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Miya Atsumu had always fought tooth and nail to get what he wanted. Playing as setter on the first string, stealing Ichibayashi’s championship title in his final year of high school, making it to Waseda University’s volleyball team, intercollegiate champions for all of his three years here (and hopefully next year’s, too). Perfecting his hybrid serve, defending his Best Setter title, from the clutches of Tobio and Chuo University’s Tooru. When it’d come down to it, Atsumu would dig through scraps and bones, pick and wrestle, if it meant getting what he wanted. Call it being a twin (twenty-one years of fighting for the top bunk, the bigger slice of the cake), call it innate possessiveness, call it obsession, call it whatever—Atsumu only knows performance, success, achievement. 

Even so, some things fall out of his control. He’s not one for lists (that’s better left to the likes of Sakusa Kiyoomi, really) but here, he’s come up with one: Atsumu wants Shouyou’s time. Shouyou’s presence. Shouyou’s touch. Instead, Shouyou stares at him from behind his laptop screen, eyes alight with anguish, sentiment crystalline despite the fuzzy quality, the shitty internet connection. Because, at the end of the day, no matter what Atsumu wants, Shouyou is still his own person. Another human being.

And maybe that’s the problem Atsumu has—it’s all the other human beings. Spikers that don’t line up with his tosses, teammates who stare at him like he’s a monster. Shouyou’s not like any of them, he reminds himself. But ultimately, what he wants, Shouyou might not want. Ultimately, they’re their own people, and Atsumu still grapples with the fact that it isn’t something he can control. He thinks of Osamu, who’s currently working his ass off at culinary school. Of the deep sense of betrayal twisting around his gut, when he’d told Atsumu he wasn’t playing volleyball anymore. And Atsumu had thrown words like knives, as if he’d deserved to feel betrayed, when all Osamu did was pursue what he wanted. Just like Atsumu.

People come and go, slip through his fingers. A setter, down to his bones—Atsumu simply hates what he can’t control. 

There’s a sheen of tears glossing over Shouyou’s eyes, liquefied golds and oranges, like the sun is burning in itself. Atsumu looks into them anyway, melts into their heat, despite the unfeeling expression he has on his own face.

“We’re breaking up, aren’t we, Tsumu?”

Even now, the way Shouyou holds Atsumu’s name in his mouth makes him weak. So weak. Despite the fuzzy quality, the shitty internet connection.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

Atsumu met Shouyou when he was seventeen and the first thing that he thought was, I want him. So he’d said, one day, I’m gonna set for you. Atsumu met Shouyou again when he was eighteen and thought, there is no one in this world like Shouyou. And if Atsumu wanted him, it had to be all or nothing—not the fleeting kisses he’d passed with boys and girls in the hallways, touches with no permanence to them. So he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t asked for his number. When Atsumu met Shouyou for the third time, here in Waseda University, he knew it was inevitable.

Yet, here he is, broken up with a gaping emptiness in his chest. There isn’t much emotion—just plain numbness, swallowing him whole, as he refreshes his feed to check for the infinitieth time if Shouyou had posted anything onto social media. A small part of him takes perverse satisfaction in this void of feeling. That has to mean he isn’t as affected as he thought he would be, right? He thinks of Shouyou ambling along the stretches of Praia de Grumari, against a backdrop of ombre seas, grains of white sand sifting into the spaces between his toes. Of Shouyou pigging out on stewed beans and bread at a local bar, passing easy conversation with strangers because he’s Shouyou—charming, amicable, drawing attention from everyone in the room.

Kiyoomi stalks into the room just then, wearing a deathlike expression on his face. Atsumu’s phone slips from his hands.

“Y’know, if you’re gonna keep checking Hinata’s Instagram, you might as well talk to him.”

Reflexively, Atsumu’s lips pull up into his trademark smarmy grin. “Oh, so prickly in the morning already, Omi-kun?”

“Shut up, Miya. You know what I’m talking about.”

“So yer favourite roommate isn’t allowed to sit here and scroll through his phone like every other procrastinatin’ college kid?” 

The dark haired-man lets out a sigh, as if he’s dealing with a child, and a dangerous flash of irritation streaks up Atsumu’s spine. He tenses in his seat, picking up his fallen phone, fingers a vice grip around the device. At this moment, his brain uselessly reminds him of the way Shouyou would talk to him—slowly, carefully, but never like he’s anything less. Atsumu sees a flicker of blue in the blankness of his void, and works to clamp the emotion down, repressing it into chasmal numbness.

“Firstly, you’re not my favourite.”

Atsumu clasps his chest dramatically. “Ya wound me, Omi-kun. After all that we’ve been through? Remember when Bokkun mixed the white shirts with the reds and I had to sit through all of yer breakdowns?”

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. “You’re changing the subject again.”

“I’m not! We’re discussing why I’m your favourite roommate, Omi.”

“No. We’re talking about you and Hinata, dimwit. I’ve been texting him and are you really not interested in what he’s up to? And how is he?”

Atsumu imagines Shouyou climbing the Selarón Staircase, a kaleidoscope of mosaic beneath his feet. Of Shouyou on the top of Sugarloaf Mountain, mouth hanging agape in awe, at the endless stretch of green before him.

“I honestly couldn’t care less, Omi-kun, but thanks for being very interested in my love life. I’ll consider, even if yer not really my type,” he says instead, throwing in a wink for good measure. Kiyoomi is quiet for a long while. Eventually, he decides to chuck the nearest cushion at Atsumu’s face. “Honestly, Miya, you’re fucking insufferable.” And then he walks out, and Atsumu thinks, that’s more like it.

He thinks, yeah, I know.

When Atsumu goes to sleep that night, he dreams of the fight he had with Shouyou last week. Tsumu, you’re being really unfair, Shouyou had said. We’ve only got these precious twenty minutes and you’re spending them like this. The rational part of Atsumu had known that Shouyou meant this with the best intentions, but the irrational part, the one born out of the chemical imbalance in his brain, felt that those words sounded too familiar. They’ve all spilled out of other people’s mouths at some point: his mother, his captains, his teammates, his coaches. Osamu. The irrational part had reminded Atsumu that he’s only ever felt one thing his entire life— too much. 

But I miss you, he’d wanted to say. But three months have never felt this long without you by my side and I’ll have to wait for another three more. The words had felt like lead in his throat, smothering his flesh, where they belonged. Materialising them into the real world meant chipping off another piece of his heart and Atsumu didn’t know if he could give anymore. It had been so much more difficult, with Shouyou on the other side of the world. So instead, he had said, you forgot to call me. You didn’t text me back last night. You went to drink, with god knows who, doing god knows what—

Atsumu wakes up and sees the first fracture in his void—a stunning vein of blue, cutting through the pitch blackness. He picks up his phone from the nightstand, mutes Shouyou on Instagram, and sends a quick text to Gao.

From: Atsumu

wanna get fucked up tonight?

Kourai ends up coming along. The three of them take a taxi to the club. It’s a dingy place in one of the back alleyways at Shibuya, all dim lights, cheap drinks, and thudding bass, its rhythm pulsating through Atsumu’s body. He likes it like that, music loud enough to hopefully cover his thoughts. 

“Three drinks and I won’t even breathe out Hinata-kun’s name,” challenges Kourai as he leans over the glass countertop. 

“Yer on.”

Atsumu hasn’t drank in a while but competition season is over, and Shouyou isn’t here to keep him in check. So he indulges in the smoky, astringent flavour of highballs, mixing it with dubious-looking happy hour shots, the kind of stuff you find in red paper cups at college parties. They taste like absolute shit, but they’re cheap, so whatever. In between the heat of pressing bodies, the clinks of glasses, he feels that familiar, delirious warmth searing across his skin, his vision more abstract around the edges. At some point, Kourai pulls him to the dance floor, leaving Gao behind to flirt with the bartender for more drinks.

Kourai snorts at his phone. “Sakusa-san asked if we’re out together.”

Deep inside, Atsumu knows Kiyoomi cares about him and Shouyou. His roommate has always had a soft spot for the orange haired-man—that’s just Shouyou’s effect, really. He’s the only person on this planet who can get Sakusa Kiyoomi to like him. Atsumu knows that Kiyoomi isn’t buying his act and he hates this, hates the way the outside hitter has to check on his whereabouts, as if he’s a child who can’t handle his own feelings.

But Atsumu isn’t going to be beaten at his own game. He just flashes a sleazy grin. “Aw, Omi-kun is so obsessed with me.”

“Yeah right, he’s probably just afraid you’re gonna puke all over the floor when you get home. C’mon, let’s dance!”

Atsumu isn’t much of a dancer. His bones feel like jelly, movements slurred from the alcohol. He simply sloshes his body around to the thumping beat of the music. Meanwhile, Kourai shines on the dance floor, and Atsumu watches the way men and women slide up towards him, eager to get a piece. All except for one. In his peripherals, Atsumu sees a black haired-man, all dark eyes and angular face. He’s probably not much older than Atsumu is, maybe a senior or a fresh grad. The stranger is wearing the slightest upcurl of lips, and Atsumu recognises the flirtatious intent behind it.

In hindsight, maybe this is a terrible decision. But there’s whiskey fizzling through his bloodstream, and there’s also desire, hot and wet, pooling in the base of his stomach. Desire for what, he doesn’t know. All he can think of is that striking shade of blue, disrupting the blankness of his void. So he puts on his most flirtatious smirk and stumbles towards the man.

“I’ve been staring at you all night,” says the stranger, cupping Atsumu’s face with slender hands. They feel warm and prickly on his skin. Atsumu leans forward, whispering into the curve of his ear, “Bathroom. Now. ”

The entire time they’re stumbling towards the bathroom they don’t keep their hands off each other. Atsumu has his hands curled around the stranger’s waist, fingers grazing hot skin where the hem of his shirt has rolled up. The stranger doesn’t stop mouthing at Atsumu’s neck, the tip of his tongue flickering along the length of his clavicle, mapping out its dips and valleys. When they finally reach the cubicle, he backs Atsumu up against the wall.

“You’re hot,” drawls the stranger. Atsumu takes in the sight of the man before him—all chiseled bones and moody eyes, and says, “I could say the same about ya.”

Their lips crash and it isn’t sweet or languid. It’s hot and rushed and wet, tongues licking around each other’s jaw, and teeth smattering, sinking into lip, drawing slivers of blood, metallic and bitter all at once. Atsumu’s chest aches as he thinks, this feels wrong. But he ignores the premonition, as the stranger’s mouth descends, skimming lower and lower—down his chin, neck, collarbone, chest, waist—hips coming to meet halfway. In response, Atsumu fists his hands into the stranger’s hair.

But dark hair turns to tangerine coloured waves, soft and light in his hands. And in his alcohol-induced haze, he sees Shouyou, tilting his head up towards Atsumu, asking, is it good, Tsumu? Am I good for you? Eyes tender, cheeks rosy like ambrosia. And Atsumu would always say, the best. You’re the best for me, Shouyou-kun.

“Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu moans out loud. The stranger pauses, looking up at Atsumu like he’s being funny. “The name’s Shinji. Shinji Mashiro. Who’s Shouyou-kun?”

All the fervour bleeds out of Atsumu’s skin. In its place is panic, flooding his senses as he realises he’s really just mistaken this stranger for Shouyou, that he’s conjured up his ex while making out with somebody else. And then, a bone-crushing sadness, filling his void with shades of the sea and the sky, blues upon blues, because Atsumu hasn’t really gotten over Shouyou at all. Because the truth is, he might never. 

Atsumu retracts, feeling even more sober than he did before stepping into the club. 

“I’m sorry. I have to go.”

He texts Gao that he’s leaving first, squeezing through the mass of people and out into the cool night breeze. There are wisps of clouds in the sky, and suddenly Atsumu misses all the stars of Hyougo, craves the warmth of sunshine incarnate. It’s 3am and he doesn’t know where to go. Because home is where the heart is, and right now his heart is seventeen thousand kilometres away, stationed in sea and sand. Ripples ebb through his chest, as he realises, he doesn’t want to go back to his dorm. He doesn’t want to stay in Tokyo.

That’s how Atsumu finds himself on the first train to Osaka, eyes heavy from lack of sleep. But his brain is too loud to rest so he opts for watching the scenery outside the window instead—a fiery orb creeping above the horizon, spilling pinks and oranges and golds into sunrise skies. It reminds him of Shouyou’s eyes. Cityscapes bleeding into greenery bleeding into tunnels bleeding into cityscapes. 

Why do you have to go, Atsumu had asked. Because the world is too big for me to settle, came Shouyou’s answer. That day, it had planted a seed of insecurity inside Atsumu’s chest—that Shouyou would always be looking for greener pastures, a space bigger than themselves. It’s just a student exchange, he’ll be gone for only six months and yet, Atsumu had already begun to mourn his absence. He’d wanted him, all or nothing.

