiyoomi says, softly.

And with all the strength he can possibly muster, like it’s a language he can speak but refuses to understand, Atsumu says, “Bye, Omi.” 

They nod at each other with finality and when Kiyoomi turns away, it’s like it hurts him to do it. Until the very end, neither of them say anything else. What is there to say? 

Well. There are a couple things Atsumu can think of. But none of them make any sense. Not when this is goodbye. Not in front of everyone else. Not when all the words he has to say are words he can’t even admit to himself in his head. 

The next thing he knows, Kiyoomi and his parents are walking away and waving goodbye. They disappear behind a wall. His friends are crying but he can’t bring himself to anymore because nothing feels real. He feels like maybe he’s stuck in some nightmarish alternate universe and if he could just find the edge of some cliff to jump off of, he might wake up. 

The drive home is a blur. 

When he and Osamu step back into their shared apartment, their mother is there, waiting to surprise them, wearing a party hat and holding a birthday cake. A very rare display of motherly love that Atsumu can’t even bring himself to appreciate, because he wants to crawl out of his own skin to escape the searing pain in his chest. 

“Happy birthday, my boys!” She cheers. 

And then… Atsumu promptly bursts into tears. 

“Ah.. there it is.” Osamu says, like he’s just been waiting. 

Immediately, he feels his brother’s arms wrap around him like a safety blanket, followed by the warmth of their mother taking them both into her arms as she starts cooing reassurances, and it kind of feels like he’s back in that amniotic sac again which he guesses is fitting for a day that celebrates their birth. 

Safe to say, it was the second worst birthday of his life. (The first worst birthday is a long, depressing story for a later time.)

__

‘Hey, Omi. Do you remember all of our first times? 

I’m asking you this because, honestly, I don’t. Don’t fucking judge me, alright? You know I have shitty memory. My first words? Who the fuck knows. My first favorite show? I don’t even remember what shows were on when I was in high school. My first vacation? I don’t know, some beach at some place, probably. 

Like, I don’t remember when exactly I started having feelings for you. I don’t remember when I went from not liking you to liking you so much that you leaving the country felt like death. But, on that note – I do remember our first kiss. God, do you remember how that next morning, we both acted like we couldn’t remember any of it? 

But we did. Of course, we did. I think we both knew that. 

I don’t think I ever told you this part, though. Right before we kissed, when we were gazing romantically into each other’s eyes and I was staring at your lips like a man starved, a memory popped up in my head. You know about this memory but I’ve never told you the full story, so I guess you’ll just have to read it here. 

So, you know how this one time in high school, Sunarin and I jerked off together? I mentioned it once and you were like, ‘Oh my fucking god, that’s disgusting and I don’t wanna hear about it.’ And I was like, okay, that’s fair. 

Well… now you’re gonna have to hear about it and I’m sorry. It’s part of the story. 

Once upon a time, in our first year of high school, me and Suna Rintarou – my then best friend and my now brother-in-law, masturbated together. That makes me sound like a fucking horrible person but in my defense, Samu and Rin weren’t together yet when this happened. Actually, I don’t think Samu even knew he had feelings for him yet, at this point. But let me preface this story by saying, neither did I. That is not why this happened. It happened for only two reasons:

Reason # 1: Momentary puberty induced psychosis, probably.

Reason #2: Hot mexicans.

Let me explain: We were a trio back then, as you know. The Trio. Me, Samu, and Rin. We used to have sleepovers together almost every Friday, right after volleyball practice. But that day, Osamu was sick with the flu and I didn’t wanna go home to listen to all his coughing and sneezing, so I slept over anyway. 

I remember asking, ‘What should we do tonight?’ And Rin was all, ‘Wanna watch a movie?’ So, we ended up choosing this random Mexican film that looked cool. It was called Y Tu Mama Tambien. The description said it was a road trip movie with two best friends and a sexy older Spanish woman. So, we thought, ‘Cool.’ And it was cool. But then, there was a lot of sex– and I mean, a lot of sex. And as a fun bonus, full frontal nudity. At first, it was funny and we could joke about it and we were laughing our asses off, as two teenage boys would. 

But you know that horrifying feeling when something stops being funny and starts being really hot? That happened. 

Like, there was this scene where the two best friends jerk off together by the pool and it made Rin start squirming. Then, there were scenes of each of them having sex with the woman, and now we were both squirming. Then, there was that scene where they have a drunken threesome and the two hot best friends make out. Fuck, how could we possibly fight that? At this point, we’re both uncomfortably hard and we can see that we’re both hard, because there’s no way to hide it when we were in nothing but boxers. 

Rin was the one to bring it up because that’s Rin, alright, with a “Listen… I’ll take care of mine, if you take care of yours.” I went, “Are you serious? In front of each other?” And he went, “It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just doing what we do alone but next to someone else.” 

And, shit, I don’t know. At the time, it made sense to me. We were also fifteen and really horny every single day, so that was probably a factor in our decision making. So I said, “Fuck it.” and reached into my shorts. He laughed and whipped his dick out. And suddenly, we were jerking off together. 

In my defense, I didn’t even look at him. I kept my eyes closed for most of it and I’m pretty sure he did the same. I kind of forgot he was even there, eventually. All I could hear were the sounds of the movie, his heavy breathing mixing with mine, the sound of our palms against the skin of our cocks. It was hot, I can admit that much. Because with my eyes closed, I could pretend that it wasn’t him, that it was someone else next to me, that someone else was watching me and touching himself to the view of me making myself feel good, that it was someone else’s hand stroking me, that it was someone–

I came first with a groan and he followed just a few seconds later. Silently, he handed me some tissues and we cleaned ourselves up. 

After being a little too quiet for a little too long, probably to save us from getting awkward and ruining our friendship forever, Rin ended up breaking the silence with the most terrifying question he could have possibly asked in that moment. 

“Atsumu. Can I confess something?”

In a state of sheer panic, I go, “Sunarin, I swear to God, if you’re about to say you have feelings for me–” 

“Atsumu. That is the single grossest thing you’ve ever said to me and that’s saying a lot, because you’ve said a lot of gross things.” 

I was very relieved but also suddenly offended. “Then, what is it? What could you possibly want to confess to me right now?” 

“I just wanted to admit that I was pretending you were someone else… while we were doing it.”

And I was like, “Okay? What the fuck? So was I, obviously.” 

Then, being the gossip that he is, he sat up and asked, “What? Who?” 

Well, obviously I wasn’t going to answer that, so I went, “I’ll only tell if you do.” because I didn’t think he was going to. You know, like a sane person. But guess what he fucking says to me? 

He says, verbatim, “Well… it was really easy for me to imagine, since you look almost exactly like him.” 

And Omi, that is the story of how Suna Rintarou technically came out to me. And let me tell you, I did not think it was possible for my dick and balls to shrivel up in that way and at that speed. 

“You absolute fuckface. You piece of shit. You were imagining I was Samu?!” 

“Yeah… but don’t tell him, alright? That’ll make things fuckin’ weird.” He said, as if he didn’t just tell me the worst thing that anyone has ever said to me in my life. “So… who were you imagining?” 

As you can imagine, I never ended up answering him because I was too busy smothering him with a pillow. 

(Besides, I’m pretty sure he kind of already knew and just wanted to hear me say it out loud. I was not going to.)

The next day, I came home with boxes of hair dye. Osamu asked, “What the hell is this for?” 

I said, “For my fucking sanity. Sit on the toilet, we’re doing you first.” And that was that.

Now, you might be wondering why I’m telling you this story and if the point was just to let you know why we started bleaching our hair. It is a fun fact to know but that’s not the point of this story. The point of this story is that I want to finally admit out loud who I was imagining back then. 

Obviously, it was you. I pictured you, Omi. I was pretending it was you next to me. It was the image of you, making yourself feel good beside me, watching me touch myself, that made me come. It was the first time I realized that what I felt for you was dangerous, the first time I realized what I felt for you was real, and the first time I told myself that the only thing I was allowed to do to keep us safe was forget about it. 

Many things changed after that night, I think. But people only noticed the hair. I was really fucking glad about that. 

To keep up the act, I dated a few girls who I actually kind of liked, so that made it easier to push it down. Then, you met Yachi Hitoka. And, you know everything that happened after that. 

Hey, Omi. I’ve been wondering a lot these days, you know? 

Do you sometimes look back and think that maybe we were just cowards? Cowards who were too ashamed to love each other? Cowards who were too ashamed to say anything truthful out loud? Cowards who chose the easy way out and just decided that not loving each other would be easier than being ourselves? Cowards who decided that it would be easier to punish each other for our desire, as if it was something we could help? 

Maybe.

If that were true, we were wrong. In truth, it wasn’t easier then and it certainly never got any fucking easier. 

Have I bored you yet or are you still reading? I have a question. 

Do you know what else we could’ve done back then, that wouldn’t have made us feel like everything we cared about was gonna go up in flames? Did it ever get any easier for you all those years, all on your own out there, in some other country so far away from me? I just want to know, now that things actually are easier. 

But also, just in case you forgot: Fuck you.

(And by the way, we’re never talking about this again. Samu’ll fucking kill me.)’

- Miya Atsumu, To You (Chapter 2) 

__

The Beginning of The End: Almost One Year After Sakusa Kiyoomi’s Flight To San Diego

Atsumu

are you up?

Hitoka

What… not a “u up?” text? 😭

Atsumu

shut the fuck up, i’m serious. can i see you? and no, not in a kinky way. ur gross

Hitoka

Oh, gotcha. I’ll meet you there. The usual place?

Atsumu

yeah. thanks, hitoka

Hitoka

Pshh. Don’t you know by now? 😉

Atsumu only found out about two months after he left, once he’d stopped bedrotting and ‘being overly fucking dramatic’ (Osamu’s words), the last favor Kiyoomi ever asked of Yachi Hitoka. 

