Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The gym smelled like sweat and floor polish.

Not that Sakusa noticed.

Not that it bothered him.

He just… noted it.

Bokuto was yelling about something near the sideline — arms flailing, hair half-tamed by the headband he never washed. Hinata was laughing so hard he nearly tripped over the ball cart. And Atsumu — Atsumu was in the middle of it all, grinning like he owned the place.

“Bro, I’m tellin’ ya, she’s a model. An actual model. I ain’t makin’ it up!”

“Pics or it didn’t happen!” Hinata crowed.

“I’m not showin’ ya nudes, dumbass,” Atsumu snorted, catching the ball Hinata lobbed at him with one hand and spinning it lazily on his finger. “I’ll show ya her Insta later. She’s got, like, a million followers.”

Bokuto let out a scandalised ooooh. “Wait. Is this the same girl from the club last week?”

“Nah, that one ghosted me. This one actually texted back.”

They all laughed — loud and bright and too much.

Sakusa pulled his hoodie tighter over his head and stared down at the floor as he unlaced his shoes, methodical. Left first, always. Then right.

He focused on the knot. The even tension of the loops. Not the way Atsumu’s voice curved up when he joked. Not the way his laugh rang off the gym walls like it belonged there. Not the tiny slip of skin above his waistband when he stretched.

He didn’t care. It wasn’t interesting.

It wasn’t.

“Oi, Omi.”

Sakusa blinked. Looked up.

Atsumu stood over him now, hair sticking up in sweat-damp peaks, cheek flushed from exertion. His smile was lazy — like he knew something Sakusa didn’t.

“You got plans after this, or can ya give me a lift again?”

Sakusa nodded before his brain caught up. “I’m going straight home.”

“Perfect,” Atsumu said, already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Ya can drop me on the way.”

And then he was gone again — back into the chaos, shoving Hinata’s shoulder, dodging Bokuto’s fake punch, laughing like it was his job.

Sakusa stared at the scuffed edge of his shoe a second longer.

He wasn’t sure why his chest felt tight.

The locker room was thick with post-practice noise — the slap of towels, the hiss of showers starting, someone cackling at the far end. He hated this part. The sweat. The mess. The way Bokuto always left his socks in the middle of the floor like it was a personal challenge.

He waited. Quiet. Still. Shrinking into the bench space near his locker like maybe, if he was small enough, they’d forget he was there.

Hinata passed behind him in flip-flops, shouting something to Atsumu about dinner and takoyaki that “literally melts in your mouth, bro!”

Sakusa winced. Not at the volume — though that didn’t help — but at the ease. The way they all moved around him like the world didn’t cling to them the way it clung to him.

He didn’t shower at the gym. Never had. Couldn’t stand the idea — shared floors, wet towels, steam curling off someone else’s skin.

His own bathroom was clean. His own water pressure, steady.

His own routine, sacred.

A bottle of body wash hit the floor with a clack. Someone shouted, “Yo, who used all the hot water again?” Bokuto howled with laughter.

Sakusa kept his head down. Focused on the zipper of his bag. One tooth at a time.

The locker room cleared out in waves — Hinata first, chirping about friends. Bokuto next, yelling something about chest day, even though they didn’t have a chest day. Sakusa didn’t respond.

He liked the quiet after practice. The hum of the old vent. The sting of sanitizer on his hands. The order of it.

Until Atsumu spoke again.

“You sure you’re okay drivin’ me?”

Sakusa didn’t look up. “I said I was.”

A pause. Then, more tentative — “If ya don’t wanna, I can just walk. It’s not—like—far.”

Like it wasn’t the fourth time Sakusa had driven him home this month. Like they didn’t live five minutes apart.

“I didn’t say no.”

Atsumu blinked. Then smirked. “Ya never say yes, either.”

Sakusa ignored him. Stood. Walked past without touching — because he never touched — and pretended not to notice Atsumu falling into step beside him.

The car was quiet.

As always.

Atsumu fiddled with the radio for a second, clicking past static and half-sung commercials, before Sakusa reached over and turned the volume down — not off, just low enough to turn it into background noise, a faint hum against the silence.

Atsumu didn’t argue. Just shifted in his seat like he belonged there, like his leg belonged on the dash, like he had every right to sprawl out and make himself at home in someone else’s space. Sakusa didn’t comment — not about the leg, not about the smudge it left on the dash, not about the way Atsumu made even silence feel loud.

“You sure ya don’t mind?” Atsumu asked again, voice softer this time, like the stillness of the car had caught up with him. “I mean, I know we live, like, right near each other, but still.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded,” Sakusa replied, eyes steady on the road.

“You didn’t offer. I asked.”

“You’re still in the car.”

Atsumu huffed a laugh at that and let it go — but the quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just… there. Settled in like something familiar.

They hit a red light. Sakusa drummed his fingers once against the wheel — light, rhythmic — then stopped himself like he’d noticed it was too human a habit.

“Thanks anyway,” Atsumu said eventually, letting his head rest back against the seat, like the words weighed more than he wanted them to. “It’s been a long fuckin’ week.”

Sakusa didn’t respond — just gave a short nod and kept driving, headlights stretching across the quiet streets, the only sound the faint thrum of tires over asphalt and the occasional soft buzz of the radio.

“Ya seein’ Motoya this weekend?” Atsumu asked after a while, his tone carefully casual — too casual — like it wasn’t strange at all to bring up Sakusa’s closest friend out of nowhere.

Sakusa blinked. “Why?”

Atsumu shrugged, elbow balanced against the door like he couldn’t quite sit still unless he was touching something. “Dunno. Just figured it’s been a while. Pretty sure he thinks you’ve turned into a vampire or somethin’. Doesn’t he usually drag ya outta the house once a month like a full moon ritual?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, practisin’ how to vanish between gym and car. You ever consider joinin’ witness protection?”

Sakusa exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re not funny.”

“Ya look like you haven’t seen sunlight in a year. I’m worried, Omi. Blink twice if you’ve been trapped in your own apartment by choice.”

“I don’t need to see people just because I’m capable of social interaction.”

“See? That’s exactly what someone in a hostage situation would say.”

Sakusa didn’t reply — just turned left at the intersection and pretended he wasn’t hiding a smile behind the tight press of his mouth.

They passed the convenience store on the corner — the one with the flickering sign that never got fixed — and dipped into the stretch of residential streets they both called home. Different apartment blocks. Five minutes apart. Same sleepy glow from overhead streetlamps casting light through the trees.

Atsumu shifted again, glancing sideways. “Y’know, ya always drive with both hands on the wheel.”

Sakusa didn’t look at him. “So?”

“Just sayin’. It’s weirdly formal. Like you’re takin’ a road test. Or bein’ graded.”

“I am being graded. By you, apparently.”

“Hey, you’re the one white-knuckling through a forty zone like we’re dodging landmines.”

Sakusa glanced down without meaning to. His grip didn’t seem that tight — probably.

He adjusted it anyway.

Atsumu laughed under his breath. “You always do that too.”

“Do what?”

“Fix shit I point out. Even when ya act like it doesn’t bother ya.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes, turning into Atsumu’s street. “Maybe I just don’t want to crash with you in the car.”

“Aw, Omi. You do care.”

“I don’t.”

“Mmhm.”

The car eased to a stop at the curb. The engine ticked quietly, cooling in the night air.

Atsumu didn’t get out right away. He unbuckled his seatbelt, sure, but lingered — eyes fixed out the window at the quiet, familiar street like he wasn’t quite ready to walk into it yet.

“Thanks,” he said again, this time barely more than a whisper. Realer. Heavier.

Sakusa kept his eyes on the road. “Whatever.”

But when Atsumu finally stepped out and shut the door behind him, Sakusa didn’t pull away immediately.

He waited.

Watched the door close behind him.

Only once he was sure Atsumu was safely inside did he drive away.

Like always.

Sakusa’s apartment was clean.

Predictably. Comfortingly.

Shoes came off at the door, socks into the hamper without looking. His bag landed in its usual place on the shelf, aligned with the edge just so. He washed his hands twice — then again, after brushing his teeth — not because he needed to, but because the day clung to him like static, like something under his skin that wouldn’t lift.

The bathroom mirror fogged with steam, thin and ghostlike. He rinsed his face. Pat it dry with the face-only towel — soft, white, folded on the hook with military precision. Everything exactly where it should be.

Where it had always been.

He moved through the rituals the way he always did — toner, serum, floss, the final glass of water filled to halfway, resting on its coaster by the bed. No phone after ten. No lights except the lamp by the window, its glow muted by the corner wall.

He told himself he liked the stillness. That it was peace.

But tonight, it didn’t feel like quiet.

It felt like pressure. Like noise wearing a different mask.

He lay in bed with his arms crossed over his chest, duvet tucked neatly to his collarbones, and stared at the ceiling like it owed him an answer — some clean, clear explanation for the way his stomach had twisted in the car. But the ceiling said nothing. It just stared back.

He could still hear Atsumu’s voice. That laugh — the one he always thought was too loud, too sharp — but when it cracked halfway through a sentence, it sounded warm. Unrestrained. Like someone who never thought twice about taking up space.

And maybe that was what stuck.

Sakusa scowled, shifted onto his side, pulled the blanket higher like it might shield him from thoughts that weren’t welcome.

It didn’t mean anything.

Atsumu was just loud. And present. Always talking with his hands. Always grinning like he knew secrets he wouldn’t say out loud. Always touching people without thinking — shoulder brushes, casual high-fives, knees knocking under the table like it didn’t matter.

He did that with everyone. Sakusa wasn’t special. It didn’t mean anything.

Except—

Except the way he’d said thanks.

Soft. Real.

Like it meant something.

And now it wouldn’t leave him alone.

Sakusa shut his eyes, forced his breath into an even rhythm, tried to focus on the silence, on the air purifier’s hum, on the sound of the fridge door sealing itself shut.

But the thought slipped through anyway. Sharp and small and cruel in its clarity.

You noticed his mouth when he smiled.

He flinched. Rolled over, tugged the blanket tighter, like that would fix it.

You looked too long.

It wasn’t like that.

He hadn’t meant to.

He didn’t want to.

Did he?

He swallowed hard. The silence wrapped around him like a vacuum. Too still. Too revealing.

It didn’t feel like safety tonight.

It felt like something pressing in. Something old. Something familiar in its weight.

He hated the way the thought lingered.

Hated the way it left him —

Still.

And quietly ashamed.

Practice hadn’t even started yet, and the locker room was already alive with sound — all clashing voices and echoing laughter and the thump of bodies moving too fast in a space too small.

Sakusa stepped inside and felt it hit him like a wave. The noise. The brightness. The unfiltered energy that always came with this team, like every emotion had been turned up to full volume the moment he walked through the door.

It didn’t surprise him. It never did. He’d come to expect it — the chaos, the shouting, the way the air seemed to shimmer with movement — but it still grated sometimes, especially when his thoughts were already loud enough on their own.

He didn’t speak. Just kept his head down. Moved to his usual corner. Sat with his back to the wall like it was the only solid thing in the room and focused on lacing his shoes with practiced precision. Left first, then right. Always.

His headphones were in, but the music wasn’t playing. It was a barrier. A signal. One he knew wouldn’t be respected.

“ATSUMU!” Bokuto boomed from somewhere across the room, voice muffled slightly by a mouth full of protein bar. “How was your date?!”

Sakusa didn’t flinch — not outwardly — but his hands slowed on the laces.

“Which one?” Atsumu called back, halfway through tying up his hair, a grin curling at the edge of his mouth like it lived there permanently.

The locker room exploded.

Sakusa didn’t look. Didn’t need to. He could picture the scene perfectly — Atsumu leaning against his locker like it belonged to him, flashing that same insufferable smirk as Bokuto let out a scandalised yell and Hinata cackled loud enough to make the lights flicker.

He didn’t care. He didn’t.

Except his fingers had stopped moving entirely, and his jaw was tight again, and there was that feeling in his chest — that slow, twisting pull like something had caught between his ribs and refused to let go.

They ran warmups in pairs. Sakusa didn’t choose Atsumu. He never did. But somehow, it was always him. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

“You good?” Atsumu asked, bouncing the ball easily between his hands, like the motion was second nature. “You’re kinda quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet.”

Atsumu grinned, bright and teasing. “Right. Forgot I’m the emotional support loudmouth.”

He tossed the ball. Sakusa passed it back. Sharp. Clean.

They moved through the drill, sharp and efficient, and for a moment Sakusa was sure he was fine.

Until Atsumu reached out to adjust his elbow — just a light touch, fingers brushing his arm to guide the motion.

“Hey, if ya rotate out a bit more here—”

Sakusa didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t say anything.

But he felt it. That heat again. That unnatural jolt like static under his skin, blooming where Atsumu’s fingers had been.

It wasn’t even a second. And then it was gone.

And he hated that he wanted to look at him after. Just to check. Just to—

“Nice,” Atsumu said, already backing off. “Perfect.”

Then he clapped his shoulder.

It wasn’t the clap that lingered. It was the smile after.

Sakusa turned away too quickly.

Later, during a passing drill, Hinata ran too close and smacked his shoulder — the same one.

“Nice dig, Omi!”

Sakusa flinched.

Not dramatically. Not enough to make a scene. But enough.

Hinata paused. “Huh? You okay?”

Sakusa straightened. “Fine.”

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t sure what that meant either — the way Atsumu’s hand felt different than Hinata’s. Lighter. Or heavier. Or just more.

He didn’t want it to matter.

But his heart was still beating too fast when the whistle blew.

Practice wrapped with the usual mess of dropped towels, shouted goodbyes, and the sound of Bokuto somehow managing to trip over a bench and congratulate himself for it.

Sakusa stayed behind.

He always did — to stretch, to cool down, to let the sweat dry off before facing the locker room. To breathe. To reset.

He was halfway through his quad stretch when he heard footsteps approach. Light ones. Familiar.

“Hey,” Hinata said, pausing a few feet away. “Uh—sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to spook you or anything.”

Sakusa blinked. “You didn’t.”

Hinata tilted his head, skeptical. “You flinched.”

“It wasn’t—” Sakusa cut himself off. Exhaled. “It wasn’t about you.”

Hinata smiled, sheepish. “Still. I know you’re not big on, like, sudden contact. Or any contact. So… yeah. Sorry.”

Sakusa shook his head once. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t. Not really.

Because Hinata’s hand had landed the same way Atsumu’s had. Same shoulder. Same casual pressure.

And he’d recoiled. Only once.

Only from him.

And not from Atsumu.

That part stuck.

That part made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t fix with sanitizer or routine.

“Anyway,” Hinata said, backing off with a quick smile, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Sakusa nodded. “Yeah.”

He watched him leave.

Then sat down hard on the court, bent over his knees like that might stop his brain from spiraling.

It didn’t.

He should’ve put his phone on Do Not Disturb.

He usually did — after ten, always. No notifications. No distractions. Just silence and routine and the soft, even hum of the air purifier by the door, like white noise for his thoughts to settle into.

But tonight, it buzzed.

Atsumu:

bokuto wants to do team dinner. says u have to come. i’m blamin u.

friday. don’t be weird about it.

Sakusa stared at it for a long time.

He didn’t like team dinners. Never had. There were too many people, too many voices stacked on top of each other like noise pollution — overlapping jokes, half-heard conversations, silverware clattering, and Bokuto always, always, talking with food in his mouth. Restaurants were unpredictable. Sticky menus. Shared plates. Wet cutlery. Tables too close together. He hated it. Every part.

They’d invited him before. They always did. And almost every time, he said no.

But this—

That second line.

don’t be weird about it.

Like Atsumu already knew what he’d say. Like he expected the hesitation before Sakusa even finished reading the message. Like he was ready for the no, halfway through typing a joke to throw back at him when it came.

Sakusa could picture it too clearly: that cocky grin across the locker room, one shoulder propped against the door, his voice curling around a smug little “knew it.”

And maybe that was why it bothered him so much.

Not the dinner. Not the invite.

But the fact that Atsumu expected him to say no.

He didn’t want to be predictable. He didn’t want to say yes just because Atsumu asked.

But he did want to say yes.

That part sat in his chest like something sharp and quiet.

Sakusa thumbed at the corner of his phone, tapping nothing. The text still blinked back at him — casual, teasing, daring.

He typed.

Omi:

i’ll come

Then stared at it like it might explode.

One beat.

Then another.

And then—

Atsumu:

holy shit lol i was gonna bully ya into it

proud of ya omi

Sakusa blinked.

His phone was warm in his hand. Stupid.

He turned the screen off and set it face-down on the table. Then picked it up again. Then turned it off again.

It didn’t matter.

It was just dinner.

It was just one message.