He thinks of setting for Shouyou. Then he thinks of Tobio setting for Shouyou, and of Brazil, of Shouyou giving up his chances to play at the intercollegiate championships to fly halfway across the world. He thinks of Shouyou playing beach volleyball with strangers, already making a home out of sand and sea in his short three months there thus far.

Osamu’s apartment is a small, dingy place near the culinary institute he’s studying at. Tiny and cramped, vastly different from the luxurious ensuite dorm Atsumu got to stay in courtesy of his volleyball scholarship. But the few times Atsumu had been there, he’d always been surprised at the way his brother made a home out of the space—walls lined with photos of Inarizaki and family, smells of home cooked food, a growing cutlery and condiment collection. 

It’s eight in the morning and Atsumu is standing outside Osamu’s door. He smells steaming white rice and the fermented scent of miso, his stomach growling in response. He rings the doorbell and hears the sounds of feet scurrying, metal clanging, the gas turning off. Osamu opens the door with a scowl on his face. “What on earth are ya doing here?”

It’s surficially provocative, unwelcome, a cocksure way for them to ease into banter, barb rallies, because that’s just how they communicate. On a normal day, Atsumu would turn up armed with an arsenal of retorts: just checking to see if you haven’t died yet or had a bad day and needed to look at you to feel better about myself. But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.

He must look crestfallen because Osamu softens. “What happened?”

And then Atsumu crumples. “Samu, I fucked up. I really fucked up.”

蓝

Right before the serve, Atsumu raises his fist, curling his knuckles tight. Black enveloping around him—lightless, soundless. He’s always liked existing within that vacuum. There are times though, when he sees blue, cerulean splinters that slice through the dark. It’s something he has come to accept as part and parcel of life. Cerulean, when his teammates shunned him during middle school. Cerulean, when his parents got a divorce. Cerulean, the time his grandmother needed surgery for her kidney. Cerulean, when Osamu told him he was quitting volleyball after high school. Cerulean, now, missing Shouyou.

When Atsumu met Shouyou for the first time, he had seen gold.

Life doesn’t stop for you despite the blues—it’s something he has known all too well. Painting blacks over blues, blacks over blues. Today, he stands here in Waseda, and a promising future of volleyball still awaits him. Atsumu scrapes through his finals, becomes captain, and the semester comes to an end. In the first half of summer, he goes back to Hyougo with Osamu—trips to sake breweries and oden stands; Shinsuke’s rice farm, where Osamu buys a bag and makes yaki onigiri with. Kisses from grandma, who asks about Shouyou, and Atsumu tries not to remember last summer—stealing kisses on the bunk bed when they’d been sure Osamu had fallen asleep; passing a volleyball in his backyard, when the sun had just peeked above the horizon, staining the sky with warm pastels; lazy conversations with grandma, who had loved, still loves, Shouyou so, so much.

From: Omi kun

We’re going to pick Hinata up from the airport tomorrow. 

(seen.)

In the second half of summer, Atsumu goes back to Tokyo. His heart mourns the tranquility of home, the ease of breathing there, but he also misses playing volleyball. Or maybe, he just doesn’t know how to feel about seeing Shouyou again. 

On the first day of their return, Atsumu bumps into him in the hallways. His breath hitches in his throat as he takes in the sight of Shouyou, kissed by the Brazilian sun, glowing in the sideway sunlight. If he’d thought that fresh-out-of-high-school Shouyou was devastating, seeing this Shouyou is an entirely different experience altogether. Hiding beneath tanned skin are the plane of his shoulders, hollow of his neck, bird bones of his fingers; and Atsumu’s hands remember kneading into them, the heat of Shouyou’s flesh thick against his palm.

Shouyou startles, tightening his grip on the luggage handle because between the both of them, he’s always worn his heart on his sleeve. He’s never needed a reason not to. Atsumu, on the other hand, tries not to wince at the stricken expression on Shouyou’s face. He puts on his business smile—one that’s courteous enough for the situation, without spilling any of the emotions bubbling underneath. 

“Yer back, Shouyou-kun.”

“Hello, Atsumu-san,” he laughs nervously. Atsumu pretends his heart doesn’t sink at the use of honorifics. 

“Are you doing well? How long have you been back in Japan?” As if he hasn’t memorised the dates, as if he hasn’t stared at Kiyoomi’s message until his vision turned blurry.

“It’s been a couple of weeks. I managed to get over the jet lag rather quickly, so that’s good.” Another nervous chuckle slips out, as he loosens his grip on the handle, letting the suitcase slide between his feet.

“How have you been, Atsumu-san? Did you go back to Hyougo?” 

“Better than ever,” Atsumu lies, folding his arms behind his head, nails digging into palms where they brush against his hair, “and yeah, I did.”

“How’s Miya-obaasan?” Shouyou presses, eyes lighting up at the mention of Atsumu’s grandmother. It makes the setter feel weak, control seeping out of him in waves, and he’s almost resentful at the way Shouyou’s presence softens his resolve. 

“She’s good. Doted on me a lot, cooked all my favourite meals too.” Atsumu keeps his answers short and curt, afraid that if the conversation extends he might just end up spiralling.

“Ah,” Shouyou sighs, “I miss her soba noodles.”

She misses you too. I miss—

“Well, I better get back to my room. Got lots of unpacking to do. See you around at practice, Atsumu-san!” the orange haired-man waves, ducking off into the corner with his luggage in tow. Atsumu feels his heart squeeze, sees the blue peeking out beneath chipped black paint. Right, because he and Shouyou are reduced to small talk now, when conversations had been so easy before. When they had bared their hearts out to each other on the dorm roof, pretending that the satellites in Tokyo’s light-polluted night skies were stars.

That night, Atsumu sees blue, and then black, and then copper, the colour of Shouyou’s skin. Remembers the salt of his neck, the press of epidermis against his hands. Remembers the time he’d made out with a stranger at the club and even then, all he could think of was Shouyou—tanned skin, muscled flesh, bright orange curls. Atsumu reaches a hand into his pants, the taste of shame bitter on his tongue.

The next day, he sees Shouyou again at their first practice of the summer. Well, for Shouyou, it’s been close to eight months since he’s last trained with the Waseda team. Atsumu had felt bitter, knowing Shouyou’s decision to go to Brazil would keep him in the second string, possibly up till the end of Atsumu’s volleyball stint in college. In the initial months, he’d struggled with resentment, at the thought of not having a chance to set for Shouyou in an official game during his four years here. 

In his periphery, Atsumu watches Shouyou chatter excitedly with the juniors. He’s got an arm thrown around Tobio, who sits by his side, and there’s none of the usual stoicness on the setter’s face. In fact, Tobio looks relaxed—happy, even, and something curls in Atsumu’s gut, dark and smouldering. Kiyoomi, who’s more observant than anyone would give him credit for, catches Atsumu staring. He gives him a withering look.

It’s strange, not having the seniors around. Atsumu’s heart swells as he thinks of Koutarou and his antics, Aran and his familiarity. Change is something Atsumu still grapples with. Change, changes, like tides, shifting in the spaces between his fingers. Slipping through them, out of his control. Sure, on the court, Atsumu’s always changing—he takes apart his weapons and rebuilds them into something new altogether. We don’t need memories, his school motto had said. Off it, though, he doesn’t know how to deal with them. Atsumu only has his smarmy grin to count on amidst the shifting currents.

He spends the most part of training syncing up with players who've been promoted from the second string. Taketora is a well-rounded player, especially impressive with his defense, unlike what Atsumu had expected from his boisterous nature. His offense could use more control though, and Atsumu accommodates for that with his tosses. On the flipside, Kenrou could afford more power in his offense, and Atsumu relays his expectations curtly. 

He tries to immerse himself in training, in the technicalities of it, but still, his eyes can’t help wandering to the other side of the court, where the second string players are. Atsumu watches as Shouyou jumps, higher than ever, legs pushing off the ground with even more solidity than before. He immediately thinks of the Brazilian sand, how it isn’t as kind and forgiving as solid ground. The incredible sense of balance he’s built up as a result, in a mere six months. He watches as Shouyou and Tobio do their infamous freak quick, stunning the opponent team who hasn’t had to deal with their combination for months, and the tightness in his gut curls even more deeply. 

To everyone’s surprise, Shouyou even manages an emergency set, which the first string players pause to spectate briefly. Atsumu thinks of beach volleyball and its two-on-two setting, Shouyou babbling enthusiastically about its game style in the initial months when they were still talking to each other. He’d wanted to do everything at once—toss, score points, defend; and here, his play is a testimony of that. Atsumu feels an amalgamation of feelings—pride, envy, and perhaps regret, settling in the pit of his stomach, fluttery around the edges. Kiyoomi serves a ball to his head and the setter actually concurs that he deserves it.

“You still have feelings for him,” Kiyoomi states matter-of-factly during their water break. Atsumu stills momentarily, before breaking into one of his fake grins. “Still so interested in my love life, I see, Omi-kun? Ya don’t have to check around for my feelings, y’know? Just ask me out on a date already.”

“Gross. I’d rather die single than stand within a five metre radius of you,” the outside hitter retorts, stalking off with his filled water bottle. Atsumu keeps his pasty smile on, though his fists remain clenched, nails digging into palms to claw out the shaky feeling in his chest.

It doesn’t go away. 

Cerulean, pouring around him like a waterfall.

He doesn’t interact much with Shouyou after that. They train in their individual strings, Atsumu catching sporadic glimpses of an orange whirlwind from his side of the court. Sometimes, they bump into each other at the hallways but the exchanges are always brief—small talk and business smiles and the slightly pained look on Shouyou’s face, the one he tries and fails at obscuring. The sight of it floods Atsumu with shades of blue.

How are you, Atsumu-san? Did you sleep well, Atsumu-san? When they had been the first to know about each other’s day, routines and habits so ingrained into their minds that such questions had been redundant. When Atsumu used to fall asleep with Shouyou snuggled into his chest every night, touch and scent and breath to chase the fringes of his dreams. 

The week before the academic year starts again, Atsumu has his last summer training camp with the volleyball team. On his tongue lies the bittersweet flavour of nostalgia, a ceaseless reminder of all the changes that are to come. He pours himself into training, exerting his body, relishing in the sweat and post-workout endorphins. Wills himself not to fixate too much on Shouyou, not to let his eyes drift away from the leather ball in his hands. 

But training camp means you’ll hear his voice in the canteen during lunch, bright and pealing. It means you’ll pass by an empty gym after official training hours and find him there, as hungry for growth, as passionate as the first time you’d seen him. It means sharing a hall with your other teammates, sleeping bodies sprawled over multiple futons, and being aware of all the space between yours and his, when you’d slept together every night in the past. 

Atsumu tries to get it together, he really does. But sometimes, no matter how much black you paint over the blue, you can’t win your feelings. You can’t help succumbing to them. It’s the fifth day and Atsumu carries a tray to the canteen, making his way over to Gao’s table. All of a sudden, he hears Shouyou’s laughter cut through the room, tinkers of a windchime. Flecked at his sides are Tsutomu and Tobio, seemingly bickering about something trivial. In the evening, Atsumu is looking for a quiet gym to do serve practice and finds Shouyou and Tobio there. Shouyou jumping higher than Atsumu has ever seen him, Tobio being the one to bring out the best in him. Yet again, when Atsumu had foolishly promised to toss for Shouyou one day. He’s back where he’s started.

The next day, Atsumu sets for Kourai during practice. But his brain short-circuits and, just like that time with the stranger at the bar, silver hair turns into tangerine-hued waves and Atsumu sees Shouyou , leaping into the air, specks of gold dancing in amber irises as if to say, aren’t you going to toss for me, Tsumu? Atsumu tosses, but it’s lightning-quick and Kourai misses the ball, turning to glare at the setter because that toss clearly wasn’t meant for him.

“What the hell are you doing, Miya?” he screeches. Atsumu’s heart begins palpitating rapidly, reverberating around his chest in an erratic rhythm. Air seems to be squeezed out of his lungs, and he tries to time his breaths, but each inhale feels like a punch to the ribs. Jitters traverse to the surface of his skin, tingly and electric to the touch. Belatedly, Atsumu realises he’s going to have a full-on meltdown in the gym.

“Bathroom,” he spits out, stumbling out of the court. He doesn’t actually make it that far, legs giving out just as he turns round the corridor, body slumping against the wall. Atsumu tries to inhale deeply again—one, two, one, two, but his lungs are pushing out the exhales faster than they could take in oxygen. There’s no black, just blues upon blues upon blues, an ocean of cerulean where he drowns in. All he can see is cerulean, so much that he doesn’t realise his body is shaking, that Kiyoomi has followed him and is now standing motionless at the corner.