It wasn’t ‘Don’t forget me’, it wasn’t ‘I still love you even after all these years, please wait for me’, nor was it ‘Hey, last one for the road. Let’s make out.’ He was pretty sure about that one too – but no. 

Apparently, it was ‘Please look after Atsumu for me.’ Which is so fucking ridiculous and so goddamn stupid. Why the hell would he say that? Why the hell would that be the last thing he asks of his ex-girlfriend? What is wrong with him? 

Atsumu angrily rolls down the window of his car and takes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the glove compartment, because Kiyoomi isn’t around to tell him not to anymore and he’s the one who keeps giving him reasons to smoke anyway, so what the hell can he do about it? ‘Please look after Atsumu for me.’ He scoffs inwardly.  

Do it yourself, you coward.  

Not to say that Atsumu and Hitoka weren’t already good friends who looked out for each other. The camaraderie has been there since high school and despite her eventual teenage divorce with his best friend, it never left. Kiyoomi cares about them both, so they both care about each other. Simple as that. Kiyoomi tends to have that effect on the people he loves. Plus, they share a lot of the same female celebrity crushes and have spent a lot of their time gushing about them while binge watching their movies. She’s especially obsessed with that lead actress from the Twilight movies? Atsumu isn’t sure what that’s all about but he figures it’s none of his business. 

He’s just glad they’ve gotten closer in a way that they never were before. He’s glad that she laughs at all the same things Kiyoomi laughs at. He’s glad that there’s someone close he can trust with all the things he usually doesn’t like saying out loud, because now that Kiyoomi isn’t around he doesn’t have anyone to–

He doesn’t wanna think about that, actually. Fuck that, still. Fuck all of that. He leans down and presses his forehead against his steering wheel, breathes, and waits in his car. Eventually, the door to the passenger seat opens and closes. He knows who it is. She uses the same laundry detergent as him. 

“This parking lot smells like crap.” She says. 

“Yeah, I know.” He snorts, “The inside of the building smells worse.”

“I know. Why in the world did you two always come here?”

“It’s our spot.” Atsumu shrugs, putting his cigarette out. “It’s just always been.” 

Hitoka smiles sweetly. “No wonder you two always smelled like crap.”

“Oh, fuck you.” He laughs. 

The first time he took her here a couple of months ago, he was supposed to take her up to the rooftop. But for some reason, it felt like a form of betrayal and his soul rejected it. So instead, they stayed in his car and sat in the shitty parking lot where they talked for three hours. They’ve been doing it semi-regularly since then to keep themselves from going crazy. Atsumu figures he made the right choice. This way, the roof can stay The Spot and the parking lot can just be The Other Spot. No confusion. 

Hitoka turns to look at him and raises an eyebrow, suspiciously. “What’d you call me here for this time?”

“Can’t I just wanna see you?”

“Do you?”

Atsumu leans back. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t fuckin’ sleep. I kept thinking about shit that I’m trying to stop thinking about. So, I texted you.”

“Hm. What were you thinking about?”

“Irrelevant. You’re supposed to help me not think about it.”

“So, what, I’m just here as a distraction?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“From what?”

Oh, you know. From the fact that it’s almost been a year and Kiyoomi’s still not here. From the fact that it feels like everything’s gone downhill for everyone just because he’s not fucking here. From the fact that all he can seem to do these days is drink and smoke and lose sleep. From the fact that Atsumu still misses him everyday and it’s starting to feel pathetic. From the fact that it’s his dad’s death anniversary and Kiyoomi isn’t here to sit with him, like he usually is, like he always has been. From the fact that he was on Facetime with him this morning and it’s almost been a whole fucking year, and yet seeing his face didn’t feel comforting. It just felt weird. 

Things are still fucking weird.  

And he knows what they have to do to make it not weird, they both do, but they can’t talk about it because if they do, then they’ll have to talk about how they feel, what to do about it, and what it all means for them. Kiyoomi wouldn’t do that because he’s a Christian and Atsumu wouldn’t do that because he’s Atsumu. So, what are his options here? Should he just die?

Miya Atsumu, b. 1995 - d. 2017 

IN LOVING MEMORY: We lost him because he’s a fucking coward who choked on his own feelings. He drunkenly made out with his best friend as some fucked up form of goodbye and they never talked about it, so he eventually exploded like a piñata. Served him fucking right. 

“Atsumu?”

He blinks himself out of his daze. “Huh?”

He feels Hitoka’s hand squeeze his shoulder. He turns to stare at it. Her hand is so small but it feels so big. These days, anytime anyone touches him, it feels too big. “What’s wrong? Seriously?”

For some reason, he feels like he can tell her. “It’s my dad’s death anniversary today.” 

“… Oh.”

Atsumu takes one good look at her face and tries very hard not to laugh. He loves seeing people’s expressions when he says that. 

“Sorry for just laying that on you,” He sighs, “I was with mom and Samu the whole day and… I dunno. Samu always has Rin to run to and I’ve gotten so used to capping this shitty day off with Omi, y’know? So, now I feel…” 

“Like crap?” Hitoka continues for him when he drifts off.

He chuckles. “I was gonna say lonely, but yeah. Something like that.”

Hitoka bites her bottom lip and Atsumu stares at her and thinks, ‘Kiyoomi’s kissed those lips a lot’ and once the thought is there, he can’t get rid of it. So, he keeps staring at her lips while she keeps staring at his dashboard. 

Then, in a strange turn of events, she turns to him like she’s decided on something important which freaks him out, then she grabs him by the wrist in the kind of way that you can’t help but follow blindly which freaks him out even more, and then she pulls him… into the World’s Most Awkward Embrace.

He’s so taken aback that the first thing Atsumu finds himself saying is, “Huh?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Just let it happen.” She whispers into his shoulder, as she stiffly pats his back. 

He suddenly recalls Kiyoomi’s last words to her, ‘Please look after Atsumu for me’ and that makes him laugh and return the hug, gently circling his arms around her waist. After a few long seconds, it starts to feel a lot nicer than he thought it would. She’s a good hugger, she smells painfully familiar, and it’s not often that he receives a hug from a woman aside from his mom. He finds himself feeling grateful for the warmth. 

He inhales, exhales, and closes his eyes because he’s learned from experience that if he closes his eyes, it’s a little easier to pretend that it’s someone else.

“Look,” Hitoka says, her breath ghosting past the skin of his neck. He tries not to shiver at the feeling, “You already know I’m not very good at knowing all the right things to say. But I am good at being here. So… that’s all I want you to know. I’m here. Okay?”

Atsumu doesn’t know how she could possibly say that she’s bad at saying the right thing, when she just casually said the very words he didn’t even know he'd been needing to hear. He doesn’t understand how words that have never been said to him before can feel so goddamn familiar. But they do. 

It’s the familiarity of it that makes him pull away, it’s what makes him search her face for some sort of answer to the tight feeling in his chest, it’s what makes him push her blonde hair behind her ear and say, “Hey. Hitoka-chan?”

“What?” She asks after a long pause, sounding terrified.

“Can I try something?”

She looks at him like she already knows what he’s asking for. “… Are you sure about this?”

He really fucking isn’t. “Push me away if you hate it.”

When he leans in and closes his eyes, the last thought in his head is, ‘Kiyoomi kissed these lips a lot’ and when their mouths meet, for a split second, he thinks he tastes the same thing he did that night a year ago, by the pool, the night before his 21st birthday. 

She’s the one who pulls away first, but their foreheads and the tips of their noses stay pressed together. 

She asks, “So… what’s the verdict?”

He licks his lips. “I don’t know.” He says, honestly. 

“Yeah, neither do I.” She sighs, leaning away and collapsing back onto her seat tiredly, “Hey, Atsumu?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I just say that I don’t think you should be kissing your best friend’s ex-girlfriend on your dad’s death anniversary?” 

Atsumu bites the insides of his cheeks. “That’s good advice.” 

With that, she chuckles and reaches out to squeeze his hand. It makes him feel like things are gonna be okay for a second. She’s good at doing that — like he was. 

“Come on. Play some David Bowie and drive me home.” 

“Okay. I can do that.” 

So, they sing along to every song they know as Atsumu drives her home. They fist bump goodbye, as if it’s just like any other night they’ve shared before, and as if nothing of significance had just happened. 

But that night changed a lot of things — for the better and for the worse. 

1 Week Later, A Facetime Call Between Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi

“You should tell them to pay you more if they’re gonna work you this hard.” is all Atsumu can really say after listening to Kiyoomi’s twenty minute long rampage about his shitty boss at his shit paying job at this shitty Asian cuisine restaurant. “Are your co-workers cool, at least?”

“Meh. They’re alright.” He shrugs, “There’s this guy named Mark Lee. He’s Canadian. I kind of like him ‘cause he carries around hand lotion and vitamin jellies. I don’t think cool is the right word to describe him, though.”

“Of course you like the guy who carries around hand lotion and vitamin jellies.” He snorts, “Who else?”

Kiyoomi hums, his head bobbing up and down seemingly from the sheer exhaustion of trying to stay upright. “There’s this girl from the boba place next to us who talks to me sometimes. She asked for my number a few days ago. She’s… pretty . She likes David Bowie.” 

Atsumu doesn’t really wanna hear anything about that. So he says, “Hm. You look tired.”

“I am tired.” He grunts in response, “Have you not been listening to a single thing I’ve been telling you?” 

“Go to bed.”

“I’m tired. I’m not sleepy.”

“How is that any different?”

“It just is.”

Atsumu smiles and it’s softer than a smile has any business being, so he stops it immediately. “Your eyes are closing, Omi-Omi. We’ve been on the phone for an hour. Go to fuckin’ bed.” 

Kiyoomi blinks sleepily and slowly, his eyes start to close against his will. “Gaaah. Screw you.” He threatens through a yawn, so it’s not very threatening and is instead just kind of adorable. 

“Mhm. Sure.” Atsumu hums, sinking into his pillow to hide his grin. A few minutes pass where he just keeps watching the screen, until Kiyoomi’s breathing starts to even out. 