It was just Atsumu.

He did not sleep easily that night.

Sakusa hadn’t meant to agree to coffee. Not really.

He’d gotten the text from Motoya sometime between brushing his teeth and staring blankly at the bathroom mirror that morning — a simple, semi-demanding, “Café. Us. 10am. You owe me a pastry.”

He could’ve said no. Should’ve said no.

But something about the quiet in his apartment, the way it pressed in on his chest like the walls were shrinking, had made him type “Fine” before he’d finished drying his hands.

So now he was here. Ten minutes early. Mug already half-empty in front of him, steam curling in the soft morning chill that leaked through the café windows. The place was warm in the way old places were — all mismatched chairs and wood grain counters and tiny hand-painted signs for soy milk upgrades. People talked in hushed voices. Mugs clinked. Someone in the corner was sketching in a notebook with a half-finished croissant balanced on the edge of their plate.

It wasn’t unpleasant. Not really.

But Sakusa’s shoulders stayed tense all the same.

Motoya arrived two minutes late, as expected — breezing in with wind-flushed cheeks and a half-buttoned coat, grinning like the weather belonged to him.

“You look like you’ve been here since sunrise,” he said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Don’t tell me you were early.”

“I got here on time,” Sakusa muttered, taking a slow sip of his black coffee. “Like a functioning adult.”

Motoya snorted and tossed his bag onto the bench beside him. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who sanitizes his hands after looking at laminated menus.”

“They’re disgusting,” Sakusa said simply.

“You’re disgusting.”

Sakusa didn’t argue — just pushed the extra pastry across the table without meeting his eye.

Motoya blinked at it. “Is this a bribe?”

“It’s a peace offering.”

“Same thing,” he muttered, but took it anyway.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. The kind that came after years of knowing exactly how much space to give each other, and when to leave silence untouched. Motoya didn’t ask about the team. Didn’t mention Atsumu. Didn’t bring up the way Sakusa’s texts had gotten faster — a little too fast, like he wasn’t pretending not to care anymore.

Sakusa stirred his coffee. Then again. Didn’t drink it.

It was Motoya who broke the quiet — not harsh, not prodding, just low and even. “You seen your parents lately?”

The words landed like dust — soft, but everywhere. They settled into the cracks.

Sakusa didn’t answer at first. Just kept stirring like the swirl in his mug might give him time.

“Not for a while,” he said eventually, voice thin around the edges.

Motoya didn’t blink. Just nodded, like he’d already assumed. Because of course he had.

“They still being…” He paused, searching. “You know.”

Sakusa’s mouth twitched into something bitter and too tight to be a smile. “They haven’t changed.”

“Didn’t think they had.”

He said it without judgement. Without heat. Just a fact.

Sakusa finally took a sip of the coffee. Lukewarm. Bitter. Exactly the way he drank it.

“You don’t have to explain,” Motoya said after a moment. “Just don’t do that thing where you pretend it doesn’t bother you when it does.”

“It doesn’t,” Sakusa replied too fast.

Motoya raised an eyebrow.

Sakusa scowled. “Not enough to matter.”

“That’s still a number, Kiyo.”

The words didn’t sting, but they lodged deep anyway. Quiet. True.

He didn’t answer. Just held his mug a little tighter and looked past Motoya’s shoulder out the window — where people walked past without looking in. Where the world kept turning.

The subject dropped like it had never been there.

Motoya was good like that. No pressure. No pushing. Just a single touch against the bruise. Just enough to remind Sakusa it was still there.

When they finally stood to leave — chairs scraping against the old floorboards, mugs emptied, silence worn soft again — Sakusa opened his mouth.

Almost said thank you.

Almost.

The car was cold.

Not cold enough to see his breath, but enough that his hands hesitated on the wheel before starting the engine. The café warmth clung to his clothes like a memory, but it was already fading — replaced by the quiet hum of the heater, the fog on the inside of the windshield, and the ache in his chest that Motoya’s voice had left behind.

That’s still a number, Kiyo.

He hadn’t meant to take it with him. Hadn’t meant for it to follow him into the driver’s seat and sit beside him like another ghost. But it was there now, coiled low in his stomach — that tightness that came from being seen a little too clearly.

He leaned his head back against the seat. Closed his eyes for a moment. Exhaled through his nose.

He didn’t want to think about it. About what Motoya knew. About how long he’d known. About how many times he must’ve watched Sakusa flinch and fold and still decided to stay anyway.

And then, worse —

He didn’t want to think about practice.

Because practice meant noise. Meian’s voice. Hinata’s laughter. Bokuto being Bokuto. It meant the thud of balls on hardwood and the burn of clean effort and—

Atsumu.

Sakusa’s eyes opened again.

The air felt thinner somehow.

He didn’t know what he’d say. Didn’t know if he was supposed to say anything. Not after how he’d left things — after the car ride, the dinners, the touches that meant too much and the glances that lingered too long.

His hand clenched on the gear stick. Loosened. Clenched again.

It was just practice.

He was just a teammate.

This was just a moment.

He put the car in drive and pulled out into traffic like the street wasn’t watching him, like the ache in his chest didn’t stretch all the way to the court.

Like he hadn’t almost said thank you.

Motoya’s words echoed in his mind, soft but persistent — that’s still a number, Kiyo. The ache in his chest hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled deeper — a hum beneath the noise of the gym. The locker room was just ahead, noise already seeping through the walls.

The hallway smelled like floor polish and old sweat. Familiar. Bracing.

Friday practices were always light. Drills, warm-ups, sometimes a strategy walkthrough if Coach Foster was in the mood — nothing that required full intensity. Save it for the match, he always said.

Sakusa had arrived early. Went through his routine. Ran his stretches. Did his dynamic warm-up without missing a beat. But something in him was already off.

He moved like a clock wound too tight — each motion precise, efficient, bordering on brittle. His fingers flexed one too many times between reps. His shoulders sat too high. His jaw ached from how long he’d been clenching it.

The locker room had been loud, and the gym wasn’t much better. Bokuto was already yelling about fantasy football by the water cooler, swearing Hinata cheated. Hinata was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his bottle. Atsumu leaned against the wall with his eyes crinkled in amusement, grin wide and easy like nothing in the world could touch him.

Sakusa stepped past all of it like it was glass he didn’t want to crack.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t engage. Just slipped into the far end of the court and started running serving drills on his own, the sharp snap of the ball against the floor echoing louder than it should’ve.

Something sat wrong in his chest.

Too much weight, too little oxygen. His skin felt tight, like it didn’t quite fit, and his thoughts wouldn’t land — just circled, over and over. Motoya’s voice. The way his father looked at him. Atsumu’s hand on his shoulder. His mother’s mouth, the shape of it when she said frowned.

It all layered over itself until he wasn’t sure what part of him was actually here, in this gym, in this body.

Just muscle memory. Just the feeling of control slipping thread by thread through his fingers.

The others noticed.

Not out loud. No one said anything. But Bokuto’s fist bump didn’t land like it usually did, and he didn’t try again. Hinata gave him space, watching from a distance with eyes that tracked every twitch. Even Foster gave him a once-over from across the court, made a small note on his clipboard, and left him to it.

But Atsumu didn’t fall back with the rest.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t needle. Didn’t ask.

He just stayed.

They were paired for setting drills, as always, and Atsumu moved through them with a quiet steadiness that made Sakusa’s throat ache. No jokes. No commentary. Just sharp passes, fast sets, perfectly timed and never too close — never pushing. Never pulling.

“Yer footwork’s tighter today,” Atsumu said eventually, catching the ball with an easy spin. His tone wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t praise either. Just a soft observation, dropped into the space between breaths like it might go unnoticed.

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust his mouth. Didn’t trust anything.

The ball passed again. Arced perfectly. His hands moved automatically. Return. Reset. Again.

“You sleep okay?”

Still quiet.

Still nothing.

Atsumu didn’t expect a reply. He didn’t ask again. Just stepped slightly closer for the next set, enough for their shoulders to almost brush — close enough to feel the warmth of him, not enough to crowd.

When the drill ended and they swapped out for the next group, Atsumu bumped his shoulder as he passed.

Not rough. Not playful.

Just steady.

A quiet little I see you.

Sakusa didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

But he didn’t look up either.

He just stood there, spine straight, breathing through his teeth, trying to remember how it felt to be whole.

The locker room was chaos.

Not the kind he could block out — not the usual post-practice noise, predictable and ignorable — but sharp, jagged chaos. Too much heat in the air. Too many voices talking over each other. Too many towels slapped against tile and bare skin and benches, damp and heavy and loud.

The scent hit first — sweat, cheap shampoo, something like citrus body wash layered too thick. It clung to the back of his throat like dust, thick and uninvited.

Sakusa ducked his head and moved faster.

Shoes unlaced with too-precise fingers. Jacket folded, not rolled. Bag unzipped exactly halfway. He changed his shirt quickly, mechanically — careful not to brush against the locker edge, careful not to let his bare skin touch the bench.

He was just reaching for his jacket when it happened.

Thwack.

A towel. Wet. Cold.

It slapped against the side of his leg and stuck — for a second, for a breath too long — and it was like everything else in the room cut out.

His whole body went still.

Not tense — not yet — just suspended. Like time had stopped moving forward and was now collapsing inward instead.

“Oh shit—sorry, man!” someone said behind him, one of the new guys, voice light with awkward laughter. “Didn’t mean to—just missed the hook.”

Sakusa didn’t register the words.

He could feel it.

The dampness on his leg. The clammy imprint. The way it seeped, wrong and foreign, like a fingerprint on glass that would never wipe clean.

The room tilted around him.

Laughter folded in on itself. Shower spray hissed somewhere behind him. Someone’s flip-flops squeaked across wet tile. The overhead lights buzzed just slightly too loud. Every detail sharpened until it all blurred.

His breath caught.

He could still smell the shampoo. Still feel heat that wasn’t his. Still feel the fabric — sticking, clinging, contaminating.

He turned sharply, yanked the towel off with his hand like it was acid. His jaw clenched so tight his molars ached. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t breathe through his nose.

Just—

Grabbed his bag and moved.

Fast. Quiet. Surgical.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t hear the rookie’s apology taper off. Didn’t hear the bench creak or the shower doors swing open. Just saw the exit. Saw the door. Saw nothing else.

Except—

“Omi?”

The voice broke through everything. Soft. Steady. Concerned.

Sakusa’s eyes flicked up. Atsumu was halfway across the locker room, a towel slung around his shoulders, a joke half-dropped from his lips. He’d gone still. Watching. His expression dropped instantly from mid-laugh to worry.

“You alright?” he asked, already stepping forward, quieter now. Closer.

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust himself to. Not with the burn rising under his skin, not with the noise still crawling behind his ears, not with the taste of panic at the back of his throat.

He just turned.

And walked out — fast, controlled, precise — fingers curled tight around the strap of his bag, back straight, eyes locked on the door like it was the only clean thing in the world.

The metal handle was cold under his palm.

The door slammed shut behind him with a hollow clang.

And only then, in the silence, did he finally let himself breathe.

The quiet didn’t help.

Not this time.

It met him at the door like a wave — thick and hollow and useless — and still, he didn’t stop moving.

He let the door swing shut behind him, not bothering to lock it. Dropped his bag in the entryway like it was weighted. Tore his shoes off with too much force. Peeled his socks down his ankles like they were contaminated, like the fibers themselves held memory.

He didn’t fold anything.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t even check the blinds.

Just walked.

Straight to the bathroom.

The faucet screamed when he turned it. Water gushed hot — nearly boiling — and steam thickened the air in seconds, blanketing the mirror, warping the edges of his reflection before he could catch it.

He undressed quickly. Without thought. Without care.

Clothes on the tile. Skin flushed pink from memory and adrenaline.

And then he stepped under the spray.

And scrubbed.

Hands first. Palms. Between his fingers. Then up his arms, down his chest, over his stomach, nails biting harder than they needed to. Over his thigh — where the towel had hit — again. Again.

Until the skin was tender. Until the lather turned to rinse and the rinse turned to nothing and he was still scrubbing, still trying to erase something he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t about the towel.

Not really.

It was the room — the smell, the voices, the heat of bodies not his own. The way everything had closed in at once. Pressed down. Left no room to breathe.

He hated how much it lingered.

How much it clung.

He washed his hair. Twice.

The water turned his skin raw by the time he stopped. Hands braced against the tile, head bowed, eyes closed. Breathing hard.

Trying to come back to himself.

Trying to remember where his skin ended and the rest of the world didn’t.

Somewhere in the haze, his phone buzzed.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

Outside the shower. On the bathroom counter.

He didn’t check.

Didn’t need to.

He already knew who it was.

Still, he didn’t move.

The steam curled tighter around him — too hot, too heavy — and all he could do was stand there, dripping, silent, pretending it helped.

Pretending it was enough.

 The steam had barely cleared from the bathroom mirror.

Sakusa sat on the edge of his bed in a towel, skin still flushed from the heat, phone face-down on the mattress beside him. The buzzing had stopped, finally, but the silence felt heavier.

He didn’t want to think.

Didn’t want to check.

Didn’t want to feel any of it.

So he hit call.

The screen read Motoya.

No hesitation. Just a name. A need.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—

“Hey.”

Motoya sounded like he was already smiling. “Twice in one day? This a cry for help or did you forget your coffee order again?”

“Just talk,” Sakusa said, quietly. Voice like thread. “Please.”

Motoya didn’t miss a beat.

“All right, let’s see… my landlord still hasn’t fixed the hot water in the downstairs unit, which is not my problem but somehow became my problem when the neighbour’s kid decided I was trustworthy.”

Sakusa let his eyes close. Leaned back against the wall. Let the voice fill the room.

“I told her I don’t fix pipes, she said ‘you look like someone who knows about pipes’, which was confusing and slightly offensive. Anyway, I googled some shit and probably made it worse.”

Sakusa exhaled slowly.

Not quite a laugh — but close.

“And then,” Motoya went on, breezy like he hadn’t noticed the crack in Sakusa’s voice, “I burned my toast and decided it was a sign from the universe to buy a croissant. So I walked four blocks, it started raining, and I forgot my umbrella. The croissant was mid. Betrayal.”

Sakusa didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Motoya knew exactly what he was doing. Filling the space. Keeping him afloat.

“Anyway, that’s my exciting life. Tell me you’re at least eating today or I’m sending emergency protein bars.”

“I will,” Sakusa murmured.

“Mm. Liar,” Motoya said gently. “You don’t have to talk, okay? Just don’t vanish.”

Silence settled again — softer now.

Sakusa stared at the ceiling.

“I hate this,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then, softer — “Want me to stay on the line?”

Sakusa nodded, even though it didn’t need sound.

“Cool. I’ll tell you what my neighbour’s dog did this morning. It’s tragic. You’re gonna love it.”

Motoya talked for another fifteen minutes.

About the dog.

The rain.

A cursed microwave meal that claimed to be “chef-inspired.”

Nothing important.

Everything necessary.

Eventually, he said, “You should eat something.”

“I will.”

“You’d better.”

A beat. Then, gentler —

“Call me if it gets worse, okay?”

Sakusa hummed. It was the best he could do.

Motoya let it sit a second longer, then hung up without fanfare.

The silence that followed didn’t feel quite as crushing.

Sakusa sat still on the bed — towel damp beneath him, head heavy, limbs hollow. His phone was back on the nightstand now. Facedown again.

The tension had receded.

Not disappeared.

Just enough quiet to feel fragile.

And then—

Knock knock.

He flinched.

Paused.

Waited — like maybe he’d imagined it.

Another knock.

Softer. Just twice.

He wrapped the towel tighter around his waist and padded barefoot to the door.

Looked through the peephole.

And there he was.

Atsumu, in sweats and slides, standing in the hallway.

One hand clutched a small white paper bag.

The other held — clear as day — a travel-sized bottle of alcohol spray and a packet of antibacterial wipes.

Sakusa stared at him through the door for a long, still second.

Atsumu didn’t knock again.

Just shifted his grip on the bag, glanced off to the side, and said — not quite loud enough to carry clearly through the door, but still audible —

“I’m not gonna come in.”

Sakusa didn’t open it.

But he did lean forward.

Pressed his forehead gently to the cool wood.

And listened.

“I didn’t know what else to bring,” Atsumu said, voice low, voice careful. “Didn’t wanna bug ya. Just… figured you might need something.”

A beat.

Then—

“There’s umeboshi. That kind ya like. The fancy ones. And, uh… some hydration powder thing. I dunno. Osamu made me buy it. Said it’s ‘good for fragile bitches.’ His words.”

A pause.

Atsumu shifted his weight, heel to toe, the way he always did when he was nervous.