After what feels like forever, the convulsions fade out into a lackadaisical buzz and he lets out shuddery breaths, tears slipping out unknowingly from his eyes. Kiyoomi saunters apprehensively towards him.

“How long have ya been standing here?” Atsumu asks, too tired to be snarky. The outside hitter doesn’t say anything, merely thrusting a water bottle in Atsumu’s direction and Atsumu takes it, guzzling down the liquid. He feels slightly calmer after drinking.

Kiyoomi’s face is unreadable but Atsumu thinks he understands the intent behind his eyes, that Kiyoomi must think he’s being so childish, breaking down in the middle of practice because he’s stupidly caught in his feelings. Anger streaks up Atsumu’s spine, white-hot and dangerous. He feels it effervescing through his bloodstream, flooding every instinct with heat, and it brings him back to yesteryear, when he’d flared up at everyone around him. The disappointed look in his mother’s eyes whenever that happened, burning at the back of his eyelids. Like this, he snaps at Kiyoomi, “I know what ya must be thinking. That I’m childish as fuck, that I can’t own up to my feelings or some shit. That I’m a coward and now I’ve gone ahead and made myself look stupid and okay, I proved you right. Go ahead, laugh at me, Omi-kun.”

The outside hitter is quiet for a moment and Atsumu simmers in his own heat, skin flushed from anger. Then, Kiyoomi says, “You always expect the worst of me, Miya.” 

Hesitantly, he takes a few steps forward, joining Atsumu at the wall.

“Thought ya wouldn’t want to stand within a five-metre radius of me,” the setter barks, refusing to let the resentment subside. Because at the end of the day, the burn of anger is still easier to deal with than the cerulean shade of sadness. Kiyoomi lapses into another bout of silence and Atsumu knows he’s keeping quiet in some valiant attempt to wait for him to calm down. The thought of that only makes him angrier because of course Kiyoomi is the mature one, and Atsumu is the childish fuck-up who still throws tantrums, who hasn’t grown up from that temperamental boy in middle school—

“I get that too. The breakdowns, I mean,” Kiyoomi suddenly confesses. Atsumu is struck with the abruptness of that admission, and his anger flatlines. “What?”

“I get really bad anxiety sometimes. I’ve had my fair share of failed relationships and I hate dealing with feelings, as much as the kid next door does.”

“Why are ya telling me this?” asks Atsumu, deflated after wringing himself through that rollercoaster of emotions. 

“Look, it’s disgusting but I think that we might have more similarities than we think,” Kiyoomi sighs and despite himself, Atsumu barks out a laugh.

“Drawin’ similarities between us now, Omi-kun? Takin’ our relationship to the next level?”

Kiyoomi bites on his lower lip, as though he’s biting back a retort to Atsumu’s smarminess, thinly veiled as flirtations. It reminds the setter once again of his own immaturity. 

“I know what you’re doing, Miya. Just- listen to me. It’s taking a lot out of me to tell you this so please listen.”

“Ya don’t have to, y’know? If it’s taking this much out of ya, if it’s so hard to talk to me-”

“Miya,” Kiyoomi warns. He sounds more desperate than annoyed and Atsumu’s heart sinks at the tone of his voice. Another beat of silence, and he watches the dark haired-man inhale deeply, collecting his words in that space of breath. “I had been in a relationship once. Things ended badly and it really messed me up. I’d lose myself in volleyball and cleaning and school but it still caught up with me. I couldn’t run from it.”

Atsumu isn’t used to this—the honesty which Kiyoomi is handing to him with open palms, when all he’s known is disparagement. Kiyoomi’s vulnerability settles inside of him, soft and warm, abstruse around the edges. Almost reluctantly, he feels the remaining traces of anger subside, diffusing from his skin. 

“But I’ve gotten help. It made me realise that the breakup was just the catalyst for all the feelings I buried within.”

The rational part of Atsumu knows that Kiyoomi’s right. He isn’t a stranger to therapy and medication. He knows the cerulean hues have long existed inside him, way before he’d even met Shouyou. It doesn’t sting any less to think about, though.

“Are ya saying that I should get help?” he wheezes, more nervous than accusing. 

“That’s not up to me to decide, Miya. What I’m saying is acknowledging what you feel goes a long way.”

Atsumu thinks of the way cerulean spilled from his chest, overflowing, relentless. It terrifies the crap out of him—no matter how many breakdowns he’s had over the years, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the breathlessness, panic gripping him like razor-sharp nails clutched around his throat. But he understands what Kiyoomi is saying, that painting black over blue doesn’t mean the blue will stop existing. There are demons in his head, and Atsumu has to learn to live with them.

Kiyoomi’s eyes are hesitant, like he doesn’t know how much it’s okay for him to say. Still, he tells Atsumu, “You know that Hinata still cares about you, right?”

The setter scoffs, “Yeah right, of course he does.”

“Look, Miya. I understand if you expect the worst of me. But you can expect the best from Hinata and he’d still beat those expectations every time.”

And Atsumu has nothing to say to that, because Kiyoomi is absolutely right.

蓝

Atsumu feels less asphyxiated after the conversation with Kiyoomi. He breathes easier, thoughts looser around the edges. It still hurts—the gravity of what he feels for Shouyou is something he cannot fathom, something he doesn’t want to unravel just yet, but at least he’s not brimming with emotion. At least, he isn’t threatening to burst at the seams. The semester starts again, and Atsumu lets himself get swept up in its wave.

“It’s your turn to get the groceries,” Kiyoomi commands, peering at the contents, or lack thereof, in the fridge. Atsumu groans, “We have a dining hall.”

“And you still choose to eat instant ramen anyway. That isn’t an excuse,” the outside hitter rebuts without missing a beat. 

“But it’s cold out there, Omi-kun. Surely ya don’t want yer precious captain to freeze to death?” he whines.

“That’s my whole point, Miya. I don’t want to be the one who freezes out there.”

“Ruthless, Omi-kun! Yer absolutely ruthless!” 

Atsumu finds himself putting on a jacket and leaving the dorm anyway. Outside, the air is chilly, leaving prickles on his skin. Wisps of clouds dot the sky above, colouring it with monochrome, save the thin rays of sunlight that filter through spaces between. A breeze sweeps through the air and Atsumu shivers, quickening his footsteps towards the minimart.

Thankfully, Kiyoomi’s shopping list is short and precise. Atsumu revels in the heating, weaving through aisles and placing items in his basket with the practised ease that comes with being Kiyoomi’s housemate for the past three years. There’s a sense of domestic comfort about grocery shopping, but he pauses that train of thought, unwilling to let it drift towards Shouyou territory, because grocery shopping had been one of their favourite activities to do. Instead, he wonders about Osamu’s life at culinary school, if his day-to-day routines include weaving through supermarket aisles with a full basket in tow, like this.

God must really love pulling jokes on Miya Atsumu because when he reaches the self checkout counters, he finds Shouyou, packing groceries into reusable bags. His heart skips a beat, fight or flight instincts kicking in, but Kiyoomi’s words decide, at this moment, to ring clear in his head: You know that Hinata still cares about you, right? You can expect the best from Hinata and he’d still beat those expectations every time. 

In the brief seconds that Atsumu’s feet stay pathetically rooted to the ground, Shouyou notices him, the corners of his lips tugging upwards into a small smile. There’s a wistfulness to it that he cannot put his finger on. Atsumu, feeling less tense than he has in weeks, smiles back instinctually, and it’s one of his genuine smiles, not the business ones or the smarmy ones. When he realises what he’s done, he freezes up, shopping basket dangling haphazardly from fingers curled tight around the handle. He checks out his purchases, fully expecting Shouyou to walk off first, but the orange haired-man stays there waiting for him. Extending an olive branch.

For all of his avoidant personality, Atsumu is glad that Shouyou is waiting for him, smiling at him. It’s a nice change from the strained, brief exchanges that they’ve had so far. He pictures the olive branch he’s been handed and wonders if he’s finally ready for them to be friends again. Blue flares in Atsumu’s chest at the thought of that—how much he’s missed Shouyou as a friend, as much as he’s missed him as a partner. How much he’s missed Shouyou being a part of his life.

Atsumu bags the items and saunters towards Shouyou, heart speeding up. His skin feels clammy, flushed with nervousness; palms sweaty, and it’s like he’s meeting Shouyou for the first time all over again. Because the bitter truth is, it’s been months since they’ve been alone together like this.

Shouyou raises the bags in his hands, a cheeky smile playing around his lips and oh, just looking at it makes Atsumu’s nerves sing. “Help me carry these to the dorms?” he asks. A second olive branch. 

Atsumu’s eyes skim over the broad span of Shouyou’s shoulders, the muscles rippled into his arms, and thinks that it’s so ridiculous he’s asking for help with carrying the bags. “You don’t look like ya need help with those.”

For some reason, it sets them both off into a laughing fit, Shouyou doubled over, eyes shimmering with pure mirth, always the person to seek maximum joy from any situation. Atsumu feels the lingering remnants of tension seep out of his skin, eyes flitting over to Shouyou, committing the image of flushed skin and laugh lines to memory. It’s a wonder, that after all those months of fighting and crying and avoiding, he’s managed to make Shouyou laugh like that again.

They walk together to the dorms. Atsumu finds himself wishing that the route were longer, that the weather was colder—anything to extend this sacred time that they have, because he doesn’t know if they’ll get this again. If, afterwards, he won’t sit on this moment for too long and then fall apart completely.

“Ya bought a lot of groceries.”

“ Well, dining hall food isn’t the best. My cooking skills have improved in Brazil, seriously! I prefer cooking for myself these days, at least I know what’s going into my plate. You gotta eat your best to play your best, y’know?” 

“I wouldn’t doubt that,” scoffs Atsumu.

“They’re nowhere near as good as Osamu-san’s though! Man, I miss his onigiri.”

“Don’t tell him that, he’ll let it get to his head.”

Shouyou laughs again, the one that sounds like sunshine and windchimes. Warmth sinks into Atsumu’s bones. Shouyou scans the contents in Atsumu’s bags, saying, “Looks like Omi-san is still the same! Always buying the organic stuff.”

“Yeah, it burns a hole in our allowance.”

“Organic stuff is good for your body though. I’d get more of those if I wasn’t running on a budget.”

Atsumu wonders what happened to Shouyou in Brazil, in the three months after they’ve stopped keeping in contact. He’s conjured numerous images in his head—Shouyou at the peak of a mountain, Shouyou standing between sand and sea and sky. Shouyou, always the light of the room, even seventeen thousand kilometres away on foreign land. But here, Atsumu discovers that Shouyou has been cooking more, and has new preferences for organic produce. He lets these recent pieces of information settle into his brain, and it only makes him hungrier, greedier to learn more.

“What else have ya done in Brazil? Besides cooking, I mean,” he finds himself spurting out. Shouyou is visibly surprised at the question, and Atsumu can’t fault him—Brazil had been the reason that drove them apart after all. Or at least, that’s what Atsumu thought.

“I mentioned once that I wanted to try meditating, right?” The setter nods his head. “For the last couple of months I was there, I managed to do so every morning. It’s harder to translate that practice into habit here in Japan, though. But I’m still trying. Oh, I also picked up yoga! It’s still a work in progress however.”

Atsumu drinks that all in—in particular, the image of Shouyou meditating in front of the Brazilian sun. For some reason, he finds that the most devastating.

“Ya played beach, right? I see that it’s been helping ya with indoor.”

Shouyou’s eyes light up, catching the mid-afternoon sun rays. “Really?! You noticed?”

“I saw that emergency set ya did during last practice. It was pretty cool.”

Shouyou practically glitters in Atsumu’s praise and the setter feels warm to his toes. “Thank you, Atsumu-san.”

They reach the dorms a little more quickly than Atsumu would’ve liked. Just as Shouyou turns into his room, he stops to gaze at the setter, and there’s a meaningful look in his eyes which Atsumu cannot decipher. Flecks of gold dancing in brown orbs, bringing out the reds in his irises. Atsumu feels his gaze more than sees it—an indiscernible language that sinks into his skin, shuddering into his veins. 

“It’s really nice talking like this, Atsumu-san. Thank you, I mean it. I hope to see you again soon.”

蓝

They still don’t interact much after that encounter, but whenever they do, the conversation feels lighter, less strained. It’s nowhere near the bond they used to have, but Atsumu takes it, hope swelling dangerously within him at the thought of being friends with Shouyou again—something he hadn’t expected you could do with an ex whom you loved (still love) so deeply, something he hadn’t dared hope for with the messy way they broke up.