Fuck . He just fell asleep on a call. Atsumu misses him so goddamn much. Now more than ever, he wishes he was here. He wishes he could reach out and brush those stupid curls off his forehead. He wishes he could feel his skin again. He wishes he could kiss–

No, you don’t. Stop. Fucking stop that. Enough. You can’t. 

Atsumu only allows himself to stare at his sleeping face for two more minutes, before hanging up and immediately calling Osamu in a desperate frenzy. 

His brother picks up after two rings. “It’s too early to hear your stupid voice. I’m in the middle of work. What is it, scrub?”

“Hey, Samu. Quick question. Do you think I should just date Hitoka-chan?”

A long, weighted silence follows. And then, “No, I really fuckin’ don’t.” 

“Yeah. Right? Neither do I.” He says, “… Is it because she’s Omi’s ex?”

“Is that a joke? They dated for half a year, like, five years ago. That’s besides the goddamn point and you know it.” 

“I dunno, I’ve just always had this weird feeling that they stayed so close ‘cause their feelings for each other never went away, y’know?” He says, “But you’re right. Yeah, Omi probably won’t give a shit. Right?” 

Osamu hits him with another meaningful pause. And then, “For fuck’s sake, Tsumu. You’re actually gonna do it, aren’t you?”

“Yup, I think so.” Atsumu admits. 

“Why the fuck would you do something so idiotic? It’s idiotic even for you.” 

Okay, well, now he’s just being mean for no reason. “I don’t know, asshole. Probably because I really like her? Probably because I want to date her? Is that so wrong of me? Is that so idiotic? ” 

Osamu scoffs on the other line. “No, you fuckin’ don’t. You’re just sad and lonely and she happens to be there a lot. You always confuse that feeling for liking someone ‘cause you have problems.” 

Atsumu wishes he could roundhouse kick someone over the phone. “Don’t you fuckin’ therapize me.”

“Well, somebody has to.” He sasses, “God knows you need it. You and your truckload of daddy issues.” 

“We have the same dad, you fuckin’ idiot!”

Osamu sighs like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, then says, “I dunno what to tell you. I could tell you not to do it a million times over, but we all know you’re always gonna do whatever the hell you want, in the end.” 

Atsumu falls backwards into his bed and taps his chest with his fingers anxiously. “Look. Hitoka-chan’s great, y’know? I mean, I really get why Omi-kun liked her enough to keep her in his life and everything. I think… she’d be good for me.” 

“Christ, Tsumu. I know she's great.” Osamu says and for some reason, he sounds really fucking sad about it. “That’s not what I’m worried about and you know it.”

Neither of them say anything more because between them, they can always hear the unsaid as if it was said. Besides, what the hell is there to say to that? Osamu was right.

A month later, Atsumu does what he wants and asks Hitoka to date him. For some reason that he knows isn’t because she has feelings for him, she says yes. 

And for some other reason that they both know isn’t because they’re in love with each other, they stay together for almost three years. 

For those three years, Kiyoomi doesn’t talk to him.

__

‘Hey, Omi. You wanna hear something really fucked up about my life? 

When Samu and I were in elementary school, the kids gave us the nickname Black and Blue. It’s because for a couple of months, we always showed up to class covered in bruises. Eventually, a teacher intervened and our mom had to come to school and put on a hell of a performance so they wouldn’t call social services. It was kind of funny. At a young age, we learned how to use concealer and developed a preference for any piece of clothing with sleeves that completely covered our arms. 

Needless to say, my dad was kind of an asshole, most of the time. I mean, both our dads were but in different ways. Yours was an asshole in a religious nutjob kind of way and mine was an asshole in a violent alcoholic kind of way. You know how it goes. 

But I will give him credit for this one thing he told me, back when he and mom were going through the divorce, and Samu and I were giving them grief for it. He said, ‘Sometimes, people really love each other, but just aren’t in love with each other. Remember that.’ So, I fucking remembered. I never did forget those words. Now, in hindsight, he was drunk off his ass when he said it and he was full of shit more often than not. But it was the first thing I thought of when Hitoka and I did what we did. 

Even now, knowing everything there is to know, knowing everything that happened after, I can’t say I regret it. You get what I mean by that, Omi, don’t you? I know you don’t regret her either. We both loved her, in our own way. I don’t think I’d still be here without her. I don’t even think we’d be together now, if it wasn’t for her. Our relationship wasn’t right but it was real. It’s because we loved each other that we lasted three years, yet it’s because we loved each other that we knew it had to end. I don’t care what anyone has to say about us. Even you. There was love there and there was a lot of it. It’s just that there were many other things too. Things that we didn’t want to talk about. Things we were trying to escape from. Things we thought we’d be able to hide, as long as we stayed together. 

We were young and when you’re young, you think the only way to be accepted and loved is to be anyone but yourself. So, that’s what we did. You understand. 

I know I’ve apologized to you a thousand times before and when you read this, you’re gonna be all, ‘I really don’t give a shit about any of this anymore, Atsumu’ but I’ll apologize again, anyway. I’m sorry that you didn’t hear about it from me. I’m sorry that I was a fucking coward and that she had to be the one to tell you. I’m sorry that she was brave enough to face you and ask you how you felt about it while I just took your silence to mean that you didn’t care. I’m sorry I fucked up our friendship. I’m sorry I fucked up your friendship with her too, for a while there. I’m sorry that it lasted three goddamn years. 

But the thing is, Omi, I think we were doing the exact same thing. Me, dating her. Her, dating me. You, saying fuck all about it. We were running. We were running because we thought the only way to be accepted and loved was by being anyone but ourselves, so the closer we got to becoming who we were, the harder and faster we tried to run. 

As it turned out, your silence didn’t mean that you didn’t care because you sure cared enough to stay caught up on our lives through asking Motoya and Rin all the goddamn time. Your silence just meant that you were being a coward – like me.

But, hey, do you remember?

We did try to talk. Kind of. An awkward phone call that was cut short because I was too drunk and you said you had to get to work, a couple meaningless and scattered messages that you rarely replied to, that slowly dwindled down to nothing when you made it pretty clear that you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. So, I just stopped trying. I accepted it faster than I should’ve. I thought I’d be able to retain my dignity if I could act like losing you didn’t feel like losing myself. 

The only excuse I can give you is that back then, I figured that you were always meant for things better and greater than me. That’s one of the many, many reasons why it was so hard to tell you how I felt. People always say that we’re only the product of our parents and I figured if that were true, I couldn’t do that to you.  I couldn’t fucking tie you down to me and my mess of a life, when yours was hard enough. I was scared that doing that would make it worse, then you’d hate me for it, and that would make me want to die. 

But I guess I wanted to die, anyway. So what difference did it make? 

Eventually, Motoya told me you actually started dating that girl who worked at the boba place. You even posted a picture with her on your Instagram which meant you were serious. I got so fucking drunk that I called Osamu from the bathroom floor of a shitty bar with my head in the toilet. He picked up but couldn't say a damn thing while I repeatedly asked him a bunch of questions that he didn’t have any answers to like, “Why did he have to go away? Why do I still feel like this? What’s wrong with me, Samu? Why am I still here?” 

Here, meaning with my head in the toilet crying over you. Here, meaning missing you so much that it felt like drowning. Here, meaning pushing away all the people who I just wanted to hold close. Here, meaning dating a girl I couldn’t even bring myself to have sex with. Here, meaning in the closet. Here, meaning choosing not to love. Here, meaning not being able to tell anyone anything true. Here, meaning fucking miserable. 

You know, for a while, I was a little grateful that we weren’t on speaking terms. Because I couldn’t think of a single thing I could say to you that wasn’t either dishonest, humiliating, or meaningless. So we just didn’t talk, while you kept dating that girl and I kept dating Hitoka, because that’s all we knew how to do back then. We loved each other and because we didn’t think we were allowed to, we’d pretend to love someone else until it only kind of worked. And guess what that did for us, Omi?

Absolutely fucking nothing. 

I don’t think I’ve said it in a while, so I guess I should remind you: Fuck you.

But for the record, with all of my heart and soul, fuck me too.’

- Miya Atsumu, To You (Chapter 3)

__

The Most Casual Breakup In The World, Four Years After Sakusa Kiyoomi’s Flight To San Diego

The day Miya Atsumu and Yachi Hitoka break up just shy of their three year anniversary, they talk for two hours, cry a little bit, and hug for a very long time. 

Once that’s over and done with, Atsumu goes ‘I’m kinda hungry now. You wanna order something?’ and Hitoka goes, ‘Hm. I guess I could eat?” so they order Yoshinoya and then call Suna Rintarou and Miya Osamu for back-up. 

When the doorbell to Atsumu’s apartment rings and he opens the door, the first words out of his brother’s mouth are, “Oh dear god. What the hell are you crying about now? Did Hitoka-chan finally break up with you or something?”

He cannot fucking believe he finally got his karma almost a decade later. Oh, Sakusa Kiyoomi. You would’ve loved this. “Yeah, actually. Hitoka-chan and I just broke up. Literally. Just now.”

Osamu and Suna stand there, mouths agape. 

“Shit, are you okay? What happened?” Suna asks once he recovers from the emotional whiplash, making his way into the living room and pulling his flabbergasted boyfriend behind him. Atsumu would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so nervous about what’s coming next.  

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He sniffs, “She’s in the bathroom. We ordered some food and it’ll be here in ten minutes. I called you here to help us eat.”

It’s almost scenic, the way Hitoka chooses that very moment to flush the toilet and open the bathroom door. She sees the two new additions to the living room, waves like nothing important had just happened and goes, “Oh, you guys are here. We ordered Yoshinoya for our post-breakup celebration.”

The two pause all movement, their eyes going from Hitoka to Atsumu, then back to Hitoka and then back to Atsumu again, like they’re assessing the situation. 