“I’ll leave it here, ‘kay?”

Soft rustling.

He set the bag down slowly.

Tucked the wipes and spray neatly beside it — careful, intentional, like he was arranging an altar.

Then, after a moment —

“Dinner’s still on, by the way.”

Even softer now.

Gentler.

“But… no pressure. If ya don’t show, I’ll tell Bokuto ya joined a monastery.”

A breath of a laugh.

Faint. Barely there.

Then —

“Get some rest, Omi.”

Footsteps.

Then silence.

Sakusa opened the door slowly.

The hallway was empty.

The bag sat at his feet — handles upright.

Wipes and spray tucked beside it like a small shrine left just for him.

No note. No flourish.

Just quiet intention.

He bent down.

Picked everything up carefully, like it might disappear if he moved too fast.

Then stepped back inside and closed the door behind him with a soft, certain click.

His apartment felt warmer than before. Quieter. But not as empty.

He set the items on the kitchen bench, each one with precise placement — the wipes to the left, the bottle beside them, the bag open in front. The umeboshi was wrapped in paper, tied with a little paper string. Of course it was.

He didn’t unwrap it.

Not yet.

Instead, he picked up the wipes. Turned them in his hand.

Paused.

“…Huh.”

It was his favorite brand.

Not the generic pharmacy kind, not the overpriced ones from the high-end store two blocks away. The exact ones he bought. Subtle eucalyptus scent. Soft but strong. The kind that didn’t leave residue.

The kind no one else ever noticed.

Sakusa stared at the packet a moment longer.

Then set it down.

Gently.

The sun was already dipping by the time Sakusa stood in front of his wardrobe, arms crossed, towel-dried hair still faintly damp.

He hadn’t planned an outfit. Hadn’t thought he’d go.

But here he was — clean, mostly calm, staring down the muted neutrals in his closet like one of them might fight back.

He pulled on a black long-sleeve first — soft cotton, fitted just enough to sit right. Over it, a grey knit. Neutral. Warm. Unthreatening. Then a coat. Dark. Structured. Protective.

He paused at the gloves.

Then put them on without hesitation.

The mask came next — black, of course — and a beanie to top it off. The kind of getup that made people think celebrity avoiding paparazzi or guy who’s way too cautious about flu season.

Which wasn’t wrong.

He glanced in the mirror. Didn’t love what he saw — too bundled, too pale, eyes a little hollow — but he looked fine. Like himself. Maybe a version of himself that could exist at a dinner table without completely unraveling.

He snapped a photo in the hallway mirror. No caption. Just the outfit, full gloves-and-all mode.

Then sent it.

Kiyoomi:

leaving the house

The reply came fast.

Motoya:

😭😭😭

i’m so proud of you

my sweet little cryptid emerging from his cave

don’t make that face i know you’re making

go be hot and socially functional

(but not too hot. stay humble.)

Sakusa rolled his eyes. Pocketed his phone.

Then opened the door.

The air outside was cold. Crisp. It bit through the mask a little.

But he didn’t go back inside.

Not tonight.

Sakusa parked two blocks away, as usual. Fewer people. Fewer chances of someone breathing too close. The walk helped steady him.

Inside, the restaurant buzzed. Warm light spilled through the windows, music low, laughter louder. He could already hear Bokuto’s voice over everyone else’s, booming with something that sounded like “and then I SPUN — like mid-air, bro!”

He hesitated at the entrance.

One breath.

Then another.

Then he stepped inside.

The table wasn’t hard to find — long, loud, messy in that way only athletes could be. Tomas was sipping a drink like nothing fazed him. Inunaki was trying to sneak a lime wedge into Hinata’s water. Meian was pretending not to notice. Bokuto was halfway through a physical re-enactment of a block that definitely didn’t happen like he said it did.

And Atsumu —

Atsumu was already watching the door.

His arm was slung across the back of the only empty chair — the one right beside him — casual like he wasn’t saving it. Like it hadn’t been empty since they sat down.

When he saw Sakusa, he brightened — not loud, not dramatic, just this soft little tilt of his mouth that Sakusa felt in his chest.

“Omi!” Bokuto yelled, spotting him. “Bro, you made it!”

The table turned. Hinata waved, Tomas gave a little salute, Meian nodded in that approving dad way of his.

But Atsumu just stood, already reaching into his coat pocket.

“I wiped it earlier,” he said casually, nodding at the empty chair. “But just in case—”

He pulled out a small pack of antibacterial wipes. Opened them. Gave the chair a quick pass. Smooth. Effortless. Like this wasn’t his first time doing it.

Then — quieter, meant only for Sakusa —

“Glad ya came.”

Sakusa blinked. Paused. Then walked over.

He hung his coat. Took off his gloves. Sat.

Didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t need to.

Atsumu’s knee brushed his under the table, once.

Sakusa didn’t flinch.

The table practically shook with noise.

“—and I landed on one foot!” Bokuto insisted, mid-gesture, fork flying dangerously close to Hinata’s ear. “Full extension, perfect landing, the crowd went insane!”

“There was no crowd,” Tomas said, deadpan.

“It was practice,” Meian added without looking up from his beer.

“Details,” Bokuto huffed. “Y’all just don’t appreciate my art.”

“You almost took out Hinata” Inunaki muttered, snatching his chopsticks back from where Bokuto had nearly knocked them into his lap.

“Technically,” Hinata said, grinning, “I’m the one who fell over. But I think it was my fault.”

“It’s always your fault,” Inunaki shot back.

“You wound me,” Hinata gasped, clutching his chest.

Sakusa sat silent through all of it.

Not tense. Just still.

He sipped his drink, eyes scanning the table like he was tracking a storm he knew would hit but wasn’t trying to stop. The noise didn’t bother him, not really. Not tonight.

Maybe it was the lighting. Or the warmth. Or the umeboshi still sitting in his fridge at home.

Or maybe it was the way Atsumu’s knee pressed against his under the table — again, and again — not fidgety, not accidental. Just there.

And the way Atsumu turned toward him now, grinning sideways, like he was in on a joke no one else could hear.

“You want somethin’ from the shared stuff?” he asked, already lifting a plate. “I touched it with the tongs, promise.”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t sneeze near it?”

“I never sneeze.”

“You sneezed twice last practice.”

“That was a fluke. It’s a dusty stadium.”

Sakusa gave the tiniest huff of breath. It might’ve been a laugh.

Atsumu handed him a small dish. Didn’t say anything else.

But his thigh didn’t move.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bokuto said suddenly, stabbing a piece of grilled meat with way too much enthusiasm for someone holding chopsticks. “Didn’t you go on a date last weekend, Miya?”

Atsumu, mid-sip, blinked. “Huh?”

“That model chick,” Hinata added, smirking. “The one with the insane Instagram. You post a pic yet or are you keeping it top secret for aesthetic reasons?”

Inunaki perked up immediately. “Wait, what?! A model?! Since when?!”

“She was a model,” Atsumu said with a shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Runway stuff mostly. Real intimidating vibe. Walked in like she owned the air.”

“Intimidating vibes,” Tomas muttered, unimpressed.

“Tall, pretty, definitely knows how to kill a man with her lashes,” Atsumu continued. “Ya know. Classic.”

“That sounds exactly like your type,” Meian deadpanned.

“Wait, was it the one from the ramen place?” Inunaki leaned forward, eyes wide. “The one who asked if you were famous?”

“Nooo,” Atsumu groaned. “Different girl. That one ghosted me.”

“Damn,” Hinata said. “Tough.”

Inunaki grinned. “Guess you gotta work on your post-date hygiene, Miya. Maybe she was a Sakusa-type.”

Atsumu snorted. “Nah, I smell great. I got receipts.”

Sakusa, still silent, reached for his tea.

His grip on the cup was a little too tight.

Atsumu noticed. Of course he did.

He nudged Sakusa’s arm gently under the table. “Don’t worry, I sanitize.”

“I’m not worried,” Sakusa muttered.

“No?” Inunaki teased. “You look like you’re about to murder someone with that tea.”

“Just listening,” Sakusa said flatly.

“Intensely,” Tomas added.

Atsumu leaned in, close enough that his shoulder brushed Sakusa’s.

He didn’t move away.

“Well,” Atsumu said, casually picking up his drink, “ya don’t have to worry. The date was boring.”

That got a reaction.

A slight turn of Sakusa’s head. Barely.

“Oh?” Meian asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Atsumu said with a shrug. “Nothing to write home about. She talked a lot about crystals. Thought mercury in Gatorade was making her feel aggressive.”

“It’s retrograde,” Bokuto offered.

“See? You get it.”

Laughter followed, but Sakusa stayed quiet, nursing his tea like it could wash away the strange relief pooling in his stomach.

The table dipped back into laughter, Bokuto halfway through re-enacting some failed spike from college that “nearly killed the guy,” while Meian looked on with the long-suffering patience of a man who regretted bringing his wallet.

Atsumu turned away, deep in conversation with Tomas about “the psychology of pick-up lines,” which was somehow more animated than it had any right to be.

And Sakusa—

Sakusa sat still, fingers curled around his teacup, the warmth seeping into his palms. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t comfortable.

But he wasn’t panicking.

That mattered.

Normally, a day like this — the towel, the crowd, the smells, the eyes, the touch — would’ve unraveled him for days. He would’ve gone home, locked the door, shut the blinds, lived in socks and silence and hand sanitizer for the rest of the week.

But now?

He was at a table.

He was sitting next to someone.

And that someone’s knee was still pressed lightly against his under the table — not pushing, not demanding. Just there.

Sakusa took a sip of tea. It was slightly too cold, but not bad.

Across the table, Hinata shouted something about karaoke and Inunaki groaned very loudly in protest.

Sakusa didn’t respond. But he didn’t flinch, either.

He looked down at the folded napkin in his lap. Smoothed it once. Then glanced sideways at Atsumu.

The man was smiling again — hands flying as he argued with Tomas about whether or not a pun could be considered “charming” or “grounds for ghosting.”

Sakusa looked away before Atsumu could notice.

But not before the warmth came creeping back into his chest.

Slow. Steady.

Not overwhelming.

Just there.

A few minutes later, Atsumu stood up with a stretch. “Gonna grab another drink. Anyone want anything?”

Meian shook his head. Bokuto already had two. Hinata asked for something with “a lil umbrella.” Atsumu laughed and ruffled his hair on the way past.

Sakusa didn’t say anything.

He just watched.

At the bar, Atsumu leaned one elbow on the counter, gestured casually to the bartender — a guy around their age, maybe younger, with sleeve tattoos and a lip ring that glittered under the low light. They exchanged a few words, and the bartender smiled. Laughed at something. Tucked his hair behind his ear.

Sakusa didn’t realize he was staring until Inunaki elbowed Tomas.

“Watch this,” he muttered, low enough for just their end of the table. “Bartender’s totally flirting with him.”

Tomas smirked. “Is he?”

“Oh, definitely. We’re gettin’ free drinks tonight. Just wait.”

Bokuto leaned in. “For real? That’s so cool!”

Meian shook his head. “Leave it. Let the kid live.”

Sakusa said nothing.

He looked back toward the bar.

Atsumu was laughing again. Leaning in just slightly.

The bartender slid a fresh drink across the counter toward Atsumu — a little fancier than usual, with a lime wedge and something pink in the mix.

Atsumu grinned, raised the glass in a lazy thanks, and turned to head back toward the table.

“Free?” Inunaki asked, eyebrows raised.

Atsumu shrugged, smug as hell. “What can I say? I’m charming.”

Bokuto snorted. “You’re just hot. You could get anyone. Guys, girls, aliens—doesn’t even matter.”

“Perks of being bi,” Hinata added brightly, already sipping whatever umbrella drink he’d been given. “Unlimited options.”

Sakusa blinked.

The words landed with a soft thud.

Bi.

He didn’t know.

Of course, it made sense. In hindsight. The way Atsumu joked, the way he talked about people — never gendered unless someone else brought it up. But still. It had never been said.

Sakusa looked up.

Atsumu had sat back down, casually bumping Sakusa’s knee again without a second thought. He was mid-laugh, talking to Tomas now, like the comment hadn’t meant anything. Like it wasn’t important.

Sakusa looked away before anyone noticed he was still staring.

He didn’t say a word.

But something in his chest had gone tight again.

And he wasn’t sure why.

The dinner dragged on — not in a bad way. Just long enough that the plates thinned, voices dipped, and the leftover drinks got warmer.

Sakusa stayed quiet.

He was still chewing on it — not the food, but the words.

Perks of being bi.

He hadn’t looked at Atsumu since. Not directly. But he could feel him. Laughing. Talking. Existing right beside him like the world hadn’t just tilted slightly to the left.

Eventually, Meian stood, stretched, clapped Bokuto on the back. “Alright, gentlemen. Get home safe. Don’t be idiots.”

Tomas peeled off with him. Hinata was already trying to convince Inunaki to split a cab. Bokuto declared he was going to walk it off like he’d eaten for twelve.

Atsumu stayed seated.

He turned to Sakusa with a slow, lazy smile.

“Oi,” he said, nudging him with an elbow. “Can I beg ya for a ride?”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “You live ten minutes away.”

“I wore the wrong shoes,” Atsumu said immediately, like he’d been waiting to use it. He wiggled one foot. “These suck. I’ll die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“Not physically. Emotionally, maybe.”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Atsumu leaned in just slightly, mock-pouting. “Come on. You love me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Debatable.”

Sakusa sighed. Stood. Grabbed his coat.

“Let’s go before I change my mind.”

Atsumu beamed, already on his feet. “Knew ya loved me.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure, sure.”

But as they walked out together, side by side into the cold, Sakusa didn’t deny it again.

He didn’t say anything at all.

The doors clicked shut in unison.

Atsumu settled in with a dramatic sigh, immediately slumping into the passenger seat like he belonged there — legs spread too wide, one arm draped lazily along the door.

Sakusa adjusted the heat. Shifted into drive. Said nothing.

The engine hummed low. Headlights lit the empty street ahead.

For the first few minutes, it was quiet. Not awkward — not exactly. Just full.

Atsumu hummed along to the music barely playing through the speakers. Some soft lo-fi beat that Meian had insisted was “good for the locker room vibe” and no one had turned off since.

Sakusa kept his eyes on the road.

He hadn’t looked at Atsumu. Not directly. Not since the words. Not since bi rewrote something in his brain he hadn’t even realized was written down.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

It didn’t.

It did.

“I think the bartender liked me,” Atsumu said suddenly, like he was picking a topic off a shelf.

Sakusa’s hands tightened on the wheel. Just slightly.

“I noticed,” he said.

Atsumu grinned, tipping his head toward the window. “Got me a free drink. Not bad, huh?”

“You were flirting.”

“Was I?”

“You tell me.”

A pause. The kind that stretches just long enough to feel intentional.

Then Atsumu turned back to face him.

“Ya jealous?”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Didn’t breathe, for a second.

Atsumu didn’t press. Just let the words sit there, hot and quiet and impossible to ignore.

“I wasn’t into him,” he added after a beat. “Just sayin’.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t say ya did.”

Sakusa’s jaw clenched. He took the next turn too tightly, like it might shake something loose inside him.

Another long silence.

Then—

“You’re bi,” Sakusa said.

It came out flat. Neutral. Like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Atsumu didn’t even flinch. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know.”

A beat. Then, softer— “Didn’t think I had to tell ya.”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

He just drove.

Five minutes had never felt so long.

The car idled at the curb.

Sakusa didn’t kill the engine. Didn’t unlock the doors. Just sat there, hands still on the wheel, staring straight ahead like something was going to materialize in the fogged glass in front of them and tell him what the fuck to say.

Atsumu didn’t move either.

Didn’t unbuckle. Didn’t reach for the handle.

Just leaned his head back against the seat and looked at him.

“You okay?” he asked after a long beat. Voice soft. No teasing in it. No smile.

Sakusa didn’t look at him. “Fine.”

Atsumu snorted. “You’re always ‘fine.’ Even when you’re definitely not.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. The dashboard light threw a soft glow across his face — sharp cheekbones, knotted brow, mouth pressed too flat.

Atsumu sighed. Turned his head away again.

“I didn’t mean to throw you,” he said eventually.

Sakusa blinked. “What?”

“With the bi thing,” Atsumu clarified. “I could tell. You went real quiet after Hinata said it.”

“I didn’t go quiet.”

“You always go quiet,” Atsumu said gently. “But this was… different.”

Sakusa stared at the windshield. The slow crawl of condensation. The blur of streetlight bleeding into mist.

“I just didn’t know,” he said again, quieter this time.

“And now ya do.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Atsumu shifted a little. The fabric of his jacket brushed Sakusa’s arm — barely there, but it burned like friction.