In the third week of the semester, Kourai hosts an unofficial welcome party for the incoming VBC freshmen at his dorm. Everyone in the team attends, sans Kiyoomi, whom Atsumu has given up attempting to drag along to parties ever since their first year in college together. The dorm is bursting with people when he arrives, and Atsumu is once again amazed at the way an entire horde of men fit into Kourai and Gao’s three-room. The space is dim, illuminated only by flickering projector lights, casting shades of red, green, and blue over everybody’s faces. Music spills from the speakers, soft enough for people to speak over, and the furniture in the common area are pushed towards the sides to create a makeshift dance floor. 

He finds Aran at the drinks table, who’s made time to come down before he officially starts training with the Tachibana Red Falcons. Atsumu pours himself a cup of whiskey, wincing at the astringent taste when he takes a sip. The alcohol burns around his throat.

Back in high school, Atsumu used to ramble his head off while Aran listened quietly, punctuating his tirades with words of advice that made more sense than the Miya twin would like to admit. Today, they lapse into a comfortable silence, something that comes with a decade-long friendship, with growing up. 

They watch as Tsutomu brags drunkenly about his achievements to a group of freshmen who Atsumu is sure is only listening out of politeness, as Taketora absolutely annihilates Yuudai in an arm-wrestling match, then making a show to rip his shirt off and spin it in the air to celebrate. There’s Kourai, who’s currently dancing with none of the fluidity he usually possesses at the clubs. Intoxicated, he looks more like a fish out of water. At the sight of Rintarou sneakily taking videos from the corner, Aran lets out an endeared chuckle.

Then Shouyou enters the apartment and Atsumu’s heart skips a beat. He looks devastating, to say the least—tanned skin contrasting nicely against the silky white dress shirt that he adorns, tucked into leather pants and layered with a black coat, which he removes and drapes over his arm. The muted colours of his outfit bring out the intense shades of clementine in his hair. Atsumu drinks in the span of his shoulders, the broadness of his chest, accentuated by the fit of his shirt, and chases the staggering attraction with a cherry-topped vodka shot.

Behind Shouyou is Tobio, Atsumu notices sourly. Tobio’s always been a big source of insecurity for Atsumu, a driving factor of most arguments he’s had with Shouyou even before he’d gone to Brazil. Atsumu can’t help it—he’s always reminded of the three years they had together as friends before Atsumu even got to know Shouyou properly. It shows in their synergy, on and off the court, even now, as Shouyou successfully drags a sulky Tobio into the middle of the party. Atsumu downs another shot, fixating on the lingering fieriness it leaves in his throat and not how awful it tastes. 

“Slow down, Atsumu,” chides Aran but before the setter could retort, Kourai sweeps in, lugging Atsumu to the beer pong table. Might as well, Atsumu thinks, as he may or may not intentionally miss a few balls just to find an excuse to chug more alcohol. Vodka, he decides, is another foolproof method of painting blacks over blues, even if it’s just for one night. He likes the heat and the haze, ambiguities that subdue the loudness of his thoughts. 

Even amidst the clouded atmosphere, Atsumu’s eyes naturally flicker to where Shouyou is in the room. Shouyou, who’s egging Tobio on as the dark haired-setter plays the drinking version of rock, paper, scissors with some overexcitable freshman. Shouyou, who’s giggling with Koutarou over something on the phone. Shouyou, who’s peer pressured into having a few drinks (he, like Kiyoomi, usually avoids alcohol like the plague—something about how it affects his performance, of course ), who now wears a light flush on his cheeks, the same rosiness reflected on Atsumu’s face.

Everytime, their eyes meet.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the music, upbeat tones fading into relaxed, lo-fi melodies as the night draws out. Maybe it’s the constant maneuvering between the mass of warm bodies in the room. Maybe it’s just a figment of his imagination, but Atsumu feels them pulling toward each other with every gaze, the colours in their eyes intensifying each time. Muddled ambers and darkened greys. Rationality drips from his consciousness, unspooling like a loose thread.

As the night comes to an end, Atsumu escapes to the balcony, nursing one final glass of whiskey in his hands. It’s chilly but he relishes in the cold, hoping it would temper the heat of his thoughts. Shouyou’s gaze still branded onto the surface of his skin, a blistering mark. Most of all, beneath the layers of fever and ethyl, there's the unmistakable feeling of want.

Clearly, god hates him because Shouyou comes breaking into the balcony just then, all messy hair and cheeks suffused with colour, no less devastating than the first time he walked into the room. A smile spreads across his face when he finds Atsumu standing there too. 

“Atsumu-san, what are you doing here?” 

“Just needed to get some air, Shouyou-kun. Might have drank a little too much.”

Shouyou lets out a bright laugh and god, it’s so electrifying to hear up close. Atsumu lets the sound shudder into his skin, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The orange haired-man scoots forward to stand next to him and they both look out at the view in silence—faculty and dorm buildings separated by greenways and lush gardens, against the backdrop of a starless night sky. 

“You never did know how to control your alcohol intake,” Shouyou suddenly mentions.

“How about ya, Shouyou-kun? I don’t think I’ve ever seen ya drink this much.”

“I’m getting better at it. Went to lots of bars in Brazil!” he chimes. Yet another new, devastating fact Atsumu learns about Shouyou, which he instantly files in the archives of his brain. The setter turns his face and finds that Shouyou is now staring at him, irises incandescent with that same, nameless emotion, the one that burns into his skin.

“Where’s Tobio-kun anyway?” Atsumu chokes out, the remaining threads of his rationality unravelling at an exponential speed.

“He went back to his room a while ago,” Shouyou replies, swallowing thickly. Atsumu’s eyes immediately track the hollow of his throat as it bobs up and down. Along with the whispery edges of Shouyou’s voice, he feels the electricity between them exacerbate, sparking the air with a nervous energy. The world around them peels away, their surroundings blurred like watercolours spilled over a blank canvas. Abstract around the edges. He sinks into the tension.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Atsumu knows that this is a terrible idea. Shouyou’s cheeks are still flushed from alcohol and Atsumu catches his reflection in the other’s eyes, sees scarlet mirrored on his own cheeks. He's not sure if they’re both sober enough to be making mature decisions and yet, when Shouyou takes one step forward, and another, Atsumu doesn’t stop him. In the proximity, where he feels Shouyou’s breath ghosting the skin under his nose, all the words die in his throat.

“Atsumu.” It makes the setter tremble, the familiarity with which Hinata holds his name in his mouth. Atsumu recognises that voice, sticky with want—he’s heard it one too many times, by the lockers, in shared bathrooms, on too-small beds.

“Shouyou-kun…”

Shouyou reaches out a hand to cup his face, the press of fingers burning where they graze his skin, and Atsumu wills himself not to flinch. 

"Shouyou-kun, are ya drunk?"

"Am not," the orange haired-man breathes out, "am not at all, Atsumu-san. What about you?" 

Atsumu doesn't know how to explain that Shouyou's touch alone has awakened every fiber in his body, concentrating his consciousness where fingers meet skin. He shakes his head weakly.

“Let me know if I’m reading this wrong,” Shouyou says and suddenly, the distance between them evaporates as their mouths slide together, lining up and slotting in place with the kind of familiarity that was built over the years they were together. Muscle memory, the way Atsumu’s hand never forgets the feel of a volleyball leaving his palm. Hinata still tastes as sweet as he remembers, an underlying saccharine flavour buried beneath layers of salt and moisture.

They pull apart for a brief moment and Atsumu sees it—the cracks in his void, cerulean spilling out from the fissures, expanding the gaps. His chest aches with the motion, and there’s a dazed look in Shouyou’s eyes that Atsumu cannot decipher but Shouyou is leaning forward again, crashing their lips and the setter’s vision is temporarily flooded with copper and red. He imprints these colours to memory, an excuse to hold onto amidst the pouring blues, as he nibbles on Shouyou’s lower lip to ease his mouth open. Just the way he likes it, and Atsumu knows, because Shouyou lets out a moan, the sound vibrating around his throat.

Atsumu threads his fingers through the other’s hair, tugging on the scalp in some pathetic attempt to feel in control. But Shouyou doesn’t let up, licking around Atsumu’s jaw, his tongue heavy, wet, and slick in the setter’s mouth. 

“Your place or my place?” Shouyou breaks away to ask, gasping against the ridge of Atsumu’s collar. His voice is laced with want and it only makes the setter hungrier, greedier. 

“Omi-kun-”

Shouyou immediately understands. “My place then.”

The whole time they’re stumbling towards Shouyou’s dorm Atsumu doesn’t keep his hands off him. They pause at streetlamps so Atsumu can mouth at his neck, hands flying under his shirt to press on the small of his back. Fuck it, he thinks as he ignores the cerulean, succumbing to heat and want, digging his nails into Shouyou’s skin until the orange haired-man is relenting too, coming undone. The voice telling Atsumu that this is a terrible idea is still present in his mind, but muddled and repressed underneath the lust. He’s aware that this moment will come back to bite him in the future, that cerulean is seeping out of his skin and spilling into the real world, with real consequences to deal with afterwards. That he’s touching Shouyou with blue, too.

The first thing Atsumu realises when he reaches the dorm is how much he’s missed Shouyou’s scent. It almost makes him choke up—the amalgamation of sweat, skin, and something lightly citrusy, existing everywhere in Shouyou’s sheets. But he’s not here to be sentimental, he reminds himself, so Atsumu pulls Shouyou down onto the bed, until the shorter man is straddling his hips.

In between states of various undress, they don’t stop kissing. Atsumu drinks it all in ravenously, as if he’s starved for air and Shouyou’s lips are oxygen. Relishing in the moisture, with the useless excuse that if everything goes to shit tomorrow, he might as well enjoy it now. When they’re finally stripped bare, naked bodies pressed flush against each other, Shouyou’s eyes take on an incandescent clarity for just a moment. The sight of it makes Atsumu’s heart skip a beat but he forces himself to level his gaze.

“Atsumu-san, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

The truth is, Atsumu doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he’ll wake up with that same bone-crushing sadness again, if this entails endless days of drowning in cerulean, being pushed down by its waves before he can even come up for air. He doesn’t know if things will change between them again, if things have already changed so irrevocably that they’re beyond repair. And it should be a red flag, a telltale sign for him to up and leave before it’s too late and he’s fucked everything up. But Atsumu is selfish and all he registers is want, so he locks his gaze on Shouyou and says, “Yes, I’m sure.”

蓝

Sunlight pours through the blinds, in slats, dappling paper lanterns on Atsumu’s skin. Shouyou’s scent is everywhere, mingled with the sheets, the pillows, and the damp pile of clothes that’s currently scrunched underneath Atsumu’s back. And yet, the space next to him on the bed is empty. Atsumu snaps his eyes open, heartbeat accelerating. For a moment, he’s struck with panic at the thought that he’s really gone and fucked everything up, that Shouyou had awakened before him and decided that this was a mistake. Half crippled with anxiety, as last night’s events trickle back into his memory; the other half already mourning the loss of Shouyou’s warmth by his side.

But then Atsumu hears the sound of mindless humming, smells the scent of buttermilk and honey. Panic subsides into milder waves of disquiet as he registers that Shouyou is still present in the house and something that’s awfully resembling hope blooms within his chest. He gets out of bed, catching his reflection in the mirror and wincing—patches of red and purple litter his neck, and he doesn’t even want to imagine the marks he’s left behind on Shouyou. Quietly, he pads out of the room.

As it turns out, Shouyou is making breakfast in the kitchenette. Sideway sunlight crowns his head like a halo, playing in his hair and mellowing its colours into a lighter, softer orange. It’s a sight to take in and Atsumu stands there for some long minutes just staring, breath hitched in his throat. It’s all too domestic—Shouyou flipping pancakes whilst humming to himself, Shouyou preparing two warm mugs of hojicha because that’s Atsumu’s favourite type of tea. The fact that he still remembers feels like a punch to the ribs.

Atsumu wishes it were as simple as two friends having breakfast, like the rare occasions Kiyoomi offers to make crepes and coffee for them in the morning. He wishes he didn’t have to put meaning to this. Atsumu knows that if his and Shouyou’s roles were reversed, he wouldn’t be capable of giving so effortlessly. Because at the end of the day, Atsumu still feels so much for Shouyou. All those months between them have not managed to suppress the gravity of his emotions. And last night, as easy as it may have been for Shouyou to agree to, is never going to be a mere hook-up for Atsumu. 

There it is, the all-too-familiar shade of cerulean, pooling around his ankles then rising, rising, rising—

“Atsumu!” Shouyou calls out, having noticed him standing there. The setter flinches, momentarily at a loss for words. Shouyou looks beautiful, body fully turned to face Atsumu, sunlight playing in his skin, and Atsumu feels the remaining traces of heat simmering in his belly. Indeed, there are marks and lovebites of deeper shades, scattered over Shouyou’s collar, along the span of his shoulders. There’re even some tracing along his inner thighs. Atsumu doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Come have breakfast! I made pancakes! Thank god we don’t have morning practice today,” Shouyou rambles, as easy as breathing. Atsumu is almost envious, because on the flipside, he’s ambushed with so much blue he cannot think straight, much less hold a conversation and have breakfast together. 