“Okay. What the fuck is happening right now.” Osamu says, like it’s not a question but a statement.

“Is this a prank?” Suna blinks rapidly. 

Hitoka purses her lips. “It’s really not that big of a deal. I’ll tell you guys everything when the food gets here.”

The food gets there and once they’re all settled on the couch with their chopsticks and beef bowls, while Atsumu’s pouring water into his cup, Suna’s violently mixing his rice, and Osamu’s blowing on a piece of beef, Hitoka clears her throat and goes, “So… as it turns out, I’m a lesbian.” 

Atsumu flinches and water spills onto the table, Suna nearly drops his chopsticks and egg yolk particles go flying, and Osamu nearly dies via Yoshinoya beef bowl. 

“Now, why the hell would you tell them like that?” Atsumu exclaims, patting his brother on the back in an attempt to save his life. “Why can no one in this friend group just come out normally?”

She shrugs, looking wronged. “What? How was I supposed to tell them?”

“Not when I had food in my mouth would’ve been a great place to start.” Osamu coughs. There are actual tears in his eyes now. 

“Maybe this is your karma.” Atsumu says, “When you and Rin came out to everyone in a goddamn karaoke room, a noodle shot out my fucking nose.” 

“Oh, no, we did that on purpose.” Suna retorts before turning his attention back to Hitoka, who’s now casually devouring her food as if she didn’t just drop a bomb on them, “And hey, thanks for telling us, Hitoka-chan.” He says, uncharacteristically sincere.

“Ditto.” Osamu adds.

They react as casually as she said it, which is exactly what they know she wanted. She gives them a thumbs up through a spoonful of rice. 

“Thank you, guys. I mean, I’ve known for a little while now. I think most of you have always kind of known too, on some level. Atsumu and I have just been talking about it and… well, I guess we just want to be more honest with ourselves from now on. Life’s too short to do otherwise. Right?” She turns to him with a warm smile, nudging him. 

For a moment, Atsumu feels like he’s going to miss her a lot even when he knows she’s not really going anywhere. 

“Right.” He says, taking a deep calming breath.

This decision actually all started on that one night six months ago, the first time in over a year that everyone was present at a gathering. It had been a month since Osamu moved out of their shared apartment and moved in with Suna, when they made Hinata pause his karaoke song to say, “We just want everyone here to know… that we’ve been dating for about a year. Also, we’re gay.” 

The tiny squeak noise Hinata made in response to that announcement echoed through the mic he was still holding to his mouth, Motoya froze like a statue mid-drink, Hitoka went “... Oh?”, Atsumu coughed and a noodle shot out of his nose, and Bokuto started clapping. 

They all did their best to act casual about it to respect how casually they’d said it, but Atsumu had gone home that night and spent three hours staring at his ceiling. Not because he didn’t already know because, of course, he knew. Hell, he probably knew before they knew. And not because he didn’t expect it because he isn’t blind – but because they actually did something about it. 

They actually fucking did something about it and said it out loud. His brother and his best friend not only casually came out as gay to everyone they cared about, but they’re dating and living together and they’re doing good at it . The world didn’t fucking end. 

He picked up his phone and texted Osamu.

Tsumu

how the hell did you guys do it

 Samu

we just did?

Tsumu

that’s annoyingly unhelpful but ok

i’m only gonna say this once so treasure it

i’m proud of you okay?

and stupid happy for you. i still think rin could do better than u but whatever

i’ll still kill him if he fucks up

i love u no matter what

 Samu

screenshotted

that was disgusting but thanks

your turn. whenever you’re ready

Tsumu

what the hell do you mean by that

 Samu

you know what i mean. 

i just showed you that the world won’t end

you’re fine

i love you

Tsumu

screenshotted

Atsumu probably spent about ten minutes crying into his pillow over the overwhelming love he felt for his brother, which was really gross. Then the next morning, he talked to Hitoka because Osamu was right. He did know. And Hitoka knew too. 

And now, after months of getting their shit together and gathering all the courage they have in their bodies, here they are.

“I think I might be gay too.” He announces, eyes trained on the table instead of everyone else’s faces. “Which is also part of why… we broke up.”

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking a little bit until Hitoka reaches out to steady his hands. He looks up at her and her eyes shine with unshed tears filled with pride and warmth, and it almost gets him going too.

“Well,” Osamu grunts as he goes back to his food and Atsumu can tell he’s trying not to get emotional, “You’re a pain in my ass either way, so it doesn’t really matter to me– wait, why the fuck aren’t you reacting to this more?” He asks, turning to Suna.

Suna turns to look at Atsumu, who only stares back at him as blurry images of Y Tu Mama Tambien flash before their eyes, and they silently communicate something along the lines of ‘do not fucking say anything’ , before he turns back to his boyfriend and simply says, “Gaydar.”

Osamu squints his eyes at them. “Hm.”

Atsumu fights the urge to say, ‘Actually, I think you both figured it out the same way: Sakusa Kiyoomi.’ But, of course, he doesn’t say that. He’s not insane. 

“I said I think I am, though.” He clarifies, “I don’t know. I could be bi? I still have some shit to figure out, I guess.”

Suna hums. “We can help you with that. Want us to take you to a gay bar tonight?”

Atsumu blinks. “... What?”

Miya Atsumu’s First Gay Bar Bonanza Extravaganza, Four Years After Kiyoomi’s Flight to San Diego

In the midst of the flashing lights, booming pop music, and muscular men in thongs, Atsumu has a flashback to one of the first conversations (barely) he ever had with Kiyoomi before they were friends. Because it was about strip clubs.

Atsumu was talking to Suna in the locker room after practice and had said something like, ‘You know, one of my parents’ worst fights ever was when my mom found out that my dad went to a strip club with his friends. Apparently, he didn’t do anything and just sat there and drank but my mom went fuckin’ ballistic. Thoughts?’ 

Suna hummed and said, ‘I don’t know about anything else but I do know I don’t trust your dad’s word.’ 

And Atsumu was like, ‘Who the fuck does? But that’s besides the point. What do you think?’ 

It was at that moment that the nosy, eavesdropping Sakusa Kiyoomi decided to add in his two cents and go, ‘I wouldn’t like it if my partner went to the strip club without me knowing, regardless of what they were doing. If you just wanted to have a drink, go to a regular bar. Why go to the strip club? That’s gross.’ 

So, Atsumu turned to him all, ‘When the hell did you get here? I wasn’t even talking to you.’ 

And he was all, ‘I’ve been sitting here the whole fucking time and you don’t have an indoor voice, Miya.’ 

And that was that because Suna yanked him away before he could give him a piece of his mind, which was probably smart because Atsumu was particularly cranky that afternoon. They’d just played a 2 vs. 2 and Kiyoomi’s team won by two measly points. It used to drive him fucking insane how every defeat and every victory they had against each other was always just by the skin of their teeth. 

A decade later, Atsumu still hates to admit it and would never say the words out loud, but maybe… Kiyoomi was right. 

Strip clubs are a little gross. 

“Wow, thank you! You’re amazing!” Hitoka says sincerely to the dancer in front of her, clapping her hands,  “Osamu-kun, do you have any spare bills?” 

Although he has to say, there is something deeply hilarious about Yachi Hitoka receiving a Magic Mike-esque performance on the same day she went through a breakup and came out as a lesbian to her friends. 

“Atsumu.” Suna says, leaning into him.

“What?”

“There’s a guy who’s had his eye on you for the past ten minutes.” 

“What? That’s terrifying. We should go.”

“No, you idiot, this is the point.” He says, shoving him lightly, “I know him. He was fuck buddies with a friend of mine. He’s cool… and really hot. You should go talk to him.”

“He’s what? I’m gonna tell Samu you said that.”

“Osamu thinks he’s hot too.”

Atsumu turns to look toward the direction Suna’s been staring at and sees him. The man is tall with slightly long, jet-black hair. He’s wearing a tight fitting shirt and loose jeans, leaning against the table and holding a beer, sort of just hanging back and pretending to listen to his friends. Everyone in his table seems to gravitate towards him, even in his silence. 

Kiyoomi’s always been like that too. All he ever has to do is exist and suddenly none of them can help the way they lean into his ray of light like they’re all fucking sunflowers. 

“Shit, he is.” 

Suna smirks like he knows something Atsumu doesn’t. He hates it when he does that. “You don’t have to do anything intense, y’know? Just talk to some guys, drink, dance a bit, let loose, enjoy being around new people, and see how you feel about it.”

“Whatever. I didn’t even wanna come tonight.”

“Atsumu, your hair is styled, you’re wearing your leather jacket, and your jeans are so skinny they could be leggings.”

“... So?”

“You put eyeliner on.” 

“Is it a crime to want to look pretty?” Atsumu huffs, “It’s not like I’m doing this for anyone. I don’t even think I’m gonna meet anyone I like.”

“Okay? That’s fine.” 

“I don’t even know what my type is.”

He gives him a look that says he doesn’t believe him but says, “That doesn’t matter. You have a shit ton of time to figure that out.”

“This is fuckin’ scary.” He complains, “What if… I don’t know, what if I do end up doing something with someone and shit just gets weird?”

“Atsumu.” Suna says, sounding serious, “Will you relax? These people aren’t Kiyoomi.”

Atsumu turns to him so fast it gives him whiplash. “... What?”

Suna’s gaze lands somewhere behind his head. “Oh, shit. He’s walking towards you.”

“What?!”

“I’m gonna stand up now.”

“Wait, he’s too hot, what do I do–”

“Easy. Just do that thing you always do way too much of.” He winks, “Talk.” 

Atsumu learns two life changing things that night. 

#1. Men really like him. 

#2. He really likes men.

This first night leads to many a night of drunken makeouts on dance floors, first dates that rarely ever lead to second ones, and learning the mechanics of how to flirt without the threat of commitment. Osamu and Suna like to call it his ‘Hoe Era’ but Atsumu prefers to call it his ‘1 Year of Self-Discovery’. 