“You think different of me now?” he asked, voice too casual to be actually casual.

Sakusa’s eyes flicked to him.

First time all night.

“No,” he said.

A beat.

Sakusa looked away. Hand back on the gear shift. Jaw tight.

“Goodnight, Miya.”

Atsumu didn’t move at first.

Didn’t say anything.

Then, finally—quietly, not quite looking at him—

“Yeah. Okay.”

The passenger door opened with a soft click. Cold air spilled in.

Atsumu stepped out without another word, pulling his hood up as he shut the door behind him.

Not a slam. Just quiet. Controlled. Like he didn’t want to make it worse.

Sakusa didn’t watch him walk away.

Didn’t reach for the window. Didn’t unlock the doors.

Just sat there, fingers still curled around the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The silence in the car felt heavier than it had all night.

The road was nearly empty.

Streetlights flicked overhead in rhythm — gold, then shadow, then gold again. His turn signal clicked too loud in the silence. He switched it off.

Sakusa hadn’t turned the music back on.

Didn’t want to.

The car still smelled like the restaurant. Fried things. Soy sauce. Atsumu.

He gritted his teeth and cracked the window slightly, just enough to let the cold in.

Goodnight, Miya.

He’d said it like a blade. Sharp. Final. Like a shut door.

He didn’t know why.

Atsumu hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t done anything, really — just sat there, close and warm and brave enough to ask the question.

You think different of me now?

Sakusa’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

He hadn’t lied. Not completely.

He didn’t think less of Atsumu.

He thought—too much.

He thought of the way Atsumu had laughed at the bar. The way he hadn’t flinched when the table joked. The way he touched Sakusa’s arm without hesitation. The way his knee stayed there, solid and steady, all night.

He thought of all the ways it hadn’t mattered before.

And how suddenly it did.

He didn’t want to think about what that meant.

Didn’t want to acknowledge the ugly swell of guilt in his chest, the sharp twist of something that felt a little too much like fear and a little too much like want.

He hit a red light.

Exhaled.

Looked at the empty seat beside him like it might explain anything.

It didn’t.

The mood in the room was off.

Not on the surface — not for anyone else. Bokuto was already bouncing a ball off the lockers. Hinata was hyping himself up in the mirror like he wasn’t wearing his jersey backwards. Inunaki had his earbuds in and was mouthing lyrics no one else could hear.

But Meian noticed.

Tomas noticed.

And Atsumu—

Atsumu didn’t look yet. Didn’t speak.

Sakusa dropped his bag a little too hard. Sat on the bench like it was a fight. Untied his shoes with jerky movements, his face locked in something between exhaustion and active aggression.

His hair was still damp, like he’d showered too long and too late. His eyes were bloodshot. His jaw was clenched so tight Meian could see the muscle jump from across the room.

“You good?” Meian asked, voice calm but direct.

“Fine,” Sakusa muttered, already pulling on his knee sleeves.

Meian gave him a long, assessing look. “You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Everyone heard that.

Bokuto paused mid-serve against the locker. Hinata glanced over, mouth half-open. Inunaki took out one earbud, sensing the tension shift.

Atsumu still didn’t turn around. He just adjusted the tape on his fingers like his life depended on it.

Meian didn’t push. Just nodded once. “Alright. But if you’re off today, I’m pulling you early. I don’t care how good your stats are.”

Sakusa didn’t respond.

Didn’t have to. His entire body was a snarl of restless, bitter energy — the kind that didn’t crack under pressure, but exploded if you pushed too hard.

And deep down, he knew it.

He hadn’t slept.

He hadn’t eaten.

And he couldn’t stop hearing yeah. okay like it was still echoing in the silence of his car.

The lights were too bright.

The floor too loud.

Every bounce of the ball hit Sakusa like a hammer to the skull.

They were stretching in two lines — Bokuto leading the charge with a full-body routine that looked more like interpretive dance, Hinata following along with alarming enthusiasm. Tomas jogged in place. Coach Foster called drills from the sideline, clipboard in hand.

Sakusa ran through his motions like he was made of glass. Slow. Precise. Tight.

But wrong.

His shoulders were tense. His timing just a little off. His breath shallow.

And Atsumu—

Atsumu was ignoring him.

Not in a petty way. Not obviously.

But in that way that mattered.

No jabs. No jokes. No “ya sleep okay?” or “ya look like a pissed-off ghost.” No soft bump of the shoulder during rotations. Nothing.

He passed clean, sharp. Said “Here” when he needed to. Made eye contact exactly once.

Then moved on.

And it shouldn’t have bothered Sakusa. Should’ve made it easier to focus.

But all it did was put a hole in his rhythm.

He kept glancing sideways. Waiting for the sound of his name in that voice — that loud, ridiculous drawl.

It didn’t come.

At one point, he served too hard and missed the line by a few inches.

Atsumu didn’t say anything.

Meian did.

“Sakusa. You’re off.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Do you?”

Sakusa didn’t respond.

Just picked up the ball and tried again.

Warmups were nearly over, but Sakusa still felt wired wrong. Like his body was working against itself — too tense, too aware, too watched.

Except he wasn’t being watched.

Not by the person he expected.

Atsumu had been quiet. Focused. Like Sakusa wasn’t even there.

Until he suddenly was.

A sharp whistle cut through the court noise — not from Meian. From Atsumu.

Then a hand wrapped around Sakusa’s sleeve and tugged him aside, just out of earshot, near the edge of the bench.

“What—” Sakusa started, but Atsumu was already talking, voice low but furious.

“Does me bein’ bi bother ya this much?”

Sakusa blinked. “What?”

“Yer off. Ya didn’t sleep. Ya look like yer gonna bite someone, and now yer servin’ into the fuckin’ net—”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t gimme that. Yer gonna fuckin’ make us lose today.”

His accent was thick now — not just annoyed, hurt. Real.

And Sakusa—

Something twisted in his stomach.

“That was never the issue.”

Atsumu laughed once. No humor. “Okay, bro.”

“Don’t ‘bro’ me,” Sakusa snapped. “I just—”

He cut off, jaw tight. Then, quieter—

“I just didn’t sleep well.”

Atsumu looked at him for a long second.

Something behind the frustration cracked. Just a little.

Then, slowly, carefully, he reached out — and pressed two fingers to Sakusa’s chest, just below the collarbone. Not hard. Not pushing. Just there.

The touch was small.

But Sakusa felt it like a lightning strike.

“Just focus on the game,” Atsumu said, softer now. “That’s all I need from ya.”

Then he was gone — jogging back toward the court like nothing had happened.

Sakusa stood there, heartbeat ricocheting in his ribs, skin burning under his shirt where Atsumu’s fingers had been.

He didn’t move for a long second.

Then he inhaled once, deep and sharp.

And followed him back.

The stadium was packed.

Voices thundered through the rafters, chants echoing like waves crashing, every play met with roaring approval or frustrated groans from the Rocket fans in red.

Sakusa didn’t hear any of it.

The noise flattened into static the second the ball hit the air.

He was locked in.

Every step was measured. Every angle precise. His breath moved with the game, not against it — a rhythm matched only by the set of Atsumu’s hands.

And fuck, they were dialed in.

Atsumu didn’t even have to look half the time — just flicked the ball up, fast and sharp, and Sakusa was there, snapping through the air like he’d read it three seconds before it happened.

The Rockets had no answer for it.

Not when Sakusa’s serves skimmed just over the net, brutal and unforgiving. Not when his blocks landed perfectly, sending the ball back with enough force to shake the floor. Not when he slid into coverage like he was made of instinct and steel.

And especially not when Atsumu smiled, wide and wolfish, before slamming a set that Sakusa obliterated down the line past two blockers.

Timeout, Rockets.

Sakusa turned on his heel, chest heaving.

The crowd was on their feet — but it was just movement. Just blur.

Atsumu met him at the sideline, flushed and grinning, practically vibrating with adrenaline.

“Fuckin’ yes,” he laughed, voice thick with sweat and momentum. “Ya feelin’ it now?”

Sakusa didn’t smile.

Didn’t have to.

He just bumped Atsumu’s shoulder with his own — deliberate. Solid.

And for the first time all day, he saw Atsumu blink like he wasn’t expecting it.

“Good,” Sakusa said. “Keep setting me like that.”

Atsumu’s grin returned instantly. “Only if ya keep hittin’ ‘em like ya mean it.”

They went back in before the timeout was up.

MSBY didn’t lose a single set.

The whistle had barely blown before the camera crew was on him.

Sakusa wiped his face with a towel, still breathing hard, still caught halfway between adrenaline and crash. He didn’t even get to the locker room before a clipboard-wielding media assistant blocked his path.

“Sakusa-san? Just a quick one. We’ll keep it short.”

He didn’t agree. Didn’t nod. Just stopped walking and let them clip the mic to his jersey with a resigned sort of tension.

The lights went on.

Someone shoved a camera into position.

He didn’t blink at the brightness — but his jaw tightened.

The interviewer smiled like it was all casual.

“That was a devastating win, Sakusa-san. You and Miya-san played like you were reading each other’s minds out there.”

Sakusa exhaled slowly. “We train for that.”

A polite laugh.

“Still, you in particular seemed especially sharp today — fourteen kills, three aces, four blocks. Was there something different going into this match?”

Sakusa’s eyes flicked to the side.

Just for a second.

He thought about cold tea and sleepless hours and the feeling of two fingers pressed gently to his chest like a warning and a promise.

He looked back at the interviewer.

“No.”

Another laugh, a little more awkward this time. “Right. Classic. Uh—how do you think the team’s chemistry has evolved this season?”

Sakusa wiped his face again. “We communicate better.”

“Miya-san mentioned earlier that there’s a kind of ‘unspoken rhythm’ between the two of you. Do you feel the same?”

Sakusa paused.

A beat too long.

Then: “Yes.”

Just that.

Simple.

Truthful.

He didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t need to.

The interviewer faltered, clearly waiting for more. Sakusa just stared.

Eventually, she cleared her throat and smiled again. “Well—congratulations on the win. You can go cool down.”

He was walking away before she finished.

The locker room was a warzone of celebration.

Sweaty jerseys flung over benches, water bottles spraying in arcs, Bokuto yelling “WE DESTROYED THEM!” loud enough to echo off the ceiling. Inunaki was dancing to music blasting from someone’s speaker, and Hinata was trying to convince Tomas to do a victory TikTok.

Sakusa stepped inside and flinched at the volume.

He made a beeline for his locker — towel over his shoulder, earbuds already in his hand, ready to drown out the noise. His skin still felt tight from the adrenaline, his head pounding behind his eyes. All he wanted was a shower, a dark room, and no questions.

But before he could even sit, a hand reached past him.

Atsumu.

Wordless.

Casual.

He reached for the speaker on the far bench and, with a flick of his thumb, turned the music off.

“Yo, what the hell?” Inunaki shouted.

“We’re celebratin’!” Bokuto whined.

“Yeah, yeah, celebrate quieter,” Atsumu called over his shoulder. “Sound bounces weird in here, you’ll blow the fuckin’ tiles off.”

They booed him. Playfully. No one took it seriously.

But Sakusa—

Sakusa looked at him.

Atsumu didn’t look back. Just opened his locker, pulled off his jersey, and kept talking to Tomas about some play from the second set.

Like he hadn’t done anything at all.

Like it wasn’t everything.

Sakusa sat down slowly. Let the towel slip into his lap. Closed his eyes for a breath.

And didn’t put his earbuds in.

Not yet.

Sakusa sat at his locker, towel still draped over his lap, fingers methodically rolling the hem between his knuckles.

The room was a blur of motion around him — steam rising from the showers, the wet slap of bare feet on tile, Bokuto yelling “INUNAKI, STOP USING MY DEODORANT” like it was a war crime.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t move.

He stared at his duffel bag like it held the answers to everything — eyes fixed on the zipper, on the small smudge near the corner where something had brushed against it on the floor. He could feel the bodies moving around him, towels dropping, water running, laughter ringing out in bursts.

But he kept still.

Focused.

Because this was home court. Which meant he didn’t have to shower here. Didn’t have to step into that humid, echoing tile box and pretend he wasn’t hyperaware of skin and scent and noise.

He could go home. He could be clean in his bathroom. In silence.

But still—

He sat there.

Tense. Trying not to breathe too deep. Trying not to look.

He could hear Atsumu talking somewhere across the room. Close, but not too close. His voice was warm again. Lighter. That soft post-win buzz that made him glow, made people gather around him without even trying.

Sakusa didn’t let himself turn toward it.

He just unzipped his bag and started his routine.

Deodorant. Shirt folded. Pants into the side compartment. Everything in its place.

Control.

Order.

Routine.

Because the moment he let the chaos in, it stuck.

And right now, with his heart still racing from the game and his skin still echoing with the ghost of Atsumu’s hand on his chest, he couldn’t afford to fall apart again.

The noise had started to thin.

Meian had ducked out to give his post-game press comments. Tomas left with a towel slung over his shoulder, earbuds already in. Bokuto and Hinata were deep in a conversation about protein shakes and celebratory karaoke, drifting toward the exit like a storm cloud moving on.

Sakusa stayed seated.

Still folding. Still avoiding.

The zipper on his duffel bag slid closed with a quiet, satisfying click.

And then—

A presence at his side.

Not loud. Not pushy.

Just there.

Atsumu.

Still damp from a shower, curls sticking to his forehead, jersey replaced with an old sweatshirt that made his shoulders look even broader. He didn’t sit, just leaned against the locker next to Sakusa’s, tapping his fingers once against the wood.

“Ya played good, Omi.”

Sakusa didn’t look up. “So did you.”

“Yeah, but ya always play good. Today was different.”

A pause. Then—

“You were different.”

Sakusa stayed quiet.

Atsumu hesitated. Then nudged him lightly with his knee. Just once.

“Sleep better tonight, yeah?”

Sakusa’s eyes finally lifted.

Atsumu wasn’t smiling. Not fully. Just that soft, half-tired thing he did when he meant something but didn’t want to say it too loud.

“I will,” Sakusa said. It came out more honest than he meant it to.

Atsumu nodded once. “Good.”

Then he pushed off the locker, already walking away with the ease of someone who didn’t need a reply.

But Sakusa watched him go.

And for the first time in twenty-four hours, the tight coil in his chest finally started to ease.

The shower had been long. The water too hot. The scrubbing probably excessive.

But it helped.

His clothes were clean. His skin didn’t itch. His bag was unpacked, gear already airing out on the rack in the corner. His post-match routine was complete.

Now, he sat on the couch in silence — one leg tucked beneath him, the other stretched out, tea cooling slowly in his hand.

The TV was on, but muted. Just light flickering across his living room wall.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table.

He didn’t check it right away. Just stared at it for a second. Then leaned forward and flipped it over.

The preview banner made his stomach drop.

Mother:

We saw the game. You played well.

Another buzz. A follow-up.

Mother:

You should come for dinner soon.

We’ve been meaning to introduce you to Kana — the daughter of that friend from Shizuoka.

She’s very sweet. Smart. Pretty, too. We think you’d get along well.

Sakusa stared at the screen.

No warmth. No how are you feeling? or congratulations on the win. Just expectation. A quiet pressure wrapped in a polite smile.

Kana.

He hadn’t spoken to her since he was fifteen. She’d braided his cousin’s hair during summer holidays and called him “scary-looking but probably nice.”

He hadn’t been interested then.

He wasn’t now.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Then stopped.

He turned the phone face-down again.

Didn’t reply.

Didn’t touch his tea.

Just let the weight of the message settle into the room with him, cold and familiar.

And thought — not for the first time — about how easy it was to feel wrong in the places he was supposed to belong.

He sat in the dim light of his living room, fingers ghosting over the edge of his phone. Like it might open itself if he just stared hard enough.

Then—

He picked up the phone

Scrolled.

Found the contact.

Omi:

are you up

Three dots almost immediately.

Atsumu:

ya

why

did bokuto drag ya to karaoke

Omi:

no

7-eleven halfway?

Atsumu:

gimme 5

The convenience store parking lot was nearly empty. Just the hum of the lights, the buzz of a vending machine, and the quiet shuffle of someone inside restocking shelves.

Sakusa stood just outside the doors, hands in his coat pockets, hoodie up.

Atsumu arrived a minute later, sweatshirt half-zipped, hair still a little damp from his earlier shower. He looked sleepy. Soft around the edges.

“Didn’t think I’d hear from ya tonight,” he said, pulling up beside him.

Sakusa didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head toward the store.

“Thought you might want a drink.”

Atsumu blinked. “That why you’re here?”

“No.”

A pause. Then—

“Okay.”

They walked in together, neither saying much, the fluorescent lights washing them both pale and quiet.