“Pancakes are the one food I refuse to make healthy substitutes of, like buttermilk is just so much better than oats. It’s okay though, we can cheat for one day-”

“This is just a casual thing, right?” Atsumu blurts out. Because if he labels their fling as such, if he materialises it with the term casual, then it really doesn’t have to mean anything. This way, he can bury his feelings back where they came from, drown cerulean with black, and keep Shouyou in his life as a friend. 

There’s a long moment of silence and Atsumu wonders if he’s crossed a boundary when he spots the slight furrow in Shouyou’s brows. If he’s said something stupid and jeopardised the entire situation altogether. Maybe even casual is too heavy a label for whatever that transpired between them last night, maybe Shouyou had wanted to forget about it all. Atsumu finds that indiscernible emotion in the other’s eyes again and he still doesn’t know how to decode it.

“Okay,” Shouyou breaks the silence, “it could be a casual thing.”

Atsumu lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding. 

蓝

The second time it happens it’s only three days after. Atsumu hasn’t even stewed in his insecurities long enough before he bumps into Shouyou again, in the city of all places. Despite Shouyou’s agreement that it was indeed a casual thing, despite them having pancakes and passably amicable conversations at the dining table, Atsumu had been sure that the other wouldn’t step foot anywhere near him again. Yet here they are, taking the train together back to their college station.

The carriage is packed with commuters and Atsumu finds himself pressed up against Shouyou near the pole, elbows bumping, arms brushing, his chin grazing the top of Shouyou’s head. And three days is too short a time to forget about all the touches shared between them that night, bodies rocking to a rhythm that’s only known to them. Sensations amplified by memory and on Atsumu’s part, by missing Shouyou. So, instead of parting ways at the corridor like friends normally would, he follows him into his dorm. 

Third time’s the charm, Atsumu had stupidly blurted out when coincidentally meeting in the student lounge turned into yet another hook-up. Atsumu knows that these are all terrible decisions but it doesn’t stop him from getting baited into them. The flavour of Shouyou’s lips on his tongue, the press of Shouyou’s skin giving in to his touch—cracking the earth open, spilling cerulean out of his crevices and yet, he still can’t get enough. Shouyou is like a fucking drug and Atsumu should have known the moment he decided to break up with him that there had been no way to escape his inevitability.

When they’re finished, sated bodies sprawled over the sheets, Shouyou suggests watching a movie. In the split second given for his response, Atsumu remembers the times when they were still together, arguing over which movies to watch, Shouyou falling asleep on his shoulder when they’re not even halfway through the film. It tears his heart open to remember, even more so when he’s looking at the other’s current expression—lips stretched into a wide grin as he beams up at Atsumu expectantly, and Atsumu is once again reminded of how easy it is for Shouyou to leave behind past feelings and act normally around him. When it’s so blue for Atsumu.

Still he pastes on a teasing smile, one that falls between smarmy and genuine, and answers, “Sure. First one to fall asleep loses.” 

All the times that happen after, it stops being a coincidence. They eventually sit down and come up with a rough schedule—twice a week at Shouyou’s place, Wednesday nights after practice and Sunday afternoons, their rest days. Thursday mornings he cooks breakfast for Atsumu and it’s true, his culinary skills have improved drastically ever since he came back from Brazil. Atsumu would wake up to crisp, grilled mackerel, slightly charred, permeating his mouth with a nice smokiness. Tamago that’s fluffy as a cloud, balanced with both sweet and savoury notes. It makes him think of home cooked meals, of home, of Osamu.

Meanwhile, on Sunday afternoons, they’ve naturally fallen back into the ritual of watching movies together after sex. Atsumu feels as though he’s falling deeper and deeper into a hole—revisiting the routines they used to follow as a couple, except without any of the mutual love that relationships involved. Shouyou would sling a friendly arm around his shoulder, as he does with any of the guys during team gatherings, while Atsumu quietly burns from the touch, keeping his facial expression as practised as possible. 

It feels good, being together. And then it hurts, when Atsumu leaves Shouyou’s room and returns to his life, the one that he’d carved out with his own hands after walking away from their relationship late last year. It’s blue, blue, blue, and Atsumu knows he should stop but he thinks of all the colours he’ll see when they meet to hook up again—red, copper, orange. Sometimes, when Shouyou has fallen asleep, Atsumu allows himself to stare, taking in his heaving form—button nose scrunching involuntarily, flutter of eyelashes fanning out so prettily. The tiny smile playing around his lips, as if he’s having a good dream. Quiet moments like these, Atsumu swears he sees gold. 

So he lets himself get trapped in this cycle. Keeping his feelings burrowed under the pretense of being Shouyou’s booty call is one way to feel in control, he stupidly decides.

蓝

Atsumu has a terrible idea, and terrible hormones to blame it on. Nevermind that his sex drive has increased a hundredfold ever since that night at the party, he thought he would be better about keeping it in his pants. Still, they haven’t gotten to do it in the past week—Wednesday practice ran late and Shouyou had to go home for the weekend, so Atsumu honestly feels a tad desperate. And desperation manifests in the form of Atsumu texting Shouyou to come over and bang. 

They haven’t hooked up at Atsumu’s place before, solely because Kiyoomi would murder him if he ever found out. Besides, it’s not like Atsumu would want his housemate to know, after the way he’d broken down pathetically in front of him. Hooking up with your ex on the reg is one of the dumbest, most self-sabotaging ideas on the planet and Kiyoomi would never let Atsumu live this down if he found out.

Still, Atsumu’s in luck because the outside hitter currently has a five-hour seminar to attend, one he wouldn’t stop complaining about. And hooking up at Shouyou’s is great, but there’s something filthily hot about doing the deed on his own bed.

From: Shouyou kun

are you sure?

From: Atsumu

Yeah Omi has some long ass boring seminar to attend so it shouldn’t be a problem

From: Shouyou kun

okay, see u in abit!

Less than ten minutes later, Shouyou turns up at Atsumu’s door. He looks devastating in an oversized white tee, body swallowed up by light cotton. Tangerine waves slightly disheveled, bronze skin gleaming under fluorescents, a bright grin etched across his face. Atsumu is hit with a tide of affection, the blue-tinged realisation that he misses him, still misses him, won’t stop missing him—even if they see each other at practice everyday, even if they’re sleeping with each other on the regular, because nothing can make up for what they had lost. Atsumu pushes his sentiments aside and puts on his most sleazy smile, circling his arms around Shouyou’s neck and pulling him into the room.

Atsumu kisses him hungrily, fervently, pushing Shouyou onto the bed and watching as his sleeve droops to reveal skin and collar. It stirs something inside the setter—blazing and wet, as he runs his teeth over epidermis and musculature, mapping out the dips and valleys of Shouyou’s body with his tongue. Fingers digging tightly onto his waist with a kind of crazed desperation that consumes him whole.

“Atsumu-san,” Shouyou asks between gasps, “are you okay?”

Honestly, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be. Still, Atsumu extricates himself from the other and flashes his most convincing smile, one that screams yes of course why wouldn’t I be I’m just here to fuck. And then, their lips are crashing again, hands working to remove every piece of fabric that stands between them, until they’re flesh to flesh, muscle to muscle, skin against skin.

There’s a delicious line of muscle running along the side of Shouyou’s thigh and just as Atsumu’s about to swipe his tongue over it, the door suddenly flies open. They both freeze, and even though the setter’s back is faced towards the door, he doesn’t need to turn around to know who’s there. Shouyou’s widening eyes only confirm that, and the orange haired-man scrambles to get out of the bed, a blanket wrapped around his waist. Atsumu takes a pillow to cover his crotch.

“Omi-san…” Shouyou greets helplessly. The setter dares himself to meet Kiyoomi’s eyes, instantly flinching at the bewildered expression on his face.

“What in the actual fuck.”

“Don’t ya have a seminar?” Atsumu tries asking, but his voice comes out hoarse instead of confident. 

“Yes, it just ended, you dimwit. The seminar started at 10am.”

Oh great, trust Atsumu to mix up the timings. He’s never having sex in his own dorm again. An awkward silence envelops the room before Kiyoomi begins to retract his steps. He doesn’t stop scowling. “I’m going to go bleach my eyes now.”

“Wait, Omi-san! I can leave, this is your dorm,” Shouyou half-yells, putting on his clothes hurriedly. Atsumu mopes at the thought of being left alone to deal with Kiyoomi while his stupid ex gets to escape to his room. Now messily clothed, Shouyou staggers towards the outside hitter, all downturned lips and sheepish eyes. “I’ll explain to you next time.”

“Spare me the details,” Kiyoomi deadpans. Shouyou turns around, mouthing I’ll text you to Atsumu before leaving the room. The setter puts on his shirt and boxers. All the while, he feels his housemate’s glare boring holes into his skin. The silence returns, except this time it’s more tense, livid. Volatile. Kiyoomi’s furious—this much, Atsumu knows, and it’s making him angry too. 

“What’s your problem?” 

“When were you ever gonna tell me that you guys got back together?”

“ Seriously? That’s what yer angry about?” Atsumu snaps, teeth clenched together. He thinks he’ll never get used to this—people who claim to care about him, who end up like the others, mad and frustrated at his mere existence. As if Atsumu doesn’t already spend every waking minute of his life questioning his thoughts and actions, of course the people around him have to do it too. 

“We’re not...we’re not together, fuck. We’re just hookin’ up, okay?” Blue drips out of his faucet, evident in the quivery edges to his voice. 

“How’s that any better? Miya, you still love him. I’m not buying any of this bullshit.”

“I don’t. Ya don’t get to decide what I feel, Omi-kun. Stop putting words in my mouth. People in college fuck all the time, no strings attached. Grow up about it.”

Atsumu’s heartbeat begins to accelerate, reverberating around his chest in an erratic rhythm. He feels some of the oxygen leave his lungs.

“Except that there are strings attached here, Miya. Lie to me, whatever, but you can’t keep lying to yourself.”

At that, Atsumu spills out of control, cerulean leaking from his veins. He feels angry and sad and desperate, but schools his face into one of trained smarminess, the corners of his lips pulling up into a smile, the one he knows that Kiyoomi hates. “Oh, I see what this is about. Yer never really gettin’ over me, huh, Omi-kun? All up in my love life, my sex life, just tell me ya want me-”

“Miya. Atsumu.” Atsumu catches the lividness in his tone, but even still, it doesn’t match up to the sheer disappointment on Kiyoomi’s face, an expression he has seen on so many faces around him—his mother’s, his coach’s, Shinsuke’s, Osamu’s, and Shouyou’s, amalgamated into a single one. Atsumu finally crumples to the ground, knees shaking. Immediately, Kiyoomi speeds to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. But the setter’s fingers are shaking so terribly he can’t even hold it upright. Kiyoomi cups a hand around his trembling fingers, steadying the glass. They lapse into a silence that stretches forever. Atsumu can only hear the sound of his pulsating heart and wait for it to fade out.

When he’s calmed and downed the glass, they both start at the same time, “I’m sorry-”

“No, Omi-kun. I’m sorry. Fuck, I know ya don’t have the hots for me and shit, I just- yeah, I’m sorry.” Because you’re right, you’re absolutely fucking right, Atsumu wants to say but he can’t even admit it to himself, much less aloud to somebody else.

Kiyoomi keeps quiet for a while, mincing over his words. “I’m sorry too, for rubbing my nose in places I shouldn’t be. But look, Miya, I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Atsumu isn’t sure if he’ll ever know.

That night, he has a lot of trouble sleeping, tossing and turning in bed, skin prickling with jitters. He thinks of the past weeks spent with Shouyou in bed, the physicality between them, and all his feelings embedded underneath. It must’ve been a mistake, he knows, because his hands have forgotten how to dip the brush in black, paint it over blue. But he’s reached a point where he doesn’t know how to stop, the pinnacle of self-destruction.

Their dorm building has a rooftop that not many students know about. Access is largely hidden, where you'll have to climb up a dingy, rugged ladder to get on the roof. Generations of people who have come and gone left behind their legacies and mementos in this space—potted plants that have somehow remained alive through the years, watered by nameless individuals; a string of fairy lights draped over the rail, flickering with fault; a tattered mattress in the middle of it all, acting as a makeshift table for food and drinks. Atsumu has come up on a few occasions with close friends, but the one person he spent most of his time here with had been Shouyou.