He does pretty much everything just short of actually having sex and touching a bare penis and there’s a certain shame that comes with being a twenty-six year old gay man who’s too scared to fuck and be fucked, but how is it his fault that most men have horrible hygiene and that freaks him the fuck out? That sounds like a them problem. Kiyoomi would probably agree with—

No. Stop. Don’t even think about that. 

He’s just starting to forget about what happened just a few years ago and who exactly led him to his gay epiphany because finally, he’s busy working a job he actually kind of likes with a kind-of-big-time publishing house, he’s having actual real fun with actual real men , he’s thriving and moving on, and he’d long given up on the what-and-who-that-can’t-be-named. 

He hasn’t really spoken to him in over three years and what the fuck is Atsumu supposed to do about that when it was his own fault, anyway? He figured Kiyoomi was also too busy for him now, probably working a job he loved, probably having fun, probably moving on and thriving, and has probably long forgotten about any of it. Forgotten all about him. 

Forgotten all about Miya Atsumu, the parasite who always clung onto him like he was the only thing that kept him from falling apart. (He was.)

That’s what he thought, at least. 

When out of the blue, five years after Sakusa Kiyoomi flew to San Diego, he sends a message to their ‘Volleyball Idiots’ group chat for the first time since he stopped talking to Atsumu over three years ago. 

When the notification pops up on his screen, his stomach drops to his feet, his coffee mug drops by his feet, and he has to read the text with shaky hands and burnt toes, surrounded by broken glass and a puddle of coffee. 

Still life: Sakusa Kiyoomi Singlehandedly Ruins A Mug, A Morning Coffee, and A Man’s Sanity.

 Kiyoomi

Flying home in three weeks for work. Gonna be there for about a month. See you guys?

For some fucking reason, as all his friends collectively lose their shit, the feeling that starts to build in his gut feels concerningly similar to the one he felt all those years ago, when he got the text that said his dad was dead.

A deep-seated dread mixed with a complicated and shameful sense of relief. 

__

‘Dear Omi, 

When I was a kid, I thought it was normal for all parents to constantly yell at each other. 

I was under the illusion that once I grew older, fell in love, got married, and had kids, we would be required to start communicating solely through yelling and throwing things – because that’s what my parents did best. All I really knew about marriage was that my dad was a half functioning alcoholic, my mom worked in a bank, and they were both very good at screaming at each other. They’d been doing it for as long as I could remember. Not to say they didn’t love each other, though, I’m pretty sure they did in their own weird way. It’s just that they hated each other too. That happens sometimes. I would know.

My memories of all their fights have gotten all jumbled and mixed up in my head, but it was always about the same type of thing anyway. The chores, their work, the time they didn’t have, their patience that was running thin, the bills, the remote, the TV, the volume, their kids, their politics, the movie dad loves but mom hates, my dad’s ‘female friend’, my mom’s clingy co-worker, my brother, me. 

But I do remember one particular fight really well. Probably because it’s the first time they ever yelled that loud. It was because my dad forgot their wedding anniversary, even when he’d apparently promised my mom a big trip just two months before. 

My mom was sitting on the couch, tears rolling down her cheeks soundlessly. ‘You don’t love me’, she said, quietly first and then louder, ‘You don’t fucking love me!’ 

And my drunk dad, instead of holding her and reassuring her like a good husband would, decided to yell, ‘Of course, I fucking do! You’re being crazy!’ 

So, my mom yelled back, ‘Where’s the proof, huh? Where’s the fucking proof of that?!’ 

I remember wanting to get in between them and tell my dad to stop yelling at her because it was scaring her, tell my mom that the proof was wrapped around her ring finger, the proof lived in my brother and me, tell them that their love is supposed to be the reason we’re in this world at all. 

But I don’t think that’s what she was talking about. I don’t think that’s what she meant. Maybe that just wasn’t enough anymore or maybe it never was. I think maybe it’s because my dad stopped telling her he loved her and evidently, he’d forgotten how to show it too. 

It’s a sad, shitty story that starts and ends like many others. Not long after that fight, dad started hitting her. Not long after that, he started hitting us too. Then, they got divorced and he started living with a new family, so we stopped seeing him at all. I was sad but more relieved. His anger was always too big for our house, anyway. 

That is, until Samu and I’s sixteenth birthday, when mom suddenly decided that it was okay for us to have a light lunch with him. I remember thinking, ‘What the fuck is wrong with her? What’s the point of doing this now?’ 

That is, until we were twenty minutes into eating our burgers in complete silence and dad hit us with, ‘I have colon cancer. It’s terminal.’ 

And I thought, ‘Ah. So, that was the point of this.’ Happy fucking birthday to us. 

He proceeded to go on and on about how he wanted to be a better dad and make it up to us. He said he was six months sober and that he did it for us. He said he wanted to earn our forgiveness before he left the world. I thought, ‘Fuck you, what does your AA meetings induced epiphany have to do with us? Why should we care?’ I thought, ‘When I was ten, you beat me with a belt buckle until I cried. When Samu was eight, you smacked him across the face with an encyclopedia. You threw a dinner plate at mom. Did you fucking forget?’ I thought, ‘Why the hell would you tell us this on our birthday? Even now, you have to make every fucking thing about you.’ I thought, ‘You’re only doing this because you fucked up your new family too.’ I thought, ‘My god, I just remembered that we die.’ 

And then, I thought, ‘I don’t want my dad to fucking die.’ 

We tried to mend our relationship but never fully could. He made an effort and so did we, except it just wasn’t enough. But you know something? I really wanted it to be. I really wished it was enough that he wanted to be a good person, even though my entire childhood told me he wasn’t one. But what can we do? He was a bad guy trying to be a good one on a fucking time crunch. Maybe if we’d had a little more than a year, things could’ve been different. 

But then again, would he still have made an effort to be a good father if a doctor never told him he was dying? I still wonder about that. 

A year later, at 7PM on a regular Friday, I was out buying bug spray when I got a text from Samu telling me that I needed to get my ass home fucking immediately because our dad was dead. 

Despite everything, he left the little that he had in life to us. And despite everything, mom sobbed her eyes out. Osamu had knelt beside her and held her because he’s always been good at that. Understanding people, I mean. I thought, ‘Good for him’ because I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand any of it and it made me so fucking angry. It made me so angry that he left us behind with so many questions and now I only had my mother left to ask.  

‘Why did you two never stop yelling? Why did you barely ever do anything but fight? Why did he never stop drinking until it was too late? Why did he hurt us so much? Why did it take you so long to leave him? Mom, what was any of it for, if at the end of the day, you’re just going to fall to the floor and cry for him? Why are we still sad to lose him, mom? And why am I so fucking relieved that he’s gone, at the same time? Is this normal? Fuck, mom, am I just like him? Am I a bad guy just pretending to be good?’

Asking myself all those questions just made me angrier. I already felt so far away from my mother, but dad dying suddenly made her feel unreachable. 

Do you remember, Omi? I called you that night. 

It was really late, I don’t even remember what time it was. I called you because the night after I first found out dad was sick, you were there too. Not because I called you, we weren’t even friends yet then. It was just a coincidence. That night, you just happened to climb up that dingy rooftop for some peace and quiet, only to find me. I think you saw me all curled up in a ball on the ground, drunk for the first time, dripping wet. And without a word, you sat next to me for what could’ve been minutes or hours and said nothing. 

That night, I learned that silence with you made me feel better than anyone else’s words ever could. 

I was too drunk to remember most of what happened that night. You can probably recount it better than I could. But I do know that that was the night the shitty rooftop of that shitty abandoned building went from being My Spot to Our Spot. 

You did the same thing for me, the night that he died. You saw me smoking a cigarette on the rooftop and for once you didn’t nag me about it. Without a word, you sat next to me as tears rolled down my cheeks and you just let me cry. I cried and cried, not even knowing whether I felt more sorry for my dad, for my mom, or for myself, too scared to know the answer. After two hours of silence, you asked me a question that wasn’t ‘Are you okay?’ which I appreciated. 

“How do you feel?” 

In my head, I could hear my mom’s voice yelling ‘Get out of my house! I never want to see you again!’ and my dad’s voice telling me, ‘Atsumu, I promise you, what’s between your mom and me is just between us. It has nothing to do with you and Osamu.’ And then my own thirteen year old voice saying, ‘My dad was an asshole who left us, why would I miss him?’

And then I’ll tell you, “I feel like everyone’s always full of shit.”

You didn’t ask me what that meant. I think, in your own way, you understood. 

In the end, all you said was, “I’m here.” And I believed you, because you were one of the only few people in the world who I didn’t think was full of shit. ‘I’m here’, you said, my head resting on your shoulder, your head resting on top of mine, and I knew that was all I needed.

Over the years, I’ll think back to my shitty family memories a lot. My parents fighting, my mom crying, my dad drinking, our family splitting, my dad getting sick, my dad dying, our grief, my relief, and you. 

You, who I associated so much with the feeling of peace and quiet forgiveness. You, at the end of it all, like my personal bright light at the end of every dark and shitty tunnel. 

When you sent that message saying you were coming back, I thought about all of it all over again. 

See, during those bygone years when you refused to speak to me, I used to imagine this scenario over and over again where we’d magically bump into each other and I’d confront you about everything, even bringing up that drunken kiss, all those years ago. I’d ask you what it meant, you’d avoid it, and I’d say ‘You don’t love me! You don’t fucking love me!’ But, of course, you wouldn’t be like my dad and yell at me. You’re nothing like him. Instead, I’d just imagine you looking at me with your sad puppy eyes and going, ‘I’m so sorry, Atsumu.’ And I wouldn’t have to ask you what for because, of course, I’d know. I was sorry for all of it too. 

But I figured that scenario would always just be a scenario, because there’s no fucking way I’d ever have the guts to do that and we’d remind me too much of my parents – and we weren’t even together. Jesus, I never even told you that I loved you because I figured it was enough that you probably already knew. 