Not touching.

Not close.

But not far, either.

The automatic doors whooshed open, spilling warm air and too-bright light over them.

Inside, the store was nearly empty. Just a sleepy-looking clerk behind the counter and the soft shuffle of boxes being restocked in the back.

Sakusa walked in first, heading toward the drinks fridge out of habit.

Atsumu followed, slower, hands in his pockets, eyes skimming the shelves like he might find something new even though he always bought the same thing.

They didn’t talk at first.

It was comfortable. Sort of.

Sakusa crouched to scan the bottled teas. Reached for his usual—

Then paused.

Shifted slightly.

And pulled out the yuzu soda Atsumu always got. The one he’d brought to practice last week, saying it was “objectively the best” and threatening to fight anyone who disagreed.

Sakusa looked at it in his hand.

Then grabbed a second one and set it in the basket.

Atsumu blinked. “Didn’t peg ya for citrus.”

“I’m not.”

“So it’s for me?”

“You’re welcome.”

Atsumu huffed a quiet laugh, nose scrunching just a little. “Didn’t say thank you.”

“Didn’t need to.”

They wandered a bit more — Sakusa grabbing a protein bar, Atsumu hovering near the snacks with zero intention of buying anything healthy. He held up a bag of sour gummies, grinning.

“These cure post-game trauma.”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize that was your field.”

“Got a minor in it. Specializin’ in coach-induced anxiety and locker room trauma bonding.”

Sakusa didn’t laugh. But he didn’t not laugh either.

They moved to the register.

The clerk barely looked up as they paid. Sakusa pulled out his card before Atsumu could even reach for his wallet.

“Oi—”

“It’s fine.”

“Ya don’t gotta—”

“I wanted to.”

That shut Atsumu up.

Just for a second.

He followed Sakusa outside, the air cool against his skin, his drink cold in his hand.

They sat on the curb outside the store, drinks between their feet, legs close enough to brush.

Atsumu was talking.

Something about the game. Something about Hinata nearly pulling a muscle mid-celebration. Something about Bokuto yelling into a fan and getting lightheaded.

Sakusa listened.

Not with half-attention — not like he usually did. He really listened. Let the sound of Atsumu’s voice settle against his ribs like something familiar. Something grounding.

The night was quiet.

A breeze lifted Atsumu’s curls, soft around the edges again, golden under the parking lot lights.

He turned to say something — some joke, some throwaway comment —

But stopped.

Because Sakusa was already looking at him.

Not sharply. Not like before. Just… watching. Like he wasn’t entirely sure how they’d ended up like this — shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing, air thick between them — but couldn’t bring himself to move away, either.

For a second, neither of them said a word.

Atsumu leaned in. Slowly. Carefully.

His shoulder pressed more fully into Sakusa’s. Their knees aligned. And then — like it had always been meant to happen this way — he tilted forward and let the distance close.

A kiss.

Soft. Barely there.

More breath than pressure, more maybe than promise. A question, folded into a single moment of touch.

And Sakusa —

He didn’t flinch. Not right away.

For one suspended heartbeat, he leaned in. Thoughtlessly. As if pulled by instinct instead of decision. As if part of him had been waiting for something like this without ever letting himself admit it.

But then —

Reality caught up. Crashed in.

He pulled back, slowly but firmly, a hand pressed flat to Atsumu’s chest like an apology he couldn’t say out loud. His breath drew in — sharp, careful, measured — and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than he meant for it to be.

“I’m not…”

His throat bobbed. “You know.”

Atsumu froze for a second. Blinked.

Then leaned back with a nod — short, tight, practiced in a way that made Sakusa’s stomach twist.

“Right. Yeah.”

He reached for his drink again without meeting Sakusa’s eyes. His voice stayed level. Detached. Like he’d already packed the moment away and sealed it shut.

“I should head back.”

He stood before Sakusa could say anything. Didn’t storm out. Didn’t snap.

Just left — quietly. Steadily. Like it wasn’t even worth lingering over.

And Sakusa sat alone on the curb, the concrete rough beneath his hands, the kiss still lingering like heat across his mouth — not warm anymore, not sweet, just there, like a brand.

It hadn’t even been much. Just a moment. A breath. A maybe.

But it had cracked something open inside him so suddenly, so sharply, that he didn’t know how to hold it all in anymore.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Like something splintered — deep, buried, now exposed — jagged and raw and impossible to ignore.

His hands were shaking. He only noticed when he looked down and saw them curled in his lap, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone pale, like his body was bracing for impact even though the hit had already come.

Because it had felt good.

Because he hadn’t stopped it.

Because he’d leaned in.

Because for the first time in too long, he’d wanted.

And that was the problem.

That was the horror, really — not the kiss, not the heat, but the want.

The realisation that some part of him had been waiting for this, aching for it, and now that it had arrived, he couldn’t shove it back down. Couldn’t unfeel it. Couldn’t un-lean.

And worse — he didn’t want to.

But still, the shame came.

Familiar. Crushing.

It filled his chest like smoke, slow and choking, curling down his spine until his whole body felt brittle under it.

Because he could already hear them — his mother, cold and exacting, his father, stern and silent — both of them lining up behind his ribcage, whispering that he was broken, confused, that boys like him were wrong.

That he was wrong.

And maybe he’d believed them once. Maybe part of him still did.

Because now, sitting there in the dark with the taste of Atsumu still on his lips and his stomach roiling with too many things he didn’t know how to name, he couldn’t stop the fear.

The what now.

The what if.

The what does this make me.

He curled in tighter. Pressed his palms to his thighs like maybe he could anchor himself with pressure alone, like maybe if he stayed perfectly still, the moment would pass and he could forget how easy it had been to say yes with his mouth when his brain hadn’t caught up.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat there, spine curved, fists clenched, breath caught halfway between inhale and collapse, while something too big and too old and too honest clawed its way out from the place he’d buried it years ago and refused to go back.

The moment the door shut behind him, Sakusa felt it start — a tightness in his chest that wasn’t quite pain, wasn’t quite panic, just pressure, sharp and constant, like his ribs had forgotten how to make room for breath.

He kicked his shoes off too hard, the sound echoing too loud in the quiet apartment, then dropped his keys on the counter with a clatter that made him wince — like even that was too much, like even that was wrong.

He didn’t turn on the lights. Just moved through the space on muscle memory, like he couldn’t bear to see anything clearly — not the furniture, not the walls, not himself.

The yuzu soda was still in his hand.

He stared at it for a second, then set it down like it had scalded him.

His hands braced against the sink, the cold metal biting into his palms as he leaned forward and tried to remember how to breathe through a throat that felt too narrow, lungs that felt too small.

He could still feel it.

Atsumu’s mouth, soft and unsure. The brush of his fingers through fabric. The steady heat of his body, close but not crowding. The silence between them — not heavy, not awkward, just open. Gentle.

And he’d leaned in. God, he’d leaned in.

He hadn’t meant to.

He hadn’t meant to let it happen, hadn’t meant to want it, hadn’t meant to taste it like it was something he could have — just for a second — but he had.

And then he’d ruined it.

He could still see the flicker behind Atsumu’s eyes, the way the warmth had snapped off like a switch, shuttered and tight and careful. He hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t asked why. Hadn’t begged for more.

He’d just… left.

And that — that was somehow worse.

Sakusa scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers dragging hard like he could scratch the thoughts out of his skull, tried to swallow the nausea curling low in his gut, but it stuck — thick and choking.

The shame was too familiar.

It lived in him, settled deep, like something he’d inherited rather than chosen. Something taught. Expected. Be still. Be clean. Be correct. Don’t want what you’re not allowed to want.

He’d spent years pretending it was preference. That he didn’t date because of germs. That he didn’t touch because of boundaries. That he was above the mess.

But now — now all of that felt flimsy.

Now it felt like fear, like internalized rules drilled into bone, like someone else had written his limits and he’d just followed them blindly.

He forced himself to the bathroom.

Pulled his sweatshirt over his head with shaking fingers and let it drop to the floor.

Turned the shower on too hot.

And stepped under it like punishment — like maybe, if he stood there long enough, it would boil the feelings out of him, scald away the softness, erase the way his heart had leaned toward someone who looked at him like he deserved to be wanted.

The steam clung to the mirror like a second skin, thick and slow, turning the bathroom into something half-formed — fogged and dim and barely real.

Sakusa sat on the edge of the tub, towel clinging damp to his hips, shoulders still flushed red from water that had scalded more than it soothed.

His phone was cold in his hand.

The draft to his motherglared up at him —

Kiyoomi:

lunch is fine. tomorrow works. let me know the time.

Nothing else. No punctuation. No hesitation on the screen, even if every cell in his body was locked in it.

He hovered.

Then hit send.

The sound of it leaving — that soft, synthetic whoosh — felt louder than it should have. Final. Like something had snapped into place that shouldn’t have.

Like he’d just agreed to something he hadn’t meant to.

Or maybe he had. Maybe that was the worst part.

Because it was easier.

Because pretending always had been.

Because somewhere deep in his chest — curled between the scars he didn’t touch and the rules he’d learned too early — he still believed it was safer to comply.

Safer to nod. To show up. To smile. To make sure they saw the version of him they could tolerate.

Not the truth.

Not the boy with a bruised heart and soft eyes and a mouth that had just tasted something real.

But the son.

The athlete.

The neat, quiet boy who said yes when spoken to and never spoke unless spoken to and certainly never — never — loved the wrong people.

Sakusa lowered the phone to the floor.

Pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until the light behind them burst.

And then just sat there.

Bent forward, spine curled, breath slow and deliberate like he could trick his body into believing it was okay.

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t let himself fall apart.

Just sat there, still burning —

Surrounded by steam and silence and the faint, unmistakable sting of surrender.

He lay flat on his back, arms stiff at his sides like moving might trigger something he couldn’t take back, like shifting even an inch would knock his brain loose from the fragile, fraying thread he was balancing on — and he was so fucking tired, eyes sore, limbs heavy, every muscle in his body begging for sleep after the game, after the adrenaline, after everything — but still, his mind wouldn’t stop.

It just kept going.

Over and over.

The kiss.

The heat of it.

The way Atsumu had leaned in so gently it hadn’t even felt real until it was, until it wasn’t, until Sakusa had ruined it with a push and a sentence that didn’t even sound like him.

I’m not… you know.

What the fuck did that even mean?

He rolled onto his side and immediately regretted it — the air too warm on one side, too cold on the other, the sheets twisted at his ankle, the pillow wrong, everything wrong — and his phone was still on the nightstand, screen dark, the message to his parents sent hours ago now, no reply yet, just silence, which somehow made it worse.

Maybe they were asleep. Maybe they were pleased.

Maybe they’d already texted Kana and told her to meet him at that nice place in Shibuya tomorrow. Maybe they’d remind her to wear something modest. Maybe they’d already picked out the table, the time, the script.

Maybe he’d sit across from her tomorrow and smile like he hadn’t just kissed a boy in the parking lot of a convenience store.

And maybe he’d do it so well no one would ever know.

Not her.

Not his parents.

Not even himself, if he did it long enough.

He dug his fingers into the bedsheet. Tried to breathe through his nose. Slow. Steady.

Didn’t work.

His thoughts just kept spiraling, looping, falling back in on themselves until all he could hear was his own voice, echoing with everything he hadn’t said — I wanted it, I wanted it, I wanted it — and everything he had — I’m not, I’m not, I’m not — like it was a prayer or a lie or both at once.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Tried again.

Tried to sleep.

Tried not to see Atsumu’s face when he pulled away.

He woke up before his alarm, not because he felt rested — he didn’t, not even close — but because his body had decided sleep was no longer an option.

He lay still for a moment, chest tight with something that didn’t have a name yet. It wasn’t sadness. Not quite. It wasn’t guilt either. It was emptier than that. Like someone had reached inside him and scooped everything out, left the shape of him behind but took the weight.

He got up anyway.

Brushed his teeth. Washed his face. Stared at himself in the mirror like maybe this time, something would look different. More broken. More visible. But no — it was just him. Hair messy. Eyes dull. Same as always.

He dressed cleanly, layers neat and crisp, routine keeping him upright. He checked the time. 9:14. Lunch was in three hours. He had the location saved. He wouldn’t be late.

He was tying his shoelaces when his phone buzzed on the counter.

[MSBY boys 🤪🔥]

Bokuto:

LUNCH? WHO’S FREE

CELEBRATORY RAMEN I’M STILL HIGH FROM THAT WIN

Hinata:

YESSS I’m in

but can we go somewhere that doesn’t make you sweat from existing pls

Tomas:

my vote’s anywhere but where bokuto ordered twelve gyoza and cried bc of wasabi

Meian:

let’s try that new udon place? 12:30?

Sakusa stared at the screen. Watched the messages roll in like water lapping at a door he didn’t want to open.

Then typed:

Omi:

can’t. busy.

A pause.

Then—

Inunaki:

omg

does omi have a date?? 👀👀👀

say sike right now

Bokuto:

OMI??? A DATE???

I NEED DETAILS I NEED CLOTHES I NEED TO MEET HER

Sakusa locked the phone.

Didn’t reply.

Didn’t even look to see who else had read the messages.

He noticed it anyway.

No Atsumu, dropping in with some chaotic emoji explosion. No teasing about how Sakusa wishes it was a date. No lazy sarcasm. No typing bubble.

Just silence.

That was worse than anything else.

The restaurant was sleek. Minimalist. Soft jazz playing just loud enough to fill the silences between chopsticks clinking and servers moving briskly through narrow aisles. Clean. Well-lit. Nothing out of place.

Sakusa sat at a window table in a navy sweater layered over a white collared shirt, coat draped neatly over the chair beside him, posture perfect.

He looked like someone who had his life in order.

Kana arrived on time.

She was exactly as he remembered — long hair, soft voice, calm hands. Polite. Pretty. Confident in a way that never crossed into arrogance. The kind of girl who made small talk feel effortless. Who said you’ve grown up well with a warm smile and meant it.

They talked.

About the game. The team. Her job in interior design. A funny story about a coworker. His thoughts on seasonal flavours. The food.

It wasn’t hard.

It just felt… hollow.

Like answering interview questions.

Like playing a version of himself that only existed when other people were watching.

He smiled when she laughed. Nodded when she made a point. Thanked her when she offered him a bite of her tempura, even though he didn’t eat fried food on Sundays.

Everything was fine.

Too fine.

Smooth. Polished. Clean.

But the entire time, he couldn’t stop thinking about the night before.

About the curb.

The yuzu soda still in his fridge.

The look in Atsumu’s eyes when he pulled away.

The silence in the group chat.

Kana was saying something about weekend hikes when his eyes drifted to her chopsticks — pale wood, held just so — and for one terrifying second, he imagined reaching across the table, not for her hand, but for someone else’s. A callused palm, knuckles nicked from years of diving saves, fingers that moved when he talked — and his stomach flipped.

Not with excitement.

With panic.

He picked up his tea to cover the pause. Sipped too quickly. Let it burn his tongue.

Kana didn’t notice.

She just smiled at him, bright and lovely, like she could be the solution to everything his parents had ever worried about.

And Sakusa?

He smiled back.

Because that’s what he was supposed to do.

Kana finished her tea with a soft, content sigh. “This place really is lovely,” she said, dabbing politely at her lips with her napkin. “Thank you for coming out today. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to.”

Sakusa blinked once, like the words took a second longer to register. Then he nodded. “Of course.”

She smiled — warm and open, the kind that made people feel at ease — and tilted her head just slightly. “Would you be interested in doing this again sometime?”

It wasn’t a trap. There was no pressure in her voice. Just an honest question from someone trying.

And still—

“Yes,” he said.

It left his mouth before he could stop it.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. Just smiled back. Controlled. Calm.

Because saying no would require explaining why, and he didn’t have the language for that. Not here. Not in public. Not in daylight.

Kana looked pleased. “Maybe next weekend?”

He nodded again.

“I’ll text you,” she said, gathering her things. “My treat next time.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

They stood. Bowed. Walked out together into the pale afternoon sun, light filtering through narrow gaps in city buildings.

She gave him a little wave before heading down the street, heels tapping lightly against the pavement.

And then he was alone.

Back straight.

Shoulders square.

Phone buzzing softly in his coat pocket — probably his mother, probably thrilled.

He didn’t check.

He just stood there for a moment too long, like if he stayed still enough, he could delay the moment when this all started to feel real.

When the lie would stop being temporary.

And start being his life.

The moment the door shut behind him, Sakusa exhaled.

Not in relief.

Just in motion — like something his body did to convince itself it was still alive.

He slipped out of his coat, hung it neatly, placed his shoes beside the door with care. Then walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge without looking.