Back when they were still together, the roof had been their favourite place to hang out. It was where they shared their first kiss, baring their hearts out to each other over konbini suppers, against the backdrop of city lights and starless skies. Atsumu hasn’t come up here ever since they broke up—just the mere memory of it floods him with cerulean, but tonight, he drags his sleepless body to the roof, because self-destruction , right?

He hauls himself up the ladder, the smell of grime and cement filling him with nostalgia. When he makes it through the hole, he spots a familiar, orange haired-figure sitting at the edge. Of course Shouyou has to be here too, because god just loves messing around with Atsumu’s life. 

“Atsumu-san?” he asks, tilting his head. The setter realises he can’t escape now. He swallows thickly, shoving cold hands into his pockets and walking to sit next to Shouyou. Shouyou offers him a half-opened bag of peanuts which he declines.

“Is everything okay with Omi-san?” 

“Yeah, I mean he was shocked-” Atsumu pauses, choosing his words carefully so he won’t expose his feelings, “but I told him we’re just hookin’ up. I mean, it’s not a big deal, right?” He adds a snicker for good measure.

Something indecipherable glazes over Shouyou’s amber eyes, a nameless emotion that Atsumu noticed he’s begun wearing ever since they started sleeping together. He tries not to think too deeply into it. 

“Did ya manage to talk to Omi-kun though?”

“Yeah, I explained to him over dinner,” Shouyou quips, “though we might have to consider never doing it again at your place.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice that makes Atsumu strangely feel like giggling.

“Never,” Atsumu reaffirms with a mock-serious nod and they both break into easy laughter. He feels the tension leave the air between them.

“What are you doing here, Atsumu-san?”

The setter shrugs. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Is everything alright?”

Growing up, the one question Atsumu probably hated being asked most was are you okay? Or, is everything okay? He’d worked so hard painting his obsidian pretense and all it took was one question for the cracks to show, for cerulean to seep through. Even now, as Shouyou is looking at him with expectant eyes, patiently awaiting his answer, Atsumu feels as though his heart is being cleaved into two. No, everything is not alright, because I miss you. Cowardice and bravery, at ends with each other—are you brave for putting up a strong front and pretending it doesn’t hurt? Or are you brave for being vulnerable? Atsumu chooses the former, he always chooses the former.

“Of course I’m alright, Shouyou-kun. What do ya take me for?”

“It’s just- I come up here a lot, Atsumu-san. And I haven’t seen you around.”

The setter feels his heart sink. Quickly, he tries to change the subject, redirecting the conversation back to Shouyou. “What about you, Shouyou-kun? Don’t ya have some strict-as-hell sleeping schedule that you keep to?”

Shouyou chuckles, bright and airy. It warms Atsumu in this chilly weather. “That I do.”

“Tell me about it. Yer diet and sleeping habits...it’s no wonder ya get along with Omi-kun so well.”

The orange haired-man laughs even harder, rows of pearly whites in full show. “Omi-san is an amazing person! I only hope to become someone even half as good as he is.”

“Of course ya want to, Shouyou-kun. Yer both nasty boring freaks,” teases Atsumu as he drinks in Shouyou’s laugh lines, body shaking with amusement. It fills him with a strange sort of pride, being able to make Shouyou laugh like that when months ago, he genuinely believed he’d lost the right to.

“I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about the future. I think going to Brazil really opened my eyes to the world. It made me think a lot about where I want to go, moving on from here.”

“Oh?” 

Shouyou is gazing out at the view and Atsumu sees the city reflected in his irises, scapes and lights blending with gold and amber. He looks so grown up like this—thoughtful and mature, intention lining each and every of his thoughts, speeches, and actions. 

“Do you remember the bet I made with Kageyama in high school? To beat him, to stand on the same stage as him? So many times I had felt he’s gone ahead without me, that you all - have gone ahead without me. I threw my chances of playing at the collegiate championships away to go to Brazil, y’know? It’s an insane decision and I love playing with the Waseda VBC but I’ve always felt I needed to break free from the hold everyone here has on me. I hope it doesn’t sound silly, Atsumu-san, but I really wanted to become a person who’s my own.”

Atsumu thinks of Shouyou threading through makeshift courts on the beaches at Rio, befriending strangers and absorbing various play styles despite the language barrier. He thinks of all the ways these have manifested in Shouyou’s recent plays—his improved defense, his emergency sets. They’re still experimental by nature—six months abroad couldn’t have transformed him overnight, but he’s taken what he’s learnt here to Japan and honed it to something of his own.

“It’s not silly, Shouyou-kun.”

It always made Atsumu angry when people said that Shouyou was nothing without Tobio. Because the first time Atsumu laid eyes on him, he thought he’d never seen something, someone, as unique, as otherworldly as Shouyou—poised in the air like a bird, his invisible wings fully sprouted, court lights playing around his head like a halo. An angel.

“Thank you, Atsumu-san. I just- I’ve worked so hard trying to be my own person but these days it’s as if the hunger is endless. I want so many things for myself, so badly. And I’m not afraid to dream but it makes me feel so much. I’m aware of the long road ahead of me and still, I want more. ”

Atsumu swallows thickly, suddenly running up speechless. “What do you want?”

And Shouyou turns to look at him, eyes incandescent. Blazing, swirling colours. Unnerving, as the first time Atsumu faced him across the net, as the looks Shouyou would give opponents when he’s particularly hyped for a game. It makes all of his hairs raise.

“I think beating Kageyama is just a blanket phrase for what I want, Atsumu-san. What I want, I- it’s so much. I want to play with you for the championships, I want to make it to the first division of the V-League. I want to play overseas. I want to represent Japan in the Olympics,” Shouyou says with so much conviction Atsumu feels the words rippling like shudders through his skin. Then the orange haired-man startles momentarily, folding into himself as though he’s retreating from his own sentiments. “Ah, sorry, Atsumu-san. I rambled too much, didn't I?”

All of a sudden, Atsumu feels silly, as he recalls the arguments he’d picked with Shouyou before when he decided to go to Brazil, when they’d been on opposite ends of the world. Because at the end of the day, there had been no way Atsumu could actually hold Shouyou back—a scavenging crow who devours everything in sight. Because Atsumu had fallen for Shouyou exactly because of that—his ceaseless hunger for growth. 

“Ya didn’t ramble too much, Shouyou-kun.” Atsumu pauses to collect his words, slightly rattled with the honesty which he’s handed. It had been easy before—sharing heart-to-heart conversations on this very roof, but Shouyou’s always been better with talking about his feelings. Unabashed, unashamed. It’s been close to a year since they’ve been here together, this honest together, and Atsumu doesn’t want to fuck it up, especially with how raw and genuine Shouyou had been with his words. 

“I get that too, this hunger inside of me and sometimes it feels like there’s no space for it to grow. Is that how ya feel, Shouyou-kun? Like ya can’t contain all this within you?” 

Shouyou nods his head, pink dusting his cheeks, and Atsumu is hit with a wave of affection so strong he feels like he’ll topple over the edge any moment.

“Well, look at it his way. Yer the one who demanded tosses from me and Tobio. Yer the one who travelled halfway across the world, language barrier and time zones and being away from home and all, and made the most out of whatever ya could in six months. Yer the one who made it to the best university VBC in Japan despite being the shortest non-libero in nationals. You have all these feelings, Shouyou-kun, I know. But also, I think yer born to hold them. To materialise them.” Your heart, your vessel, is so big, so limitless. You’re born to be infinite.

The orange haired-man is quiet for a long while and Atsumu momentarily regrets his words, going over them repeatedly in his head and wondering if he’d been too vulnerable, too honest. But Shouyou turns to him and Atsumu catches the embers in his eyes—burning and luminous in the quiet of the night, and forgets about that brief moment of worry.

“Wow, Atsumu-san, that- that means the world to me. Thank you so, so much,” Shouyou says with so much gratefulness laced into his voice it makes Atsumu shiver, “You’ve never looked down on my dreams. I’ve always loved that about you.”

Atsumu doesn’t know how to deal with that, when he’d been the same person who broke up with Shouyou because he couldn’t handle long distance. He grapples with how Shouyou perceives him with so much light, when all he wanted was to be surrounded by black, perfect and raven and unbreakable. But standing up to that feeling is affection—swells and swells of it, lapping and receding in his chest like a gentle storm. It briefly dawns on Atsumu that reconnecting, sleeping, and talking with Shouyou like this again on their favourite rooftop, means uncovering feelings he’d tried his best to repress. It means cerulean, because they aren’t together anymore, because these feelings are now unrequited.

“Don’t flatter me like that, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu teases with a fake smile, adding in a challenge to steer the conversation away from being too emotional, “As big as your dreams are, it’s gonna take ya a lot more than that to catch up to me and Tobio.” 

Shouyou rises up to the challenge, all gleaming eyes and clenched fists. “I’ll hold you to that, Atsumu-san!”

They lapse into easy conversation after that. Safer topics that don’t make Atsumu’s heart squeeze, like volleyball or good-natured gossip about mutual friends. As he looks out at the view, he finds that he doesn’t mind the starless Tokyo night sky, for all the stars in the universe are sitting right beside him.

蓝

Atsumu finds himself, with bated breaths, anticipating their next planned hook-up. He’s visibly antsy, enough to garner withering looks from Kiyoomi, and, even worse, to call Osamu up and relish being yelled at. He needs an outlet for all this energy, these swirling colours—hoping to find reprieve in touch, in skin-against-skin. Physical intimacy, to make up for the whirlwind inside his chest. So he’s constantly checking his phone, hoping Shouyou would text first to confirm about Wednesday. But the text doesn’t come and the actual day arrives and Atsumu is trying his hardest not to let his eyes wander to his ex in the middle of practice.

Thankfully, Shouyou does come to find him during their water break, and the flare of desire inside Atsumu’s chest burns, as he watches the orange haired-man wipe away at the beads of perspiration trickling down his nape. “I’ll see you later, Atsumu-san?”

The setter almost heaves a sigh of relief. Quickly, he flashes his sleazy, million-watt smile, to obscure the fact that he’s been eager to see Shouyou again. “Yer excited, huh? See ya later, Shouyou-kun.”

There’s a long pause and Atsumu picks out the hesitancy written in the other’s eyes, the little furrow in his brow, and his worried lip. Shouyou’s brooding about something, and it makes Atsumu’s heart flicker with unease. The quiet stretches out for a few beats longer, then Shouyou admits, “Actually...I’m not feeling up to it tonight. It’s nothing to do with you though, Atsumu-san! I was just thinking we could watch a movie together or something? I could prepare snacks and it’ll be fun!”

At the sight of Hinata’s smile—half-hesitant, half-hopeful, Atsumu’s heart sinks. In the seconds that follow, he imagines the worst. Did something happen that made Shouyou not want to sleep with him anymore? Has Shouyou decided that maybe this was a mistake all along? 

“Is this because of Omi-kun?” he cannot help asking, though he keeps his tone as neutral as possible. Shouyou shakes his head vehemently. Atsumu catches the slight tremble in his lip. “No! I just really feel like watching a movie tonight.”

The setter can think of a hundred other names Shouyou could ask to watch movies with—he’s a social butterfly, for god’s sake. Maybe he feels bad about rejecting Atsumu outright, and so he wanted to alleviate the sting, by suggesting to watch a movie. Cerulean trickles into his chest, and Atsumu clenches his fists behind his back, nails digging into palms to claw out the blue-hued itch. His smile feels tight. Still, his pride won’t allow him to step away, so he agrees.

The edges of the world are tinged in blue as they continue with practice. Atsumu keeps glancing where the second string players are, watching Shouyou interact effortlessly with the other players, and wondering where he stands. It’s out of pity, his mind won’t stop reminding him, that Shouyou asked if they could switch plans. When he wasn’t even in the mood to sleep with Atsumu tonight. Pity, unlike the swells of affection lapping in Atsumu’s heart, real and strong.

When he arrives at Shouyou’s dorm, his mood picks up a little. On the kotatsu is a homemade snack platter, the compartmentalised dish dotted with shiba inu prints, filled with celery and carrot sticks, apple slices, plain popcorn, and accompanying dips of hummus and peanut butter. “Competition season is coming up!” Shouyou chimes in as an explanation for the healthified snacks, and Atsumu makes a face, but his chest feels really soft and warm. There’s also a jug of kombucha, which he knows is homemade, because Kiyoomi stocks their fridge with that kind of stuff too. Cluttered around the kotatsu are cushions for them to sit on while they watch the movie on Shouyou’s laptop.

Some of the bad feelings from before dissipate as Atsumu drinks in the extent of Shouyou’s care, from preparing the food, to setting up the cushions on the floor. Maybe Shouyou really isn’t feeling up for sex, maybe he really wanted to watch a movie. But the cushions, the food, the dim lights and ephemeral atmosphere—they all bring Atsumu back to yesteryear, when they’d still been together, making out on the couch, the movie casting a bluish glow on their faces, ignored. 