But I guess that wasn’t enough. And I guess I really am my parents’ child.

A week before your flight back to Japan, Motoya told me that you’d long broken up with the boba place girl and that none of them told you that I came out as gay, because they figured it wasn’t for them to tell. I thought to myself, ‘Fuck, that’s right. He doesn’t even know yet. This is fucked up.’ And then, I thought, ‘Mom doesn’t know yet either and dad never will. That’s fucked up too.’ 

My parents were the very first people who showed me all the wrong ways to love someone. And for such a long and idiotic time, I’d put all the blame on them for never teaching me how to love anyone honestly or truly. I would then proceed to waste many more years asking myself the same useless question.

If they did, would I have been able to properly love you?

You’re probably reading this thinking I sound stupid. But honestly, Omi, I’m starting to believe that every human’s rawest feelings often are.’

- Miya Atsumu, To You (Chapter 4)

 __

Sakusa Kiyoomi’s (Temporary) Return to Japan, Five Years After He Flew To San Diego

Osamu stares at Atsumu wordlessly as he fidgets uncomfortably in his seat, arranging and rearranging the utensils sitting in front of him, and finishing off his third glass of beer and fifth glass of water. Kiyoomi and Motoya haven’t even arrived yet and he’s already taken a piss three times because when he’s panicking, his bladder likes to panic along with him. 

“Stop fuckin’ looking at me like that.”

“You’re panicking.”

“What? No, I’m not. Why would I be panicking?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe because you haven’t really talked to him ever since you dated his ex-wife.” 

Atsumu cringes. “Stop making it sound more fucked up than it actually was.” 

“But that’s literally what happened.”

“Can’t you take some responsibility?” Atsumu grumbles, “You’re the one who told me he wouldn’t care about that, you asshole.”

“He didn’t.” Osamu argues, “I don’t think that’s why he was upset about it.” He continues, under his breath.

Atsumu makes a face. “What do you mean by that? Do you know something? What the hell, Samu, did he tell you something?”

“Tsumu, I assure you that if there was some shit he didn’t want you to know, I would be the last fuckin’ person he would tell it to.” Osamu scoffs, “Did you forget? He mostly stopped talking to me when he stopped talking to you.” 

“What’s going on?” Suna asks, taking his place next to Osamu, “Panicking yet?”

“I’m not panicking!”

“No, you’re definitely panicking, Atsumu-san.” Hinata says, “I know because whenever you’re panicking, you say that you’re not panicking.”

“And you say it repeatedly!” Bokuto throws an arm around him, adding salt to the wound. 

“But I’m not!”

“Yeah, like that!” He laughs heartily, patting Atsumu on the back in a way that he probably thinks is friendly but would definitely cause bruising if he had a weaker institution. “Don’t worry, Tsum-Tsum! He’s probably feeling way more nervous than you are. I mean, he’s the one who stopped talking to you, wasn’t he? And it was all super weird! I mean, who knew he still had feelings for Hitoka-chan?”

Hitoka comes back from the counter and passes around more menus. “Actually, I don’t think that’s what he was upset about.” She says.

Atsumu’s had enough of this shit and slams his hands against the table. “What do you mean? What the fuck do you guys mean when you say that?!” He yells, looking around at all his friends, feeling crazed.

Hinata shrinks into his seat. “Why are you yelling at me? I don’t know anything! I only know, like… a thing or two! Not even three!”

“You haven’t changed a bit then, huh, Shoyo?” 

The world comes to an immediate standstill.

Atsumu feels like centuries have passed since he last heard that voice, which is both true and untrue at the same time. True because they haven’t talked in over three years, untrue because once in a while, he still likes to listen to old voice messages or watch videos of him on his phone, like some kind of grieving army wife. 

Everyone looks up to see a much more grown up Sakusa Kiyoomi standing beside Motoya, both of them with huge smiles on their faces. 

“Sakusa-saaaaan!” Hinata yells, jumping to his feet and throwing his arms around him. Kiyoomi laughs and ruffles his hair, the exact same way he always used to. 

All at once, everyone is standing up and crowding around to hug him and yell at him, like they’re not sure which to do first, so they just do it all at the same time. Even Hitoka approaches him, albeit nervously, but all he does is pull her in before squeezing her and patting her shoulder once, firm and short. 

“Hey. Have you been doing okay?” He asks her.

She nods. “I’ve been alright. You?”

“I’ve been alright.” He returns with a smile, small but seemingly genuine. 

Atsumu stays planted in his seat, unable to move a single muscle in his body for the life of him. Kiyoomi seems to search the long table until his gaze finally lands on him. Their eyes meet and in that split second, Atsumu realizes he was wrong. He was very wrong about very many things. Because,

1. He hasn’t moved on.
2. He hasn’t given up. 
3. He hasn't forgotten anything at all. 
4. And neither has Kiyoomi. 

They are still here.

Here, meaning in a room full of people and only able to see each other. Here, meaning missing each other like they’d been drowning and not being able to say it out loud. Here, meaning pushing away the very person they just wanted to hold close. Here, meaning upset with each other over things neither of them will admit. Here, meaning still sitting by that pool on that night five years ago. Here, meaning not being able to tell each other anything true. Here, meaning fucking miserable.

The split second that lasts an eternity finally passes. They look away from each other at the exact same moment, Kiyoomi sits down, and neither of them say anything. The rest of their friends do them the very kind favor of not saying anything either. 

Hitoka slides into the seat next to him, squeezes his knee and whispers, “Just give it some time.”

He hears Kiyoomi chuckle at something Osamu says and Atsumu silently reaches for his fourth beer. 

He learns that Kiyoomi being back makes him want to drink himself to death, just as much as him leaving did. 

Once Atsumu’s nice and drunk, toeing that pleasant line between having a blast and passing out on the street, he finally feels loose enough to turn away from Hitoka and Hinata, and include himself in conversations about Kiyoomi’s new corporate job, his new friends, his new dating life, just his new life without Atsumu, in general. When he checks the seat across the table where Kiyoomi had been sitting for most of the night, it’s empty. Huh. 

He nudges Osamu with his elbow. “Where’d he go?” 

His brother gives him a knowing look. “He went to the smoking area, like, fifteen minutes ago, around the time you and Hitoka started giggling about something on your phone.”

Atsumu makes a face, thinking about all the years Kiyoomi had spent being a pain in his ass about lung care. “He fucking smokes now? When did that happen?”

Osamu can only shrug. “If you’re so curious, go and ask him.” 

He bites the inside of his cheeks and then says, “Fuck you” before heading for the smoking area. He thinks he hears Osamu snort behind him, but he chooses to be the bigger person and ignores it. 

After fighting his way past a few tables of drunk people, he spots Kiyoomi outside through the glass doors with his back turned, sitting on a handkerchief by the sidewalk, his arm resting on his knee with a cigarette perched between his fingers, his figure all haloed by the moonlight and city lights. Atsumu’s glad to know he’s still as dramatic and high maintenance as ever and allows himself a few seconds to just stare for a while, because he feels the same damn way he always used to back then. 

He feels like he could easily breeze through the rest of his life just staring after that sturdy back and following him from behind. Atsumu figures he really would follow him from behind for the rest of his life, if he only asked. 

Stop. Enough.

He braces himself, steps out into the cold, and cautiously makes his way towards him. He stops right next to his hunched figure and when Kiyoomi doesn’t move and doesn’t even turn to look, Atsumu knows that he knows it’s him. He takes the non-reaction as acceptance and lets out a groan as he crouches down to sit next to him. 

He stares at Kiyoomi’s hand and notices that the cigarette he’s holding is dwindling down to nothing, ashes continuously falling by his feet. “I didn’t know you started smoking.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t answer right away, staring ahead at the passing cars. Eventually, he says, “I don’t. I just asked random strangers to bum me one.”

Atsumu keeps staring as the cigarette dies on its own. “Well, have you actually smoked any of them?”

“No. I took a puff and I hated it.”

“Then, why the fuck are you here?” 

Kiyoomi tosses the cigarette butt into a cup next to him with two other cigarette butts. “Just to breathe. It was getting too stuffy in there.”

He went to the smoking area fifteen minutes ago, around the time you and Hitoka started giggling about something on your phone. Atsumu tells Osamu’s voice in his head to shut the fuck up. 

For the first time during this whole interaction, Kiyoomi turns to look at him. His expression doesn’t look cold but it doesn’t look warm either. Atsumu wonders if the Kiyoomi he knew back then is still the one sitting in front of him now. 

He asks, “What about you?”

“Hm?” Atsumu hums, distracted by how close they are. Distracted by the memory of what they did the last time they were alone, drunk, and sitting this close. 

“You aren’t gonna smoke?”

“No.” He says, “You never liked it when I did.”

“Then, why the fuck are you here?”

“Tossing the question back to me, huh?” Atsumu sighs, “Why do you think, Omi-Omi?”

Just as Atsumu realizes how long he hasn’t said it, he sees Kiyoomi realize in real time how long he hasn’t heard it – that stupid nickname that only he ever used. 

He looks away and swallows. “You still like to answer questions with more questions.” Kiyoomi’s voice trembles a little, almost unnoticeably, but Atsumu does notice. He notices everything about him. 

He changes the subject. “Well, you got buff.”

“I bought a lot of gym equipment. And I had nothing to do in the middle of a pandemic lockdown so,” Kiyoomi shrugs, “You got buff too, I guess… kind of.”

“You bitch.” Atsumu scoffs, “I have a gym membership.” 

“Hm.” Kiyoomi shrugs. “... How are you and Hitoka doing?”

He tenses. “Ah. We’re okay. We’re still friends. We’ve been broken up for a year now.”

There’s a long pause. “Sorry, I didn’t know. You guys looked–”

“We stayed close.” Atsumu says, “Like you guys did.”

Kiyoomi cocks an eyebrow. Atsumu stares at the two moles above it and fights the strong urge to trace them with his finger. 