The yuzu soda was still there. Untouched. Right where he’d left it.

He shut the fridge again.

Didn’t take anything out.

Didn’t even turn on the lights as he walked into the living room, phone finally pulled from his coat pocket, screen lit with a single unread message.

Motoya:

mom says you were on a date today.

was it the girl from new year’s?

Sakusa didn’t reply immediately.

He sat on the edge of the couch, phone resting on his knee, the room silent except for the distant hum of traffic outside his window.

A second message followed.

you know you don’t have to do this again, right?

Again.

Like Motoya knew.

Because he did.

Because he was there.

Years ago.

When Sakusa was seventeen and came over in the middle of the night without warning, drenched from the rain, too soaked in fear to ring the doorbell properly, eyes swollen from crying, voice nearly gone by the time he’d whispered it out loud — I think I like guys — and Motoya hadn’t said anything at first, just pulled him inside and handed him a towel and let him cry himself to sleep on the living room futon, curled so small it hurt to look at him.

He’d been the only one who knew.

Still was.

And now he was reaching out like he could feel it happening again — the way Sakusa was folding himself back into something smaller, something quieter, something easier to explain at family dinners.

Another message came through.

you don’t owe them normal.

Sakusa stared at it.

For a long, long time.

Then set the phone down beside him, face-down, screen off.

He didn’t reply.

But the words stayed.

Pressed into his chest like fingerprints.

The apartment felt too big.

It always had, really — high ceilings, clean lines, everything in its place — but now it felt echoey, like he could hear his thoughts bouncing off the walls and folding back in on themselves.

He sat still.

Completely still.

Like if he moved, he might shatter.

The phone sat beside him, Motoya’s last message hovering like a bruise on the air.

You don’t owe them normal.

It was so Motoya. Casual. Gentle. Devastating.

Sakusa curled his fingers into the couch cushion.

He remembered that night. Every part of it.

How cold he’d been, soaked through and shaking. How he hadn’t even brought a change of clothes. How Motoya had said nothing about the words he’d choked out between sobs, only handed him a sweatshirt and said, You can stay as long as you want.

He remembered how he hadn’t told anyone else.

Not his parents.

Not his teammates.

Just Motoya.

And now?

Now he’d gone on a date with a girl he didn’t want, lied with a smile so convincing it made himself sick, all to avoid the exact thing he’d already admitted once before.

The part of himself that hadn’t gone away.

Just gone quiet.

Buried.

Like it could be outgrown.

He swallowed.

Stared at the blank TV screen across from him, his own reflection faint in the glass — distant, distorted.

He looked okay.

Looked successful.

Looked normal.

But his chest still felt tight. His throat still felt raw. And the warmth from Atsumu’s mouth still hadn’t faded entirely from his skin, no matter how hot he’d run the shower the night before.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Breathed deep.

Not steady.

Not grounding.

Just enough to stay sitting upright.

And for the first time in a long time, he wished he hadn’t told Atsumu anything at all.

Because pretending he didn’t care was easier than knowing he might’ve let something real slip through his fingers — and ruined it before it ever had a chance.

The gym smelled like fresh sweat and disinfectant.

Bokuto was already stretching with one leg behind his head, Tomas muttering something about flexibility and core stability. Hinata bounced from foot to foot, full of chaotic morning energy that should have been illegal before 9am. Inunaki was sprawled on the floor, dramatically pretending to nap.

Sakusa walked in and made a beeline for the far end of the bench. Unbothered. Unbotherable. That’s what he told himself.

He didn’t look at Atsumu.

He didn’t have to.

He could feel him.

That familiar energy — too big for the room, too sharp, too him — like static just under his skin. They hadn’t spoken since the convenience store.

No messages.

No eye contact.

No explanation.

Just space. Sharp and awkward and cold.

And Sakusa hated that he noticed it.

“Alright, team,” Coach Foster called out, clipboard already in hand. “We’ve got Schweiden this week.”

The room shifted. Heads turned. Even Bokuto dropped his leg.

“In Tokyo,” Coach added. “We leave Friday morning. Stay sharp until then.”

A beat.

“Hotel again?” Inunaki groaned from the floor. “Last time I shared a room with Bokuto, I woke up to him sleep-talking about protein.”

“Chest day,” Bokuto confirmed, proudly.

“Same rooming pairs as usual,” Coach said, unmoved.

Sakusa felt it like a pinched nerve.

He and Atsumu always roomed together.

Always had.

It made sense — rotations, schedules, routines. It had never been a problem.

Until now.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did Atsumu. But Sakusa saw the subtle shift from the corner of his eye — the way Atsumu rolled his shoulders back, jaw ticking like he’d braced for impact.

“Alright, warmups. Let’s move.”

Everyone sprang into action.

Everyone except them.

For the next twenty minutes, Sakusa moved like muscle memory alone — stretches, drills, shadow steps — while trying not to notice the way Atsumu’s voice kept bouncing around the court like it always did.

Loud. Confident. Teasing.

But none of it was directed at him.

Not once.

And it was only when they paired up for tosses that it finally hit.

Atsumu didn’t argue.

Didn’t protest.

Just walked to him with a neutral expression and said, “Ready?”

Sakusa nodded.

They didn’t look at each other the whole time.

But every toss was perfect.

Of course it was.

Because that’s the problem with being this good together — even when everything else is broken, the game still works.

Drills kept them busy. Just enough sweat, just enough focus, just enough shouting from Coach Foster to keep the team in check — but the silence between Atsumu and Sakusa was palpable. It clung to them like humidity, noticeable in the half-second delays, the lack of eye contact, the way Atsumu’s jaw worked tighter each time Sakusa didn’t answer a question meant for both of them.

They were passing again — clean, efficient, impersonal.

And then:

“Oi,” Inunaki called from the sidelines, slurping his water bottle with unnecessary drama. “You two fighting or something?”

No answer.

Bokuto perked up immediately. “Wait, what? Who?”

Inunaki grinned. “Sakusa and Miya. I mean, usually they’re, like, disgustingly in sync. Now it’s like watching a divorced couple at a family barbeque.”

That froze the court.

Hinata let out a startled laugh. Tomas muttered something under his breath about brain bleach. Even Meian raised an eyebrow.

Atsumu didn’t laugh.

He straightened up slowly, toss still in hand, and said flatly, “Shut up, Inunaki.”

“Oof.” Inunaki held up his hands in mock surrender. “Damn. Touched a nerve.”

Atsumu fired the toss into the air and Sakusa — automatic, precise — jumped and smashed it down the line with enough force to silence the entire gym for half a beat.

Then landed.

And looked away.

Again.

Inunaki blinked. “…Okay then.”

Practice continued. The tension remained.

But no one said anything else.

And Sakusa didn’t look up again until Atsumu was halfway across the court, wiping sweat from his neck, his jaw locked tight.

The slam of the gym doors didn’t help.

Neither did the buzz of fluorescent lights or the wet slap of towels hitting tile.

Sakusa moved on autopilot — down the row, past Bokuto singing off-key, past Hinata arguing with Tomas over who won the final rally — straight to his locker in the far corner, where it was quiet enough to almost breathe.

Almost.

His hands were shaking. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone to notice.

But he felt it — in the way his fingers trembled on the zipper of his duffel, in the sharp snap of his locker door swinging open. Like there was something electric trapped just under his skin, clawing to get out.

The whole practice had been—

Too much.

Too tense.

Too quiet in the wrong ways and too loud in others.

He could still hear Inunaki’s voice echoing in his head — divorced couple at a barbeque — and Atsumu’s, sharper than usual: Shut up, Inunaki.

His own? Silent.

Because that’s what he did.

Avoided. Deflected. Waited for things to pass like storms that never touched ground.

But this one felt like it had.

And he didn’t know how to deal with the wreckage.

Behind him, someone let out a laugh too loud, and it made his jaw clench.

Another body brushed his shoulder on the way to the showers, and he flinched just slightly — not enough to draw attention, but enough to feel.

He hated this part.

The noise.

The steam.

The careless limbs and damp floors and towel snaps and skin.

He stared into his bag, still fully dressed, pretending to reorganise things that didn’t need organising. Just for something to do with his hands.

He could feel Atsumu somewhere in the room. Could hear the lilt of his voice, even when he wasn’t speaking to him. Especially then.

Sakusa didn’t look.

Didn’t move.

He wasn’t planning to shower here anyway.

He never did after games. After practices. After anything, if he could help it.

His bathroom was clean.

Sanitised.

His.

But still, he lingered — hands gripping the strap of his duffel too tightly, heartbeat too loud, brain too full of things he wouldn’t let himself think.

Sakusa was still at his locker, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on the same corner of his gym bag he’d been staring at for the past five minutes. Every sound grated — the hiss of the showers, the wet slaps of feet on tile, the constant buzz of conversation that felt just a little too close.

He’d almost made it.

Just had to wait a few more minutes. Let the worst of the chaos pass. Then he’d slip out, quiet, invisible, drive home, scrub himself raw in his own shower and—

“Hinataaaa!” Bokuto’s voice thundered from the steam like a fucking earthquake. “Catch!!”

Sakusa didn’t look up.

Didn’t need to.

Because a second later, there was the unmistakable shake of damp hair and a spray of water droplets — not aimed at him, not meant for him, but the edge of it hit his arm, just enough for him to feel it.

Just enough to ruin everything.

His entire body went rigid.

Not a flinch. Not a gasp.

Just still.

Too still.

Hinata let out a yelp of protest — “Bokuto-san!! That’s so gross!” — and Bokuto laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

But Sakusa?

He was already moving.

Fast.

Bag over his shoulder, locker slammed shut so hard it echoed.

Heads turned — not all, but enough. Enough to make it worse.

He didn’t look at any of them.

Especially not Atsumu, who’d just stepped out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, expression caught somewhere between confusion and knowing too much.

“Oi, Sakusa?” Meian called, half-concerned. “You good?”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust himself to speak.

He just walked out — fast, surgical, like the air itself had become unbreathable.

And behind him, laughter slowly faded into silence.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Sakusa practically threw his bag into the passenger seat, hands shaking as he yanked open the glove compartment. The familiar orange-and-white packet of disinfectant wipes tumbled out, and he snatched it like it was the last lifeline he had.

He hadn’t said anything in the locker room.

Couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

And now—

Now he was in the car with the door sealed, engine off, and his breath fogging up the windshield. But the water was still on him.

Still there.

Like it had soaked through his skin.

He ripped the packet open too hard, tore it halfway down the side. Grabbed a wipe with shaking fingers and scrubbed at his forearm first — the place it hit. Then his wrist. His palm. His neck. His chest, under the collar of his shirt, harder, faster—

It wasn’t enough.

His breath came too fast, too shallow.

He leaned forward, elbow on the steering wheel, pressing his temple to the back of his hand like maybe he could breathe through the sting.

He didn’t hear the passenger door open.

Didn’t register the click of it shutting.

Didn’t even know Atsumu was there until warm fingers closed gently around his wrist and stilled him.

“Hey.”

The voice was soft.

Not teasing.

Not sharp.

Just there.

Sakusa jerked slightly, startled — breath catching — and finally looked over.

Atsumu sat beside him, calm but tense, eyes flicking down to the half-crushed wipe in Sakusa’s hand. He didn’t say why he was there, didn’t ask permission. Just reached forward slowly, carefully, and took the wipe from Sakusa’s hand.

Then grabbed a clean one from the packet.

“You missed a spot,” he said quietly.

And wiped down Sakusa’s wrist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Not dramatic.

Not patronizing.

Just deliberate.

Gentle.

Grounding.

Sakusa didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

He just let him.

Let the silence fill the car — warm now, somehow, instead of suffocating — and stared at the man beside him like he wasn’t sure if he was real.

Atsumu didn’t rush him.

He finished wiping Sakusa’s arm with smooth, practiced motions, then folded the used wipe and tucked it neatly into his bag. He didn’t move away. Didn’t lean in either. Just sat, calm as still water, close enough to touch but far enough not to overwhelm.

Sakusa’s breath still came too shallow.

Still too quick.

He dragged a hand down his face. “It’s— I hate this. I hate this.”

His voice was low. Frayed at the edges. Not even sure who it was meant for.

Atsumu shifted slightly, leaning back against the seat. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” It came out sharper than he meant. He winced.

But Atsumu didn’t flinch. Didn’t snap back.

“Then tell me,” he said. Quiet. Unfazed.

Sakusa closed his eyes. Pressed the heel of his hand against them until he saw sparks.

“It’s in my hair,” he muttered finally. “I didn’t even touch anything, and it’s still— I can feel it. I know it’s not rational, but—”

“It’s not about being rational.”

That pulled his attention.

He looked over, and Atsumu was just… there. Calm. Watching him. Not judgmental. Not even trying to fix it.

Just listening.

And somehow that made it worse.

Made Sakusa’s throat go tight. “I was fine. I was doing fine. And then—”

“A few water drops,” Atsumu finished softly. “Yeah. It happens.”

“Not to normal people.”

Atsumu let that hang in the air for a moment. Then tilted his head, considering. “Yeah, well. You’re not normal, Omi.”

Sakusa’s mouth twisted.

“And I don’t mean that in a bad way,” Atsumu added, smirking just a little. “I mean— look at ya. You’re like a walking anxiety attack, but you’re also the best fuckin’ wing spiker in the league. You get more hate mail than anyone I’ve ever met, and you’ve never missed a post-game media thing. You’ve got your shit. But you’re still standing.”

Sakusa blinked.

“That’s normal to me,” Atsumu said, shrugging. “Messy and all.”

The silence came back — but softer this time.

Like maybe it was safe again.

Like maybe it didn’t have teeth.

Sakusa looked down at his hands, finally steady in his lap. He flexed his fingers once. Then again.

“I hate that you saw that,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

They sat like that for a while.

Still.

Fog thick on the windows.

Nowhere to be just yet.

Atsumu exhaled, long and slow, like the tension was bleeding out of him too. He tapped his fingers against his knee once, then twice, then said, “Y’know, I was gonna suggest karaoke tonight.”

Sakusa gave him a flat look.

Atsumu grinned, unfazed. “What? You, me, a private room, some disinfectant wipes, a mic cover just for you—” he paused, then raised an eyebrow, “—I was gonna sing ‘Unwritten’ by Natasha Bedingfield.”

Sakusa blinked. “…Why that one?”

“Because I know you’d hate it.”

That earned the smallest breath of something — not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff, but something loosened at the edge of Sakusa’s mouth.

“Also,” Atsumu continued, leaning back into the seat, “I figured if I sang badly enough, you’d be too focused on the auditory assault to spiral.”

Sakusa shook his head slowly, gaze flicking out the windshield. The fog was thicker now. The world outside felt far away.

“Do you do this for everyone?” he asked, voice quiet.

Atsumu blinked. “What, offer up Bedingfield and sit in a fogged-up car with ’em while they meltdown over locker room humidity?” He gave it a beat. “Nah. Just you.”

That silenced them both.

The air settled again.

Sakusa didn’t move. Neither did Atsumu.

They didn’t talk about the kiss.

Didn’t need to — not right now. Not here, not yet.

And Sakusa, for the first time in what felt like days, didn’t mind the avoidance. Didn’t feel the need to force clarity out of the fog.

He just… let it be.

Let Atsumu sit beside him, dumb jokes and all, with the wipe packet still crumpled between them and the car interior smelling faintly of lemon and sharp relief.

Let the silence stretch, steady and warm and familiar.

And didn’t ask him to leave.

The days passed.

Practice stayed the same.

No more fights. No more weird moments in parking lots. No mention of the kiss or the panic that followed — like it had been folded up and tucked away somewhere they both agreed not to look.

Sakusa showed up. On time. Precise. Focused.

Atsumu cracked jokes. Called for tosses. Let their plays sync up like always.

Whatever had settled between them — awkward, unspoken, undone — it didn’t show on the court.

They didn’t talk about that night.

Didn’t talk much at all outside of what they needed to.

But nothing broke either.

And somehow, that was worse.

The car was idling.

Sakusa’s fingers tapped once, then twice against the steering wheel, the soft rhythm the only thing keeping him grounded.

His mother’s message still sat unread in his notifications — Dinner tonight? Please. Before you disappear for the weekend. Kana said she enjoyed the last one. Maybe we could plan something.

He hadn’t responded yet.

Didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know if he’d go.

His jaw was tight by the time the passenger door opened and Atsumu slid in with a smooth, “Mornin’, sunshine.”

Sakusa didn’t look at him.

Just shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb. “You’re late.”

“I’m always late,” Atsumu said, like it was a compliment.

He adjusted the duffel on his lap, then glanced sideways. “You sleep?”