“What are we watchin’ today?”

“Hmm, I was deciding between Howl’s Moving Castle and Mean Girls 2.”

“Those are very different movies, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu deadpans.

“So what do you think?”

“Mean Girls 2, of course. What do ya take me for? Shitty white movies are completely up my alley.” Shouyou cackles in response, and it’s a painful reminder of how, where others find Atsumu’s humour lame and incomprehensible, Shouyou is the only one who laughs at his jokes. 

“Did you watch the first movie?” Shouyou asks, grabbing a fistful of popcorn from the bowl. Their elbows brush in that instant and it sends a jolt of electricity streaking along Atsumu’s spine, but the orange haired-man doesn’t seem to be affected by it. Somehow, that fact doesn’t stop stinging, no matter how many times Atsumu tells himself to get used to it—he has feelings, Shouyou doesn’t feel the same, and that’s how it is. The little space between them is testament to that. 

“In high school,” he belatedly remembers to answer, “Rintarou was very into this kind of shit. Chick flicks, I mean.”

Shouyou lets out another burst of laughter. “For some reason, that seems very likely.”

The movie turns out to be even trashier than the first one and Atsumu regrets not picking Ghibli for the sake of humour. He wonders if the script got lost in translation, or if Americans are just really not funny. It’s probably the latter, he reasons with himself. Both of them are more interested in the snacks, which by the way, as a certified celery-anti—he thinks the vegetable actually goes well with hummus. Atsumu wonders if Osamu would disown him for having this thought.

Halfway through, the snacks completely demolished, Shouyou’s head drops onto his shoulder. Atsumu’s heart does a somersault in his chest, as he absorbs the weight of Shouyou’s head, tangerine curls brushing the side of his neck. The setter keeps completely still, sounds of the movie fading into white noise as the world around them blurs, reducing to a focal point where setter and spiker sit next to each other. Inhaling deeply, he turns his head slightly to stare. Unabashed as he can, only in this moment, where Shouyou has lapsed into slumber, and Atsumu can feel the light vibrations of his heaving frame.

Like so many nights before, Atsumu studies the planes of his face, illuminated by the bluish glow of the television screen. Bluish, blue, as cerulean, trickling in his own chest. Ethereal, and Atsumu wants to cup Shouyou’s face and kiss him on the lips, in the most tender way possible. Not the rushed, hungry kisses they’d shared in the past couple of months, but real, feeling ones, and somehow this particular desire hurts the most.

A single tear seeps out of his eye as he lets his head fall on top of Shouyou’s. This much, he’ll allow himself to have for now.

From: Shouyou kun

see you on Sunday, Atsumu-san!!!

When Sunday comes around, Atsumu is ready to put aside his feelings and just have a good time in bed. But Shouyou opens the door with a sheepish smile on his face, with the same reason that he’s not feeling up for sex, and he feels his insecurities multiply.

“Could we play video games instead?”

The controllers and monitor are already set up, which means Shouyou had thought and prepared for this beforehand. There’s the same pillow fort circling the kotatsu, cushions fluffed, and food and drinks on the table—seaweed, miso-glazed rice crackers, cashews, fruit, and iced hojicha. So thoughtfully arranged that it sends Atsumu into whiplash, as he lingers between two conflicting feelings—a looming insecurity, that Shouyou doesn’t want to sleep with him anymore, and a flush of warmth, at the amount of care he’s put into an afternoon of playing video games together. To say that Atsumu feels thoroughly confused would be an understatement. He doesn’t know how to read Shouyou’s intentions.

So he lets himself forget about his doubts for a while, as they challenge each other to intense rounds of Mario Kart. And for those couple of hours, he really does forget—chuckling in amusement at Shouyou’s poor imitations of Yoshi, screeching at the top of his lungs when he loses to freaking Baby Peach, all the while stuffing his mouth with those delicious miso-glazed rice crackers which, by the way, he’ll have to ask Osamu to replicate. It all feels so natural, and he genuinely hasn’t had this much fun in a while.

With the highs of the day they’d spent together comes the crashing lows. Grocery-shopping, movies, video games, and all the genuine laughter that Shouyou managed to draw out of Atsumu—these are moments he cannot reproduce with the other people in his life. It scares the shit out of him because he’s seen Shouyou laugh like this, too, effortlessly, with all his other friends. Strangers, even, sometimes. Atsumu has landed up here again, in a sea of people that’s lulled by Shouyou’s waves. Just another one of them, bearing the full gravity of his own feelings.

He really, really doesn’t want to question Shouyou’s intentions, but Atsumu finds himself trapped in the same roundabout of insecurities. Had Shouyou asked him to watch a movie, to play video games, to make up for how he didn’t want to sleep with Atsumu anymore? Because he could easily find other people to do these things with. If so, why had he gone to such extents to set up his room and prepare food for their time together? Had it been purposefully elaborate because he’d felt guilty about rejecting Atsumu? Why, then, did they have so much fun together? Why did it feel so natural?

Atsumu is haunted by these thoughts, exacerbated by the coming weeks where Shouyou comes up with more and more reasons to avoid sleeping together—he’s always wanting to watch movies, to play video games, to do anything but address the giant elephant in the room. And Atsumu drifts along with the rhythm that Shouyou’s started, genuinely having fun in all the Wednesday nights and Sunday afternoons they spend together, and then spending all the time afterwards stewing in his own insecurities.

Competition season begins and as Atsumu watches Shouyou interact with their teammates, he’s struck with an epiphanic realisation that might explain Shouyou’s strange behaviour—could Shouyou be seeing someone else? Could he have started sleeping with a new partner, someone Atsumu doesn’t know about, and felt too afraid to explicitly call off the arrangement between them? Is that why he’s resorted to changing plans, so their relationship could gradually peter out into nothing again?

It’s bone-chilling, the way this theory makes so much sense. Atsumu even feels guilty that Shouyou can’t tell him in his face, that he doesn’t want to have sex with him anymore. So the setter does what he does best—school his face into one of neutrality, trademark smarmy grin playing around his lips, guarding his heart as he channels all the cerulean into his serves, his tosses. Here, at least, his emotions wouldn’t betray him. 

As games pick up and schedules clash, they start seeing each other less. It’s for the best, Atsumu tells himself.

蓝

In Atsumu’s final year of college, the Waseda VBC makes it to the intercollegiate championship finals. He feels a kind of exhilaration that only volleyball can bring, zipping through his veins in frenetic energies. Drowning his universe in peaceful black, as he’s made aware of the scouts in the audience, their watchful eyes on him; of the Chuo University VBC, who’s currently standing on the opposite side of the net. Tooru may have graduated, but it doesn’t make Michiru any less of a frightening opponent, and Atsumu doesn’t let his guard down.

He hasn’t forgotten the promise he’d made to Shinsuke years ago, and even if the ex-Inarizaki captain isn’t here to watch him today, Atsumu carries the same spirit from before—now amplified with four years of college volleyball experience culminated into this moment, rushing through his blood. 

Atsumu raises his fist towards Kiyoomi, and for the first time in four years, his housemate returns the fist bump. It sparks something inside of him—the exhilaration now outlined by nostalgia, intensified by the screams in the audience, and he recognises Koutarou’s booming voice in the thick of them, yelling hey hey hey. Aran’s standing there too, with Osamu by his side, and Atsumu’s heart swells. After this match, he’s really going to leave his time in Waseda behind and move on to the next phase of his life. It’s more bittersweet than he’d like to admit.

Then, naturally, his eyes find Shouyou—the orange haired-man is sitting on the bench, eyes shining with the kind of incandescence that burns right through Atsumu, just from meeting his gaze alone. It’s disappointing that he didn’t get to toss for Shouyou during his time here, but in this moment, Atsumu can’t find it in himself to regret everything that happened between them—at the end of the day, he got to experience the magic and light that is Hinata Shouyou, and he may have been an idiot for throwing that away, but he’d had that once, at least.

Shouyou smiles so hard at him and Atsumu feels his heart ricochet around his chest. Good luck, Atsumu-san, he mouths. 

They take the first set by a four-point lead but Chuo quickly adapts to their play and defeats them in the second. The third set knocks all the breath out of Atsumu’s lungs as they dive headfirst into a gruelling deuce though Taketora and Kiyoomi’s defenses manage to save them from the opposing, thunderous southpaw, and Waseda wins it narrowly. 

And then, midway through the fourth match, Kourai collides into the pole and takes a knee. Atsumu feels more than hears everyone in the court take a collective breath, the screams dulled down into confused silence. Instantly, he rushes to his side, scrutinising the damage. There’s some bleeding, but it appears to be surficial, and he heaves a sigh of relief.

Kourai looks furious at himself, all clenched fists and gritted teeth, and Atsumu steps up to his captaincy, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Kourai-kun, ya could have been more careful but it’s not the end of the world. It’s just a skin injury, so ya shouldn’t be out for too long. Go get it checked first.”

The silver haired-wing spiker hobbles up. “When I get back, Waseda better have won the championships already.”

Atsumu’s lips curl up into a half-smirk. “Ya bet.”

The setter almost chokes on his water when their coach decides to sub Shouyou in. Sweat-slick and already running on pure adrenaline, Atsumu’s heart somehow manages to pump even faster, reverberating around his chest like a boomerang. There’s still so much going on around him—sounds of cheering, of leather balls smacking against the wooden floor, but all he can hear is the incessant ringing in his ears, as he tries to internalise the fact that he’ll get to set for Shouyou. That the universe has given him this one chance, in his final college match, and he isn’t going to fuck it up. 

Atsumu turns his head and meets Shouyou’s eyes, specks of gold dancing in amber irises, and it sends another pang driving straight through his chest. He wonders, hopes, that this could mean as much to Shouyou as it means to him.

Before the break-up, Atsumu would spend all of his free practice syncing up with Shouyou. It had been exhilarating, materialising that loose promise he’d made during his second Interhigh into reality. What he loved most about playing with Shouyou was that he never had to accommodate for him—Shouyou always demanded more from himself than anybody else; jumping higher, faster, a limitless crow suspended in air. So, even though it’s been months since he’d last tossed to him, Atsumu isn’t nervous. 

They bump their fists and the setter feels like he could combust.

Atsumu doesn’t get it right on the first try and they lose a few points to Chuo. But it’s impressive to watch Shouyou in real-time, on the court—the improvements he’s made over the past year have been massive, from that impeccable dig he’d made off the opposing outside hitter, to that emergency set when Atsumu had made first touch. As the set draws to an end, a surreal moment happens—it’s pure muscle memory, really, as Shouyou zips to the left of the court and then the right, again, demanding yet trusting that Atsumu would send the ball right to his palm. And he does, of course, because Atsumu is the best setter of their time. Nothing more, nothing less.

With that final point, Waseda wins the championship and the entire arena erupts into cheers. Atsumu feels electrified, and he sees a burst of colours—kaleidoscopic shades bursting like fireworks in the black sky. There are teammates rushing up to him, throwing a celebratory arm around his shoulder, ruffling his hair in excitement, but he doesn’t recognise their presence, subconsciously drowning out their noises. Because right now, all he can register is Shouyou, panting heavily at the other end of the court, the clementine shade of his hair the most intense colour of all. Then Shouyou’s eyes find him, too, lips breaking into the most breathtaking smile Atsumu has ever seen. And the realisation that he did toss for him after all, that it was their matchpoint to have, crashes on him like a tsunami. Reflexively, Atsumu disentangles himself from his teammates and runs towards the orange haired-man.

Maybe it’s the post-win serotonin, maybe it’s the surge of emotion that currently feels impossible to fight against—Atsumu doesn’t know what comes over him but he throws his arms around Shouyou’s neck, pulling their sweat-slick bodies flush against each other, holding him close. Amidst the scents of perspiration and Salonpas, Shouyou still smells so much like Shouyou, and the setter inhales deeply, absorbing the sight, the smell, the taste—the salt on his skin, and how warm Shouyou’s body feels against his.

“Atsumu-san,” the shorter man gasps breathlessly. 

“You were amazing today. I-I’m so proud of ya, Shouyou-kun.” The shakiness of his own voice makes him cringe, as he belatedly realises he’d acted and sounded too vulnerable. But Shouyou doesn’t seem to mind, extricating himself only to show the bright grin on his face, cheeks rosy like ambrosia. And god, Atsumu is still so in love, he feels like he might topple over just from the gravity of his feelings.

“And so were you, Atsumu-san. I-I’m so grateful that we got to play together today. Thank you for always trusting me.”