“We were together for a few months in high school. You two were together for three years. That’s different.”

“We have our reasons.”

“Alright.” Kiyoomi throws his hands up, “I get it. You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

Atsumu wants to. But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to start an argument and doesn’t want to have to come out as gay to his literal gay awakening, on the side of the street. 

“You still been playing volleyball?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t met anyone decent to play with.”

“Well, that’s fuckin’ sad.”

Kiyoomi snorts. “It’s fine. I don’t like playing with people who suck, anyway. You know that.” And Atsumu does. 

He remembers how the last official game they ever played together was cut short, how he was carried out on a stretcher with Osamu holding onto his hand, Kiyoomi’s teary and worried face following after them. ‘I’ll be fine’, he said, trying to sound like he wasn’t terrified, like he didn’t know that it was all over for him. And Kiyoomi had said, ‘You better be. I don’t wanna be stuck playing with people who suck.’ 

He also remembers an afternoon in their high school volleyball court in the sweltering heat. To join the team, all the first years had to play a game against each other. It was him, Osamu, and Suna vs. Kiyoomi, Motoya, and Gin. Atsumu had eyed him through the net and with all the ego in the world said, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. You better not suck. I hate being bored during a game.’ He can still picture how Kiyoomi’s eyebrows had scrunched up like he’d just eaten something disgusting when he said, ‘Worry about yourself, you prick.’ 

Kiyoomi’s team won that day. It was the first time Atsumu had lost a game in a while and it pissed him the fuck off. It pissed him off even more that all he could think after the game was over was, ‘He looks damn good when he’s all sweaty.’ 

Atsumu tried to stay annoyed with him for as long as he could but eventually, trying to stay annoyed became harder than just loving him. And so, here he is sitting next to him, after all this fucking time – still just loving him. Always just loving him. 

“Holy shit,” He breathes out with a chuckle of disbelief, “ God, Omi. I missed you so fucking much.”

Atsumu doesn’t dare turn to see what kind of face Kiyoomi makes at that, but he does hear him let out a long shaky exhale, as if he’d been holding the whole world inside of his chest and he’s just been allowed to breathe it out. From the corner of his eye, he sees him lower his head and wipe his eyes with a fist. Atsumu starts to tear up too. 

Whatever he’s feeling, somehow he knows that it’s exactly what Kiyoomi’s feeling too. 

For a while, they just sit there and swipe at their eyes pathetically, sniffling quietly, but the quiet doesn’t feel stilted or strange. It feels a lot like all the silences they’ve shared before. If Atsumu added up all the hours they’ve spent sitting together in comfortable silence, he wonders if it would take up years? 

Eventually, when enough time has passed, Kiyoomi clears his throat and starts to stand. “Come on. The others are gonna start wondering what we’re still doing out here.”

Atsumu pulls himself together and nods. He’s about to push himself up when a hand appears in front of him. He looks up and finally, finally, Sakusa Kiyoomi is looking at him the way he always used to look at him. He recognizes it as what it is. A peace offering. 

And all of a sudden, they’re just teenagers up on a rooftop again, knowing that some things will change, that people will come and then go, things will begin and then end, but they will stay. They will stay because that’s all that matters, that’s just how it’s always been, and how it’s always going to be. 

Atsumu takes hold of his hand and lets himself be pulled up. He throws an arm around his shoulders and Kiyoomi pretends to push him away but pulls him closer, anyway.

“You missed me too, huh?” Atsumu teases.

“Shut the fuck up.” Kiyoomi says through a smile he’d failed to fight off.

When they walk back into the restaurant hanging off each other and laughing, Atsumu thinks he can hear their friends’ emotions through the looks on their faces and it sounds a lot like a collective sigh of relief. 

They catch up the way old friends do, joke around the way they used to, and laugh together like they never stopped. 

Atsumu knows the only way to keep this peace is to let everything else go. He figures it’ll be easy letting go because nobody else knows. Nobody really knows much of anything . The things he’s thought, the feelings he’s kept, the one night they shared, all exist only in a bubble that the outside world can never see or touch. He’s come to terms with the fact that it will have to be enough. 

Besides, how are you supposed to hold onto something neither of you even had the courage to give a name to? Would he even have the right?

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi asks him, “Want another drink?” 

“Yeah. Get me a—“

“Jägerbomb. I know.” He says. Because of course, he does.

As Kiyoomi heads to the counter to order the drink that he knows Atsumu likes, he thinks about The Girl from The Boba Place and wonders how much she knows about Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

Does she know his favorite drink? Does she know that he snores a little when he sleeps? Does she know he falls asleep easier when you scratch his head or rub his back? Does she know he’s weak with spicy food but strong when it comes to everything else? Does she know what cologne he uses? Does she know all the lyrics to his favorite songs? Does she know how many prayers he memorizes like the back of his hand? Does she know exactly how he’ll spike a ball right before he does it? Does she know what it’s like to still be able to taste his kiss, even long after he’s pulled away? 

Atsumu knows. There are a lot of fucking things about Sakusa Kiyoomi that only Atsumu knows. But what the hell does it matter? How does that famous philosophical quote go again? 

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? 

__

‘My relationship with writing has always been a bit tumultuous. 

Kinda like how my relationship was with you, before it was a relationship. The thing I always find myself comparing it to, is my Aunt Nori’s married life. My mom’s younger sister. When I tell people she’s been married twice, they understandably assume that she married two different men. That is not what happened. She actually married the same man – just twice. Do we like the guy? No. He’s a piece of shit. We didn’t like him the first time and didn’t like him the second time. We told her that both times and she didn’t listen to us both times. 

They divorced because he cheated on her, as men often do. He met this woman at work, secretly slept with her for six months, got found out, and got himself kicked out of his house. Of course, Aunt Nori made a whole spectacle out of it. She was The Scorned Woman. The Wronged Wife. She told the entire family, all her friends, all our friends, all her co-workers, all her neighbors, her mailman, even the fat stray cat down the street probably heard about it. She also posted a shit ton of either spiteful or inspirational quotes about healing from betrayal on every social media account she owns. 

Cheating does NOT happen from a lack of LOVE… it comes from a lack of RESPECT, from SELFISHNESS, and from being a SCUMBAG !

Then, like something out of a comedy movie, they got back together after only a year and eventually got married again. The kicker is that he cheated on her with a college student just a couple of months later, except this time my aunt couldn’t divorce him anymore. I guess she was too embarrassed. 

That’s kind of what happened with me and writing. I grew up on books like The Little Prince, The Hardy Boys, The 39 Clues, and I thought to myself, ‘I’m gonna write one of these when I grow up and that’s what I’m gonna keep doing for the rest of my life.’ My mom liked that a lot but my dad had said something along the lines of, ‘That’s not a real career.’ You know, because he’s a shithead like that. I spent a lot of my childhood fighting him on that statement. 

But then, I turned out to be stupidly good at volleyball and men in suits who worked in professional sports suddenly had their eyes on me. With my massive ego, I started having these vivid daydreams of winning the Olympics and a flip switched in my head, so I went, ‘I’m gonna start taking volleyball seriously and become an Olympic athlete.’ My dad really fucking liked that but my mom had said something along the lines of, ‘I don’t know if that’s a smart idea, sweetie.’ You know, because she worries too much and trusts me too little. That’s when I realized I was probably never going to be able to make my parents proud, so I might as well do whatever the hell I want. 

I chose volleyball and made a whole spectacle out of it. For years, it was my whole identity, I dragged my brother along with me despite the fact that he obviously wanted to be a chef, and I decided that writing wasn’t going to be my life partner but my nostalgic first love. 

And then – well, you know what happens next, Omi, don’t you?

On the second set of my last championship game of my collegiate volleyball career, I fucked up my knee that had already been fucked up twice before. This time, when I felt it go, I knew there was no going back. I’m pretty sure I cried about it but I don’t remember anymore. I’ve blocked most of it out. Or maybe the pain meds did that. What I do remember is being carried out on a stretcher, Osamu squeezing my hand, your horrified face, and the hysterical laughter that bubbled out of my throat. 

I can still picture the moment that I realized it was all over and thinking, ‘Did I say I was gonna become a professional volleyball player? Hahaha, I was just kidding! You guys know I was never gonna give up on writing, right?’

Honestly, I think the devastation had less to do with losing volleyball and more to do with losing the only thing I thought my dad actually liked about me. 

Later, once Osamu was done pretending like he wasn’t freaked out about my nonexistent sports career-ending injury, he told me that he’d never seen you so scared. He said there were actual tears in your eyes and they had to bench you for a while, just so you could learn to breathe again. That made my chest hurt almost as much as my knee did.  

That day, volleyball went from being my life partner to my mistress and I divorced and remarried writing. Big, big day for adult wannabe Miya Atsumu.

Omi, I’m saying all this because something kind of like that happened the night you first came back to Japan. 

When we were all leaving the restaurant bar, some of the guys only buzzed and some all the way gone, in a Jäger-induced haze I asked you, “Hey. Where are you staying while you’re here?”

You shrugged and said something along the lines of, ‘I’m supposed to be staying with my older cousin and his wife, but they have a newborn and I’m worried it’ll be too stressful for everyone, and Motoya lives way too far now yadda yadda yadda’. 

Which led me to go, “I live alone now. It’s pretty nearby. You could stay with me… if you want.” You know, like a fucking idiot. 

And in your gin and tonic induced haze, you blinked blarily at me and went, “Yeah. Yeah, sure. That’d be great. Let’s do it.” You know, like an even bigger idiot. 

So, just like the way Aunt Nori came crawling back to her husband and the way I came crawling back to writing, I helplessly came crawling back to you. As I’m typing this, I’m reminded of this quote from a really famous book that I’m sure your dad has forced you to read, at some point. Word has it, the author thinks we’re both sinners. 