Sakusa didn’t answer right away.

Then: “A bit.”

“Mm.” Atsumu leaned his head back against the seat. “You pack the fancy wipes?”

Sakusa side-eyed him. “You make that joke every time.”

“Yeah, and you never laugh.”

“Because it’s not funny.”

A beat.

Then Atsumu grinned. “Yer smirking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can hear it.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased, if only a fraction.

They drove in silence for a minute. The morning sun poured weakly through the windshield, gold streaks cutting through the cold air. The roads were quiet. It felt… bearable.

Until Atsumu shifted again, voice softer this time. “You alright?”

Sakusa didn’t answer right away. He watched the road. His fingers curled a little tighter on the wheel.

Then, quietly, “My mother texted.”

Atsumu blinked, sat up slightly straighter. “Yeah?”

“She wants dinner tonight. After we arrive.”

“Are ya goin’?”

“…Don’t know.”

Atsumu didn’t push.

Just nodded once, slow. “Well. If ya need an excuse to bail, I’m free for fake emergencies.”

Sakusa huffed. “I’ll let you know if I need you to pretend you’re dying.”

“Make it dramatic, alright?” Atsumu said, grinning. “Like— Omi, I’m losin’ vision, everythin’s goin’ dark, I need ya to make me one last protein shake—”

“Shut up.”

Atsumu snickered.

But again — Sakusa didn’t tell him to get out. Didn’t glare. Didn’t snap.

The parking lot was already full when they pulled in — a few early risers tossing balls around, others stretched out on gym bags and jackets like it was a beach instead of concrete at seven in the morning.

Steam curled from coffee cups.

Bokuto was doing jumping jacks for absolutely no reason.

Hinata waved when he saw them.

“TSUMU! OMI!” he yelled, like they weren’t twenty feet away. “WE GOT THE GOOD BUS!”

Sakusa grimaced. “What does that mean?”

“It has chargers,” Atsumu translated as he unbuckled and grabbed his bag. “And seats that don’t smell like feet. It’s the little wins.”

Sakusa stepped out slowly, stretching his shoulders beneath the weight of his gear. The air was brisk, cold enough to sting his nose. He pulled his jacket tighter.

He didn’t join the others immediately.

Hung back, as always — by the hood of the car, pretending to check his phone. The unread message from his mother still hovered at the top of his screen.

He didn’t open it.

“Oi,” Atsumu called from ahead, already halfway to the bus. “Don’t be weird, let’s go.”

Sakusa didn’t move.

“C’mon,” Atsumu said, a bit softer. “It’s too early for yer melodramatic loner act.”

That earned a glare — but also got Sakusa walking.

The team was louder up close. Inunaki was chugging some neon-pink energy drink and trying to get Tomas to try it. Bokuto had already launched into a monologue about the Schweiden Adlers’ libero. Meian nodded at Sakusa in passing with a calm, steady presence that somehow didn’t clash with the chaos around them.

And then they were boarding the bus.

Sakusa hesitated just inside the door, scanning the seats. Some were already taken, duffels spread across both spots in the classic don’t sit here maneuver.

He moved toward the back.

A hand caught his sleeve.

Atsumu.

“You’re sittin’ with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Sakusa blinked. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

He let himself be pulled toward the second row, close to the front but not obnoxiously so. Atsumu shoved his own bag onto the rack overhead and dropped into the window seat like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Sakusa sat beside him slowly.

Awkwardly.

Settled in with his own bag at his feet, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket like a shield.

Atsumu leaned his head against the window and exhaled. “God, I hope Inunaki doesn’t fart again. Last trip I thought I was gonna pass out.”

Sakusa didn’t respond.

But when Atsumu shifted closer — just enough that their arms brushed — he didn’t move away either.

And as the engine rumbled to life, and the bus pulled out of the lot, heading for Tokyo and whatever came next…

Sakusa found himself watching the sunrise from a bus window with Atsumu beside him, warm and steady and annoying in that way he couldn’t stop thinking about.

And for the first time that morning, the weight in his chest let up.

Just a little.

The road stretched out in long, grey ribbons.

City melted into countryside, sun rising slow behind distant clouds, casting a pale gold over the bus seats and the fogged windows. Most of the team had drifted into a lull — a few still muttering quietly, others already passed out with headphones in and jackets pulled over their faces.

Sakusa sat stiffly, as always.

The hum of the engine filled the silence between his thoughts. He kept his eyes on the window, let them follow the blur of trees and road signs and rest stops they didn’t pull into. His shoulder pressed lightly against the seat wall.

And against Atsumu.

Who, at some point during the drive, had shifted.

Just a little at first — legs stretching out, back slouching slightly, arm resting closer to Sakusa’s.

Then his head tilted.

And without a word, without a warning, Atsumu’s temple came to rest lightly against Sakusa’s shoulder.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Wasn’t heavy.

Just… warm.

Familiar.

Sakusa stared at the back of the seat in front of them like it held the answers to every question he’d been too afraid to ask.

Atsumu breathed soft. Even.

Completely asleep.

And Sakusa?

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tell him to get off.

He just… sat there.

The weight in his chest shifted again. Not gone. But different now.

He didn’t know what that meant.

Didn’t want to know.

So he let the quiet hold him.

Let Atsumu stay there.

And watched the road roll by like nothing had changed at all.

The bus jolted slightly as it slowed, tires crunching over gravel and painted lines. The hiss of brakes followed, then the low murmur of Meian’s voice from the front.

They’d arrived.

Sakusa didn’t move.

Didn’t even glance at the window.

He just looked down — at the warm weight still resting against his shoulder, the soft, uneven rise and fall of Atsumu’s chest as he slept, lashes low over cheeks that always held more colour than seemed fair.

Sakusa hesitated.

Then — carefully, like the whole world might shift if he wasn’t gentle — he nudged Atsumu’s arm with the back of his knuckles.

“Hey.”

No response.

He nudged again, just a little firmer. “Atsumu.”

A quiet, sleepy hum. Atsumu’s head rolled slightly, brushing Sakusa’s jaw before pulling away.

Sakusa inhaled. Exhaled. Carefully neutral.

“You drool on me,” he said flatly, “and I’ll kill you.”

Atsumu blinked blearily. “Huh?”

“You drool on me,” Sakusa repeated, “and I’ll kill you.”

Atsumu stretched, groaning like he hadn’t just been unconscious on top of someone with a violent germ phobia. “You’re so dramatic,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

“You’re the one who turned into a human pillow.”

“Yeah, well,” Atsumu said through a yawn, “you didn’t move, so…”

Sakusa didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

Because Atsumu was already reaching for his bag, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, smile lazy and unfocused as he stood and stretched like nothing in the world could possibly be heavy.

Like he hadn’t just cracked Sakusa’s ribs with the weight of existing beside him.

Sakusa followed him off the bus without another word.

The hotel lobby was already a disaster.

Bokuto was juggling room keys like they were volleyballs. Hinata was filming it. Inunaki was dramatically asking if anyone snored, and Meian had the air of a man barely holding back the urge to strangle every last one of them.

“Okay!” the woman behind the counter said, far too cheerfully for 10 a.m., “Room 407: Sakusa and Miya.”

Sakusa flinched. Atsumu, behind him, grinned.

“408,” she continued, “Bokuto and Hinata.”

“YES!” Bokuto pumped a fist. “Neighbour chaos, baby!”

Hinata high-fived him. “We’re gonna be so quiet, I swear.”

Sakusa didn’t even bother to mask the horror on his face.

“Is murder legal in Tokyo?” he muttered under his breath.

“Nope,” Atsumu said, already dragging both their duffels toward the elevator. “But if ya give me a ten-minute head start, I won’t say nothin’.”

Sakusa followed wordlessly, half-focused on the argument breaking out behind them (Inunaki had apparently been assigned with Tomas, which was sparking a lively protest), half-focused on his phone.

He opened the message thread.

Mother:

Dinner tonight? Please. Before you disappear for the weekend. Kana said she enjoyed the last one. Maybe we could plan something.

He exhaled slowly. Typed:

Kiyoomi:

I’ll be there.

Before he could overthink it, he flipped to another thread and fired off a second message:

Kiyoomi:

You’re coming to dinner tonight. If I have to suffer through a meal with Kana and my parents alone, I’m taking you down with me.

The typing bubble popped up immediately.

Motoya:

wow i’m so honoured 🥹

Motoya:

what’s the dress code for passive aggression again? family business casual?

Sakusa didn’t dignify it with a reply.

Just slipped his phone away and stepped into the elevator with Atsumu at his side and impending doom in room 407.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Atsumu dropped his bag with a dramatic sigh and reached for the bed—then froze mid-fall.

“Wait,” he muttered, eyes wide. “Shit. Sorry.”

He straightened up immediately and raised his hands like he was surrendering to the CDC.

Sakusa blinked.

Then, slowly, pulled out a ziplock bag from his duffel — neatly packed with disinfectant wipes, mini sprays, and a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitiser that was probably industrial strength.

“Appreciated,” he said flatly.

Atsumu stepped back and let him go to work.

Sakusa moved methodically: door handle, light switches, TV remote, bathroom taps. Every motion was practiced. Efficient. Focused.

It should’ve been awkward.

But Atsumu just leaned against the wall and watched like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I can order lunch while ya do that,” he offered. “Anything ya want?”

“No dairy,” Sakusa said without looking up.

“Got it. Cow death.”

Sakusa huffed, just barely.

It took five more minutes to finish the room to his standard. He even wiped the desk lamp switch and the curtain pull cord. Then, finally, he peeled off his gloves and nodded like a surgeon done with a procedure.

“You can sit now.”

Atsumu collapsed onto the bed instantly.

“Might marry you for this mattress alone,” he mumbled into the pillow.

Sakusa ignored that. Mostly.

He unpacked his toiletries with quiet precision, his eyes flicking once, then again, to where Atsumu lay sprawled across the duvet — not with his shoes on, thank God — and muttering something about karaage and ordering too much on purpose.

And for a moment — just a beat — the room felt okay.

Still clean.

Still quiet.

But not cold.

The hotel room was quiet again.

Atsumu was sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, earbuds in but not playing anything. Just… there.

Sakusa stood at the full-length mirror near the closet, adjusting the collar of his shirt for the third time.

It wasn’t fancy. Button-down, dark slacks, his cleanest sneakers.

But he’d ironed the sleeves. Worn the cologne Motoya gave him three birthdays ago. Donned a black mask.

“You’re gonna steam yourself into a coma,” Atsumu said without looking up.

Sakusa ignored him.

Straightened the collar again. Rolled the cuffs, then unrolled them. Stared hard at the reflection like it might blink first.

Behind him, Atsumu kicked his feet against the mattress and yawned. “You look fine. Better than fine, even. Real ‘please don’t speak to me unless you’ve sanitised’ vibes.”

Sakusa turned. “I’m going to dinner with my mother.”

Atsumu raised a brow. “And threatening your cousin into going too.”

Sakusa checked his phone.

Motoya:

5 mins. u ready to emotionally repress with ✨style✨

He sighed. “Come on.”

Atsumu sat up, already slipping into his shoes. “I’m not invited, am I?”

“You’d only make it worse.”

Atsumu snorted. “Fair.”

Outside, headlights flashed.

Sakusa picked up his jacket, ran a hand through his hair one last time, then stepped into the hallway without another word.

Atsumu followed to the elevator, quiet again, like he knew better than to say too much. Their arms brushed once. Sakusa didn’t flinch.

By the time they reached the front doors, Motoya was waiting — leaning against his car with his signature mix of menace and flair, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a takeaway coffee he definitely didn’t buy for Sakusa but would offer anyway.

“You look like you’re attending a wake,” he said as Sakusa slid into the passenger seat.

“I feel like it,” Sakusa muttered, buckling in.

Motoya leaned over and waved at Atsumu still at the door. “Bye, pretty boy!”

Atsumu grinned. “Good luck, fellas!”

And then they were off.

The city lights blurred past.

And Sakusa tried — very hard — not to think about how much easier it had been, sharing quiet with Atsumu.

The restaurant was too bright.

Sakusa adjusted his sleeves as he stepped inside, eyes scanning instinctively for exits, for hand sanitiser stations, for anything that might make this night easier.

His mother spotted them first.

She stood immediately, waved once, then gestured toward the table with all the grace of a woman who’d spent her entire life hosting dinners she didn’t want to attend.

His father didn’t look up from the menu.

“Ah, Kiyoomi,” she said as they approached. “You’re on time.”

“I always am.”

Motoya, behind him, beamed like he hadn’t been forcibly dragged into this. “Hey, Auntie. Love the scarf.”

“Motoya,” she replied, just on the edge of polite. “Still not cutting your hair?”

“It’s a personality now.”

Sakusa slid into the seat opposite his father. Motoya took the one beside him. The air felt thinner already.

His mother looked over her shoulder briefly. “Kana couldn’t make it — a work commitment, unfortunately.”

Sakusa paused mid-reach for his water.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s… too bad.”

But it wasn’t.

And the guilt that curled around that quiet relief made his stomach churn worse than the wine on the table ever could.

“How’s volleyball?” his father asked, not looking up.

“We’re playing the Adlers this weekend.”

A nod. “You’ll win.”

It wasn’t a compliment. Just a statement. Like Sakusa had already made the mistake of doing anything less.

Conversation limped along — half-formed questions, commentary on the food, his mother suggesting they visit one of Kana’s friend’s cafés sometime. Motoya asked what kind of café it was. She said “clean.” He said “boring.”

Sakusa ate in silence.

Pushed food around his plate. Answered only when directly spoken to. Kept thinking about the text from Atsumu on the way here:

[Atsumu]: u better survive this dinner. don’t let ur fam turn u into soup.

He hadn’t replied.

Didn’t know how.

But the thought of that stupid message — the way Atsumu texted like they hadn’t kissed and he hadn’t shut him down and spiraled all over again — was the only thing keeping him from actually getting up and walking out.

Motoya elbowed him gently under the table.

“You okay?” he mouthed.

Sakusa gave the smallest nod.

Just enough to say: I’m surviving.

And for now, that was enough.

By the time dessert menus arrived, Sakusa’s jaw ached from clenching. His mother was unfolding hers with deliberate precision, like she expected to find something objectionable printed between the lines. His father hadn’t looked up from his phone in twenty minutes.

Then — because awkward dinners weren’t awkward enough — his mother smiled gently across the table.

“So, Kiyoomi,” she said, “have you ever thought about what it’ll be like when you have children of your own?”

Sakusa stared.

“No,” he said bluntly.

She tutted. “That’ll change. You just haven’t met the right girl yet.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Motoya stepped in smoothly. “Well, I’ve met the right team. Raijin’s new rookie from Sendai? Kid’s a menace. Might actually give Suna a run for his money.”

That got a flicker of interest from Sakusa’s father. “Suna still playing middle?”

“He is,” Motoya said. “I’m still libero. We’ve got good synergy this season.”

There was a pause. Too quiet. Too expectant.

Then his father said, tone casual in that razor-sharp way:

“Saw something about Suna in the paper the other day. He’s dating that Miya kid now.”

Motoya stilled.

Sakusa’s mother blinked, confused. “The one in Kiyoomis team?”

“No,” his father said, waving that off. “The other one. The twin who runs those restaurants now. Grey hair. Quiet type. Don’t remember his name.”

“Osamu,” Sakusa said, low and tight.

His father nodded. “Right. That one. Apparently they’ve been going public with it. Photos, statements, the whole thing.”

“Disgraceful,” his mother muttered, folding her napkin. “So much exposure. I don’t understand why everyone has to announce everything these days.”

“It’s one thing to be like that privately,” his father added. “But flaunting it? It’s not professional. Not respectable.”

Motoya didn’t even blink. “You do know Osamu Miya catered the governor’s award dinner last month, right? And owns the top-rated omakase place in Aoyama?”

His father sniffed. “That’s business. This is different.”

“No,” Motoya said, voice steely calm, “it’s really not.”

Sakusa said nothing.

He didn’t trust himself to.

But he did stare at his half-finished dessert like it might explode under the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet.

Not in the peaceful way. Not like before.

This was tight silence. Tense. It clung to the air like steam on glass — blurring everything, suffocating slowly.

Motoya’s hands were tight on the wheel. His mouth was moving — short bursts of muttered frustration, scattered between sharper exhalations.

“I mean, fuck them,” he said finally, voice low and vicious. “They don’t get to say that shit and act like they’re just being traditional. Like they’re protecting something. Who the hell are they protecting, huh? Their pride? Their fantasy family image? Because it’s not you.”

Sakusa said nothing.

He stared out the passenger window, fingers curled in his lap.

Tokyo’s skyline blurred past them in streaks of neon and gold.