Their faces are so close to each other and Atsumu feels Shouyou’s breath, hot and slightly ragged, brushing the skin under his nose. Tension, taking a palpable form, sparks the air between them and Atsumu is far too sober to know that this runs, this has always run, deeper than lust. He doesn’t stop to think if Shouyou feels the same, because he’s inching closer and closer—

“Hinata! Miya-san!” Tobio’s voice rings through, cutting the moment. The dark haired-setter bows slightly, congratulating Atsumu for the win, and then he’s bickering with Shouyou, something along the lines of next year I’ll win on the court, too. Atsumu is still breathing sharply, watching the both of them banter effortlessly, as other second-string players sidle up towards Shouyou, stars in their eyes. Even Kiyoomi stops by for a brief moment to pull Shouyou into a hug, and everyone stares awestruck because Sakusa Kiyoomi just willingly touched another human being.

Atsumu’s eyes flit over the horde of people circling around Shouyou, previous insecurities returning to the forefront of his mind. Chest aching, he wonders again, if Shouyou is seeing someone new. If this possible partner is one of those people in the crowd. The uncertainty intensifies, as he notices Tobio uncapping Shouyou’s water bottle for him. Tinged with cerulean, flickering ruthlessly under his sternum. He wishes it didn’t make so much sense, but it does, and what started out as a theory borne from insecurity now feels like conviction. 

When he goes up to the podium to receive their trophy, Atsumu tells himself that he really, really needs to get over Shouyou.

蓝

Two days later, Atsumu receives a text from Shouyou.

From: Shouyou kun

hey Atsumu-san! hope im not catching you at a busy time. i was wondering if i could talk to you about something? tonight maybe, at the rooftop

This is it, he thinks. He’s now a hundred percent sure that Shouyou means to call things off between them for real. Ignoring the streaks of blue that flutter up his stomach, Atsumu tells himself it’s for the better. Officially ending this arrangement between them means he can finally have an answer, work with certainty. It’s going to be hard to swallow the fact that Shouyou loves somebody else, but at least, there’s only a semester of uni left. He’ll just need to get through the handover and hell, he doesn’t even have to show his face at the volleyball club anymore. Then, he’ll be off to the pros, without Shouyou in near vision, and as impossible as it seems, he may finally put this behind—fuck around with strangers, meet new people. Fall in love again, perhaps.

Cerulean is such a cold colour, chilling him to the bone. Colder than the sheets of snow outside—intricately patterned flakes fluttering to the ground. Everything hurts and feels numb at the same time. Atsumu catches his reflection on the mirror and really, he looks too distraught for somebody who’d won the national championship just a couple of days ago, who’d already received three scouting offers, whose mother had called him in the morning to tell him, for the first time in years, that she was proud of him. So he clenches his fists and forces the corners of his lips upward, stretching his mouth into a full-blown grin and letting it stay there, for some whole minutes, until the smarminess in his smile seems believable to himself.

From: Shouyou kun

sure thing shouyou see u

It’s both fitting and amusing that they wound up at this particular rooftop, for what might possibly be the last time, after all the memories they’ve shared in this space. Devastating, when Atsumu climbs up the ladder and is greeted by the sight of Shouyou sitting on the edge of the mattress, an entire picnic of food spread over the sheets. Even up till the last moment, Shouyou does everything with so much care and intent. Swaddled in an oversized coat, he looks quite tiny like this, reminiscent of Karasuno days. Shouyou waves at him with a wistful smile on his face, and Atsumu feels his heart physically break.

“Atsumu-san! Thanks for coming to talk to me on such short notice!”

Atsumu puts on the grin he’s spent the last hour practising. “It’s no problem, Shouyou-kun. Look at all this food. How did ya know I was starvin’?”

Shouyou chuckles but he sounds nervous and the setter wishes they could just get it done and over with already. The orange haired-man pushes a bento filled with onigiri towards him. “Then eat up! These are made with Kageyama’s recipe and it’s no Osamu-san but they’re good, I promise!”

Atsumu’s heart flips at the mention of Tobio’s name. Could Shouyou have slipped that in as a prelude to the conversation? Is Tobio the new person whom he’s seeing? It seems likely—inevitable, even, with all the years spent between them. Years that Atsumu didn’t have, years that he let slip through his fingers. He bites into the onigiri anyway, mumbling a half-hearted compliment about the rice ball. 

Disquiet stirs in the air, suffusing it with blue and no matter how hard Atsumu tries to school the smile on his face, his heart still betrays him, pounding violently in his chest. Shouyou finally looks up from the food and the setter braces himself for the words to come.

“You must be wondering why I called you up here, Atsumu-san.”

“I think I have an idea,” he admits. The other’s eyes widen for a brief moment and Atsumu catches the slight tremble in his skin. 

“W-well, I’ve been avoiding sleeping with you and I- I would just like to explain myself.”

Atsumu has rehearsed for this moment, words of his script on the tip of his tongue: It’s nothing to worry about, Shouyou-kun. ‘Twas just a silly hook-up, it’s no big deal. Now who’s this new man, huh? Spill the tea. But then Shouyou takes a deep breath and says, “I’ve been avoiding having sex because...I still have feelings for you, Atsumu-san. I still- love you and it wouldn’t be fair to either of us if I knew that and still slept with you.”

The world comes to a standstill. In a split second, Atsumu’s chest is pouring blue—enough cerulean to fill the oceans, crowd the skies with rain. Everything is traced in blue, from the mattress, to the cutlery on the mattress; potted botany and flickering lights, and Shouyou’s figure, emitting a bluish glow reminiscent of movie nights, amber eyes reflecting cerulean. Unknowingly, tears are seeping out of Atsumu’s eyes, cascading down his cheeks in rivulets and he is horrified.

“Don’t look at me, Shouyou-kun!” he calls out, turning his face away. But Shouyou stops him, cupping wet cheeks in his hands and saying, resolutely, “It’s okay to cry, Atsumu-san.”

Apparently, that’s all it takes for Atsumu to full-on bawl, tears leaking uncontrollably down his face, back heaving with sobs. Shouyou’s hands are still wrapped around his cheeks, thumbs swiping at the moisture, rubbing over his skin in a comforting motion. Atsumu’s vision is blurry, obscured by tears, alternating between black and Shouyou’s blue-hued face. He’s still shaking, and in the mess of his thoughts, Atsumu tries to even out his breathing, Shouyou’s words playing on loop in his head. I still love you, he’d said, and they weigh so heavily in the setter’s chest he doesn’t know how to react.

“Would ya stop looking at me, Shouyou-kun?” he asks again, trembling with each word, “This is embarrassin’, god.”

“I’ve always said this, Atsumu-san, but you should never be embarrassed of how you feel,” Shouyou says and Atsumu chides himself for ever thinking he could find love with someone else, because no one in this world could understand and validate him like Shouyou does. He times each inhale and exhale, four-seven-eight, four-seven-eight, until the fever-like sensation under his skin calms and stops threatening to burst out of epidermis.

Shouyou passes him a water bottle which he drinks from. That’s what Kiyoomi would’ve done, too, when he catches Atsumu in his breakdowns. That’s what Shinsuke had done back in high school—leaving a care pack in his locker when he’d thrown a tantrum about missing practice because he was ill. Or Aran, who had wordlessly brought him out for bubble tea after practice, on one of the particularly bad days. Or Osamu, who’d cooked him breakfast and listened to him quietly, when Atsumu showed up at his door one morning without warning. And god, how did Atsumu miss all of that, when he’d been surrounded by so much love?

(Black obscures blue, and it obscures love, too.)

“Do you want to talk about it, Atsumu-san?” Shouyou asks carefully. And if it had been anyone else, Atsumu would paste on his fakest smile and steer them away from the conversation. But at the end of the day, he realises maybe this was the crux of it all—that Shouyou never deserved anything less than his full honesty. So he inhales deeply and says, “Yeah, I want to.”

“It sounds crazy but when I get sad, I see blue. Blue inside of me and then- blue, spillin’ out of me too. But growing up, it doesn’t just happen when I fail a test or lose a match. I think the blue has always existed inside of me, if ya know what I mean. It’s not something I can just switch on and off.”

Shouyou nods his head, assuring that he’s listening intently.

“I-I guess I always want to paint black over it. The blue can get too much,” Atsumu pauses to look at his hands, still trembling slightly, “I’m a selfish person by nature, Shouyou-kun. I always want to be in control. I always want to be the best. I want to live my life on autopilot, knowing I have the brush in my hands, ready to cover any blue that comes in my way.”

“When you left for Brazil I-I saw so much blue. And it wasn’t your fault, you were just doing what ya wanted. You were brave enough to go after what ya wanted. But your absence wasn’t something I knew how to deal with. I felt so much for something I couldn’t control and when that happens, ya know- I turn to black. I left you.”

Shouyou’s eyes are watering now, irises glossy under the moonlight. It makes Atsumu’s chest ache.

“Deep inside, I had convinced myself ya didn’t need me, Shouyou-kun,” he admits in a shuddery whisper, “You were always meant for greater things, you were always loved by other people, too. And if I couldn’t control what I felt about that I thought that it was best to just let ya go.”

“First of all,” Shouyou breathes out, wiping at his own tears with the backs of his hands, “you’re not selfish by nature, Atsumu. There’s a reason, growing up, why you feel and think this way. And while you can work towards being better, you can never blame yourself for it.”

Atsumu thinks of Osamu, of his parents’ divorce, and it makes him feel like choking up even more.

“I’m sorry, Atsumu-san. I had an inkling of what you felt and I should have talked to you about it too. You said you were caught up in all those bad feelings but so was I, when we’d fought. I had been angry and sad and lonely about us too, Tsumu. It wasn’t purely on you.”

Then Shouyou twines their fingers together, squeezing laced hands tight. “But you need to remember, that feelings can be real but they don’t always spell out the truth. I-I need you, so much more than you think I do. I needed you, in Brazil and I still need you now here, too.”

“I’m sorry, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu whispers wetly but the orange haired-man shakes his head. “We both need to work harder on communicating our feelings to each other.”

The setter thinks of seeing Shouyou again for the first time, when he’d returned from Brazil. Awkward encounters—quietly, enviously watching him fly, shared and celebrated by people that weren’t Atsumu, knowing down to his core that Shouyou wasn’t wholly his. The olive branch Shouyou had extended to him at the minimart, the night at the party when they’d slept together, the indecipherable gazes that Shouyou would give him sometimes. The overwhelming feelings of care and domesticity, when he’d gone over to Shouyou’s place for movies or video games. 

“We do. Then I guess I’ll have to admit that- I never stopped loving you too, Shouyou-kun. I kept lying to myself, to you, that us sleeping together was a casual thing because I didn’t know how to control what I felt. I really believed you didn’t love me back and so I- I just said and did a lot of stupid things, yeah.”

Instead of looking angry, Shouyou has the widest grin etched across his face. A flash of pearly whites, and it makes Atsumu’s heart sing. “I’m happy, Atsumu. That you bared your heart to me. That you love me too. Thank you. ”

“Yer glad ? Are you kidding me? Ya know, I thought you called me out here today to end our sneaky link arrangement. Seriously, I convinced myself you were seeing someone new when ya started avoiding sleeping with me. I even thought you and Tobio-kun got together,” he teases, feeling less on edge with the words exchanged freely between them.

Shouyou lets out a laugh so bright it warms Atsumu on this cold winter’s night. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Tell me about it.”

The orange haired-man exhales a contented sigh, swinging their meshed hands into the air. “Y’know, Atsumu? Blue may be the colour of sadness, but it’s because of blue that you see all the other colours too.”

Atsumu widens his eyes, pausing to drink in Shouyou’s statement. His heart skips a beat, butterflies fluttering up his stomach as he takes a long look at Shouyou—the intense orange of his hair, the amber-golden palette of his irises, the pink of his lips, and thinks that these technicoloured shades could stand up to cerulean. That, he could have never seen these colours in the darkness. It makes him gasp, when he realises that blue exists so he could learn to love in gold.

“God, Shouyou,” he breathes out, heart thumping violently, “I love you.”

Gold, because Kiyoomi is his best friend, whether the dark haired-man admits it or not. Gold, because he could never bear to call his family broken, when he has his grandmother and Osamu by his side. Gold, because even after all the years that have passed since high school, his Inarizaki teammates still make efforts to stay in his life. Gold, because Atsumu loves Shouyou, and Shouyou loves him too. 

Shouyou giggles, “So are you asking me to be your boyfriend again?”

Atsumu swallows deeply, with conviction. “Yes, I am. Shouyou-kun, would ya take this stinking hot, number one setter, Waseda VBC captain to be your one and only?”

Peals of laughter, again, then Shouyou is pulling him in, crashing their lips together. In the kiss, amidst the salt and moisture, Atsumu finds his answer.