‘Like a dog that returns to its vomit, a fool does the same foolish things again and again.’ - The Holy Bible, Proverbs 26:11’

- Miya Atsumu, To You (Chapter 6)

__

A FaceTime Call Between Sakusa Kiyoomi and Suna Rintarou, Three Months Before Sakusa Kiyoomi Flew Back To Japan

“I’m asking Osamu to marry me.”

“... Wait, you guys are actually seriously dating? I thought we were kidding.” 

“Kiyoomi, we literally have an Instagram highlight reel dedicated to each other. I talk about the shit that happens at our dates all the time. I’m pretty sure I told you about the day I formally introduced him to my family.”

“I don’t know, that could’ve been a friendship thing.”

“Dude, if I made a Best Friend Instagram highlight and didn’t include Atsumu, he’d block me. Did you really not think we were actually dating?”

“No, no, I’m just kidding. I knew you were, I just didn’t think you guys would get married about it. I don’t know, aren’t we too young for all of that?”

“You got married at seventeen.”

“I hope you fall into a bottomless pit.”

“This is besides the point. You’re my friend and you’re supposed to congratulate me.”

“Oh, right. I’m your friend and I congratulate you. Don’t let my pessimism make you think I’m not happy for you two. You’re meant for each other and all that.”

“HA. You don’t need to say that.”

“No, honestly. In hindsight… I’m pretty sure there’s been something going on between you guys since high school.”

“Like you and Atsumu, you mean?”

“Christ, Rin.”

“Sorry.”

“Speaking of him… have you told him? He’s probably gonna lose his mind.”

“I haven’t told him, actually. This is where you come in.” 

“Huh?”

“Atsumu can’t know because he won’t be able to keep it from Osamu. If Atsumu finds out, Osamu will find out that same day.”

“He’s not that bad.” 

Suna stares at him through the screen, wordlessly.

“Okay, fine, he is that bad. What does any of this have to do with me, though?”

“I’m proposing in four months and you need to be here.”

“Of course, I’m gonna be there. Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, I mean, I need you to come a month earlier and tell everyone it’s just for work.”

“Okay, nothing about my job warrants a sudden trip to Japan.” 

“Well, pretend it does! Look, I need you to come early and distract Atsumu so I can prepare everything for the proposal without the twins getting suspicious.”

Kiyoomi swallows. “We don’t even talk anymore. We haven’t in years. Why does it have to be me?”

“Because you’re the only one who can actually distract him.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know what it means and you can stop pretending like you don’t. We’re getting too old for that.” 

“What do you… did Atsumu tell you something?”

“No. He’s never needed to tell me shit for me to know shit.” He says simply, “So, are you gonna keep playing hard to get or are you gonna be a good best friend and get your ass over here?”

“I’ll be there for the proposal. But how am I supposed to distract him? I don’t even know how to talk to him anymore. I don’t even know if he’d still want to. What if it’s weird–”

“Kiyoomi.”

“What?”

“If you can’t find it in you to do this for yourself or for Atsumu, can you at least do it for me? Please?” 

“... Okay. For you.” 

“Thank you.”

“Rin?”

“Yeah?”

“I really am happy for you guys.”

“I know.” He smiles, “... Wait, are you tearing up right now?”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

__

‘Hey, Omi. You once asked me why I wasn’t surprised when I found out that Samu and Rin were getting married. 

My answer to that is: I just don’t think I could possibly imagine Samu getting married to anyone but Rin. ‘Cause, you see, Omi, you may be my best friend but Suna Rintarou is so much more than just the first person I ever jerked off with, he is also so many other things that you do not know. 

See, I didn’t grow up with a lot of people to look up to. You always hear little kids say things like ‘My dad is my hero!’ or ‘My mom is the best mom in the world!’ It’s always been obvious to me what kind of person my dad was but things get a little more layered when it comes to my mom. She loves us well enough now, that much I know for sure. Samu and I love her and we’re clear on that too. I think the tragedy of it all is that my dad was a bad person who wanted to be good and my mom was a good person who constantly put herself in bad situations which consequently, put her kids in bad situations. 

She was a caring mother but a miserable one. A loving mother who worried too much about whether she was loving us right, which made her do too many things wrong. A mother who liked us but not her life. A mother who I grew up loving and hating, in equal measure. 

There was this one night, when Samu and I were helping her clean the living room after dad had one of his drunken fits, when she cried and said, ‘I’m so sorry, boys. I think… your mom has been making a lot of mistakes.’ And even at nine years old, I thought to myself, ‘Yeah, woman, you fucking think?’ because I was a kid who didn’t understand why she married someone like my dad. A kid who didn’t understand that he wasn’t always the way he was, it’s something he slowly turned into, and how was she supposed to predict that? A kid who didn’t know any better, who didn’t know that there were layers to human beings, and only saw my mother as someone who constantly did the wrong thing. 

Despite it all though, little me believed there was one thing she actually got right.

Friendship. Mom has made some good friends. Great friends, even. Two best friends who she’s known since she was in middle school. Aunt Meiko and Aunt Mai. I wish I could say that it was her strong love for Samu and I that finally convinced her to file for divorce and take custody of us, but it was really all them. They were the ones who patched up all her wounds, they were the ones who cried with her when she cried, drank with her when she drank, listened to her repeated rants, and knocked the goddamn sense into her every single time. My mom got a little unlucky in some ways, but got really lucky in others. 

I mean, how many people in this world have friends who never get tired of being on their side, y’know? That’s one good thing she managed to instill in us. The ability to attract the World’s Greatest Friends. 

Omi, did I ever tell you about how exactly Samu and I first met Rin? Not a lot of people know this story. Most people who met us in college just assumed that we met in high school and people who met us in high school just assumed that we met in middle school, but that’s not what happened. 

What happened was – we met at the age of seven years old, when Suna Rintarou saved our lives.  

It was the summer before second grade and Samu and I had just taught ourselves how to ride a bike. With cuts and scrapes all over our knees and elbows, we started a competition on who could bike the farthest and fastest without falling over. We didn’t know where we were going or how we were going to get back, we just went. That’s just the kind of idiots we’ve always been. We ended up in a part of town that we didn’t recognize, away from most of the houses we knew, a place peppered with bushes and trees, and a lake we’d never seen before. We got overly excited. Since neither of us fell off our bikes, the new competition became who could swim farther and faster. 

Neither of us knew how to swim and we knew that. It’s just that when you’re seven and also an idiot, you think you’re invincible and that learning how to swim will take five minutes if you already know how to ride a bike. We thought teaching ourselves how to swim would be easy because we’d taught ourselves how to do pretty much everything else. 

It all happened so fast. 

Samu threw his shirt off, stepped out of his sweatpants, tossed them aside, and dashed into the water. I yelled after him because I couldn’t get my hoodie off fast enough and I’d chosen the wrong day to wear jeans. I only looked away from him for a few seconds. Omi, I didn’t know how deep lakes could be. 

The next thing I knew, I could barely see him. He was floundering, disappearing behind big splashes of water, trying to yell my name, and helplessly gasping in more of the lake instead of air. 

I used to read books like The Little Prince, The Hardy Boys, and The 39 Clues. So, I always saw myself as an adventurer, a hero, the brave protagonist of my own book. But that day, I learned the hard way that I wasn’t brave at all. Because there I was, watching my brother drown and I couldn’t even bring myself to take a single step forward. You know what they say about fight or flight? I didn’t choose to fight, nor did I choose to flee, I chose to freeze. I just fucking froze. 

If I was truly brave, I should’ve ran in, I should’ve jumped into that lake and I should’ve died trying to save my brother. But I guess deep down, I always believed he was better and stronger than I was because all I could think was, ‘If Samu can’t beat the lake… how could I?’ 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” I heard a kid yell from behind me, which managed to snap me out of my initial shock. 

I only managed to catch a quick glimpse of someone who looked to be just about my height, if not shorter, before the figure dashed straight past me and dove into the water without a hint of hesitation. 

Like an adventurer. A hero. The brave protagonist of a book. 

I reflexively stumbled after him with shaky legs, past sticks and stones, waiting as the strange boy dragged my brother back to safety. 

Once Samu was out of the water, gasping and heaving, I pulled him into my arms, held his head to my chest, felt him breathe, and we both sobbed like we never had before. I don’t think we’ve held each other like that since then. 

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I kept repeating, not knowing what else to do. He didn’t say anything, just shivered and clung onto me with all the strength he had left. 

I looked up and stared in awe at the boy who was dripping wet from head to toe, standing there like he’d done nothing out of the ordinary, looking down at us like we were the world’s biggest inconvenience. His hands were shaking, though. It was the only sign that he’d been scared at all. He was scared but he did it anyway. He saved my brother. 

“Thank you.” was all I could manage to say, at that point. “Thank you. I owe you.” 

He sighed, shook his head and walked off, mumbling, “Idiots. Idiots everywhere.” 

We didn’t see him again until school started and as destiny would have it, we ended up in the same class. Samu was really fucking embarrassed about the whole thing because this dead-eyed kid had seen him cry, but I wasn’t. I sat right next to him, loudly introduced ourselves, practically pressured him into a friendship, and clung onto him for years and years until I could tell that he wasn’t just forcing himself to stay. 

Just like my parents, I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my sorry life, Omi, but I definitely got a few things right. Suna Rintarou turned out to be an absolute motherfucker, the world’s biggest asshole, and the personification of a dick. 

But Suna Rintarou is also my hero. 

He saved my brother’s life and therefore, saved mine, because there’s no me without him. He saved Osamu, taught us how to swim and made sure that I could do it better, introduced us to volleyball, befriended Komori Motoya, who then led me straight to you, unknowingly saving my life a second time – unknowingly saving me all the time. 

Which is why despite everything that happened between my parents, between Aunt Nori and her cheating husband, and honestly with most married couples in this shitty and disloyal world, I was fucking happy to let him marry my brother. 

After all, I still owed him.’

- Miya Atsumu, To You (Chapter 7)