“They talk like you’re a project,” Motoya muttered. “Like you just haven’t been fixed yet. Like some nice girl’s gonna come along and bleach it all clean and make you something they can understand.”

Still, Sakusa didn’t respond.

His eyes were blank. Not angry. Not upset. Just… absent.

His throat felt dry. His skin felt tight. He’d scrubbed so hard in the shower earlier he could still feel the heat of it under his sleeves, even hours later.

“And Osamu?” Motoya scoffed, bitter. “That man is literally feeding half the country with a Michelin star attached to his apron. But sure, yeah, let’s focus on who he dates.”

Silence again.

Longer, heavier.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Motoya added, softer this time. “I just— I’m not gonna let them keep doing this to you.”

Sakusa still didn’t look at him.

He just watched the lights slip past the glass and tried to ignore the weight inside his chest.

The one that had been there forever. The one that sounded an awful lot like his mother’s voice and felt an awful lot like shame.

The elevator ride was slow.

Too slow.

Sakusa stood with his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, shoulders tight, staring blankly at the glowing numbers above the doors as they climbed. He could still hear his father’s voice, echoing in clipped syllables, bouncing around the hollow parts of his ribs.

When the elevator finally dinged at their floor, Sakusa moved like he was underwater — mechanical, quiet, like if he didn’t make any noise, the weight might forget it was crushing him.

He swiped the keycard. The lock clicked.

Inside, the lights were soft, the curtains half-drawn. The air smelled faintly like Atsumu’s shampoo.

“‘Bout time,” Atsumu said without looking up from where he was sprawled on one of the twin beds, phone in hand, legs kicked up lazily behind him. “Was startin’ to think the sharks ate ya alive.”

He grinned at his screen, probably mid-text.

Then looked up.

And the smile vanished.

“Oh—Omi.”

He was on his feet instantly, crossing the room in two steps. All jokes gone, all heat behind his eyes shifted into worry. Real, bone-deep concern.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low, careful. “You okay?”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe, for a second too long.

He just stood there, eyes shining under the dull lamplight, and looked at Atsumu like he wasn’t sure if he was real.

He hadn’t even taken his coat off.

Didn’t realise he was still holding the room key in a white-knuckled grip until Atsumu gently plucked it from his hand.

Sakusa’s eyes fluttered shut for a second.

When they opened, Atsumu was closer. Not touching, but near enough that Sakusa could feel the warmth radiating off him — solid and grounding and so unbearably kind it made his throat ache.

“C’mere,” Atsumu said gently. “Sit down. Breathe for a sec, yeah?”

But Sakusa didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Then — slowly, carefully — his mouth trembled. Just once.

And the tears slipped past his lashes.

Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet and sharp, like pressure escaping a crack in glass.

Atsumu’s expression softened instantly. No questions. No teasing.

Just one hand reaching out again — this time landing gently on Sakusa’s shoulder.

And when Sakusa didn’t pull away, Atsumu stepped closer, wrapping an arm around him like it was the most natural thing in the world. The other came up to cradle the back of his head, fingertips threading lightly through his curls.

Sakusa leaned in.

Chest against chest, arms loose at his sides, but his face buried in Atsumu’s shoulder like he didn’t know how else to hold himself together.

Atsumu didn’t speak.

He just held him.

Steady. Warm. Quiet.

And didn’t ask a single thing.

Time stretched.

Atsumu didn’t let go.

He didn’t shift his weight or speak to fill the quiet. He just held Sakusa steady — arms wrapped firm and certain, like if he anchored him long enough, maybe all the cracks would stop spreading.

Sakusa didn’t sob. Didn’t shake. But his breath hitched once, sharp and unsteady, and that was enough.

Atsumu moved one hand slowly, brushing the curls at the nape of Sakusa’s neck, light and careful like he was afraid to startle him.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. Not as a question. Not even as reassurance. Just… truth. A simple one, offered freely.

It wasn’t. Not really. But Sakusa let it sit there anyway.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that — in the middle of a sterile hotel room, pressed together like something fragile might break loose if they didn’t stay still.

Long enough for the cold in his fingers to ease.

Long enough for his chest to stop feeling like it was caving in.

Long enough for that ache in his ribs — the one his parents had carved into him without ever raising their voices — to settle into something bearable.

Eventually, Atsumu pulled back just enough to look at him.

His hands stayed exactly where they were, gentle and grounding, like he was afraid Sakusa would vanish if he let go all at once.

“You don’t gotta tell me nothin’,” he said softly. “Not now. Not ever, if ya don’t wanna.”

Sakusa blinked at him.

He wasn’t sure what showed on his face — exhaustion, maybe. That worn-down kind of hurt that didn’t have a name.

But Atsumu met it with nothing but warmth.

The same warmth Sakusa had been trying not to fall into for weeks.

Maybe longer.

A beat passed.

Then two.

Sakusa nodded, just barely. A tiny, fractured movement.

Atsumu smiled.

And without another word, he guided them both down to sit on the edge of the bed, shoulder to shoulder, knees just barely touching.

The silence stretched again — but this time, it felt safe.

Shared.

And Sakusa didn’t flinch.

They sat for a while.

Not saying anything. Just breathing the same air.

The hum of the city outside slipped in through the window cracks — low, distant traffic and the occasional wail of a siren. The kind of noise that made Sakusa feel small in a way he didn’t mind.

Eventually, Atsumu shifted.

Not away — just enough to glance at the bedside clock. He didn’t comment on the time. Didn’t make a joke about beauty sleep or the game tomorrow. He just nudged Sakusa gently with his elbow.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low. “Shower time.”

Sakusa blinked, slow and unfocused.

“You’ll feel better,” Atsumu added, already standing. “Promise.”

He offered a hand.

Sakusa hesitated — not because he didn’t want it, but because the movement of reaching out still felt foreign. Still felt like saying something without knowing the words.

But he took it.

Let Atsumu pull him to his feet. Let himself be led to his suitcase to grab his pyjamas. Let himself be led gently toward the bathroom like muscle memory might carry him the rest of the way.

When they reached the door, Atsumu stopped. Reached past him, flicked the light on, then handed him a towel from the neat little stack by the counter.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just gave Sakusa a soft look — one that said, take your time — and closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

Sakusa stood there for a moment.

The overhead light was too bright. The tile too cold under his bare feet.

But the steam was already beginning to fog the mirror.

And somehow, that was enough.

He peeled his layers off slowly. Stepped into the shower.

Let the heat soak into his skin.

And for the first time all day, he breathed.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Steam spilled into the room in a soft wave, clinging to Sakusa’s skin as he stepped out, towel slung around his neck, dark curls damp and clinging to his forehead. His pyjamas hung a little loose on his frame — grey long sleeves and soft cotton pants. He looked… blank.

Not in a scary way. Not in a way that begged attention. Just distant — like he was still caught between the silence of the dinner table and the heat of the shower, floating somewhere above his own body.

Atsumu was already settled on Sakusas bed, cross-legged and scrolling through his phone, but he looked up instantly.

Didn’t say anything.

Just offered a soft smile and patted the mattress beside him.

Sakusa moved like he wasn’t entirely in control of his limbs. He folded himself down onto the bed, careful and stiff, then slowly let himself sink into the pillow. His breathing was quiet. Measured. Not restful, but not panicked either.

Atsumu tucked the blanket over his legs without a word.

Then — with that same casual care he always carried — he reached over and began gently combing his fingers through Sakusa’s damp curls. Not to style them. Not to do anything in particular. Just… touch. Soothing. Repetitive.

It was grounding.

And Sakusa — with his eyes half-lidded and mouth pressed into a thin line — whispered, “Can you just… talk, please?”

Atsumu blinked. But only for a second.

“Sure,” he said. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He didn’t ask about what. Didn’t press for explanation.

He just launched in, like he’d been waiting for permission.

“So,” he started, tone bright, “Hinata fuckin’ knocked over an entire tray of dumplings tryin’ to high five Bokuto after that karaoke round. And instead of helpin’ him, Bokuto picked up one of the dumplings off the floor, declared it ‘still good,’ and ate it. In front of the server. Who nearly cried.”

Sakusa blinked slowly. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“And then,” Atsumu went on, “Hinata tried to do a dramatic apology bow, but misjudged how low the table was and smacked his forehead right into it. Bokuto panicked and tried to soothe the table instead of Hinata. Like. Literally started rubbin’ the wood grain and whisperin’ sorry.”

His voice was soft, but animated. Like he didn’t want to break the calm, but still wanted it to feel like life. Like the world hadn’t caved in.

“And apparently Inunaki snuck a video of it and’s already turned it into a meme. He sent it to the whole team group chat and Meian’s threatened to revoke his karaoke privileges.”

Atsumu kept going. Didn’t even pause for breath.

Just let the words spill. Steady and warm. Familiar.

And Sakusa — still tucked beneath the blanket, still feeling like his bones were barely holding together — let his eyes flutter shut.

Not asleep.

Just still.

And for now, that was enough.

Atsumu didn’t stop talking.

His voice dropped a little, quieter now that Sakusa’s eyes were shut, but he kept going anyway — weaving through stories like thread between fingers. Dumb things Bokuto had said. How Tomas apparently had a weird fear of escalators. Some half-formed theory about how Meian was definitely hiding a secret talent, probably salsa dancing.

He didn’t expect a reply.

Didn’t need one.

Just kept the rhythm going, low and steady, like background noise Sakusa could fall into without thinking.

At some point — without even really deciding to — Atsumu slid down under the blanket from where he’d been sitting cross-legged and stretched out beside him. One arm still under the pillow, the other still absently playing with Sakusa’s hair.

The bed was definitely too small.

There was a whole identical one not even a metre away.

But Atsumu didn’t move.

And Sakusa didn’t ask him to.

He shifted once — barely — to make room, though there wasn’t much. Their legs pressed together under the blanket. Shoulders brushing.

Atsumu’s voice dipped even softer, like it knew something sacred was settling in.

“…and then Hinata swore he could beat me in a foot race, even though he’s literally two inches tall and mostly leg. Little gremlin got halfway down the street before he tripped over a cone. Swear to god, if I didn’t love him I’d kill him.”

Sakusa exhaled through his nose, barely a sound.

Atsumu caught it anyway. Smiled like it was the biggest win of the night.

“I’m runnin’ outta dumb stories,” he murmured eventually, voice brushing against the edge of sleep. “Unless ya wanna hear the one ‘bout Bokuto tryin’ to grill fish on a hotel iron in Okayama.”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

He just shifted a little closer.

Didn’t think about it. Didn’t calculate the movement. Just… leaned.

And Atsumu?

He went quiet.

For once, no teasing. No smirking commentary.

Just one arm curling gently around Sakusa’s waist. Careful. Loose. Like it was only there in case he needed it.

And Sakusa let himself stay there.

Pressed against him. Eyes closed. Tired down to the marrow but somehow still awake.

Breathing in the warm scent of Atsumu’s shampoo and whatever fabric softener his dumb expensive hoodie used.

The silence held.

But now it wasn’t heavy.

It was safe.

And for the first time in a long time, Sakusa let himself rest.

Morning came slowly.

A soft light filtered through the hotel curtains, warm and golden in a way that felt almost fake — like the kind of lighting you only got in commercials for tea or bedsheets. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the air conditioning and the occasional shuffle of footsteps in the hallway outside.

Sakusa stirred.

His brows drew together before his eyes even opened, something about the weight and warmth around him feeling… wrong. Or not wrong, exactly. Just… unexpected.

He shifted slightly, and—

Arms.

Around him.

A thigh draped over his.

A warm breath against the back of his neck.

Oh. No.

His eyes opened.

Atsumu was still asleep. Somehow. His head tucked into the crook of Sakusa’s shoulder, one leg tangled between Sakusa’s like he belonged there, like they didn’t both have a perfectly good bed each and seven feet of room to work with.

And Sakusa — frozen, heartbeat hammering in his throat — didn’t even know how to start untangling himself.

Not just physically.

But mentally.

His body felt like it was still half-melted into sleep. Heavy in the bones. Soft in the chest. But his brain was waking up fast — panic beginning to bloom, hot and sharp, under his ribs.

This was—

This was too close.

This was too much.

But—

He hadn’t flinched.

Not yet.

He could feel the heat of Atsumu’s palm resting just beneath the hem of his shirt, warm fingers splayed gently against his waist like they’d always been there.

And the worst part?

It felt… nice.

Too nice.

God, what’s wrong with me.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. Tried to breathe through it.

One breath.

Two.

Three.

Still there.

Still tangled in limbs and heat and whatever soft emotion had rooted itself in his chest overnight like it had every right to exist.

Atsumu shifted slightly, murmuring something incoherent against Sakusa’s shoulder — then stilled again, face calm, breath steady.

Sakusa didn’t move.

Didn’t know how to move.

He just laid there, heart in his throat, skin on fire, every inch of him painfully aware of the way his body hadn’t rejected the touch.

Had welcomed it.

And that scared him more than anything else.

Atsumu stirred first.

Sakusa felt it — the slow shift of weight, the way those fingers on his waist twitched like they were remembering where they were. Then a soft exhale, followed by the gradual realisation that they were still wrapped around each other like—

Atsumu froze.

Sakusa didn’t move.

For a second, the entire room felt like it was holding its breath.

And then Atsumu pulled back just enough to speak.

“Oh—shit. Sorry,” he muttered, voice still scratchy with sleep. He untangled himself in slow, clumsy movements, dragging his leg back like it was suddenly radioactive. “Didn’t mean to—uh—yeah. Shit. Sorry. I must’ve, like, rolled or somethin’. Didn’t realise—fuck.”

Sakusa still hadn’t moved. Still lying on his back, eyes open, chest tight.

Atsumu ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and groaned. “God. I invaded your space like a damn stray cat.”

Silence.

Then, desperate to ease the tension: “Also, you run hot as hell, y’know that? Like. Human furnace level. I think I actually got a lil’ heatstroke off your ribcage.”

That pulled something out of Sakusa. Not quite a laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched, and Atsumu caught it.

“See? You’re laughin’ on the inside. Don’t lie.”

Sakusa didn’t confirm or deny. He just shifted to sit up, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Atsumu watched him carefully. Not pushing. Not teasing, now that the humour had done its job of cracking through the initial awkward.

“You okay?” he asked, softer this time.

Sakusa nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t mean to make things weird,” Atsumu added, sitting cross-legged on top of the blankets now, clearly making space.

Sakusa didn’t look at him. Just pulled the covers off and stood, heading toward the bathroom with his usual mechanical grace.

At the door, he paused.

“I didn’t hate it,” he said, barely above a whisper. Then he disappeared inside before Atsumu could even blink.

The hallway outside their room was already too loud.

Bokuto’s voice echoed off the walls like a cannon, followed by the unmistakable shuffle-thump of Hinata’s too-energetic steps.

“Bro, I’m telling you, you cannot eat five eggs and sprint to the bus again—”

“That was one time!”

Sakusa stepped out of the room just in time to see Hinata try to body-block Bokuto from knocking on the next door. It didn’t work. Bokuto knocked anyway — three heavy bangs that rattled the poor hinge like it owed him money.

“Rise and shine, besties!” Bokuto shouted. “Breakfast squad assemble!”

“Jesus Christ,” Atsumu muttered beside him.

But he was grinning.

Sleep-tousled, hoodie half-zipped, hair still a little flat on one side from the pillow. Sakusa couldn’t help but glance at him — just a flicker of his eyes — before turning away again, heat licking up the back of his neck.

He still hadn’t said anything else about this morning. Neither of them had.

And that silence was starting to hum.

Hinata turned and grinned when he saw them. “Oh! You’re up already. Look at you two, all coordinated.”

“We are not coordinated,” Sakusa said, flat.

Atsumu bumped his shoulder lightly. “I mean. We do match a lil’. Black and grey’s a theme.”

“Shut up,” Sakusa muttered.

Bokuto leaned out of the doorway and squinted at them. “You good, Omi? You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Bokuto said, unconvinced. “But I have protein bars if you need emergency fuel.”

“He doesn’t want your expired peanut butter bricks, Bokuto,” Hinata said, dragging the door shut behind them as they joined the group. “Let’s just go before someone gets tackled in the hallway.”

They walked toward the elevator as a group, Bokuto and Hinata already arguing about whether or not hotel orange juice was “real juice” or a “crime against fruit.” Sakusa stayed quiet. Close, but quiet.

Atsumu was walking beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost brushed again.

And despite the tension still thrumming through Sakusa’s chest, despite the residual panic curled somewhere under his ribs—

He didn’t move away.

Breakfast was being served buffet-style in the hotel restaurant — a disaster waiting to happen with their roster.

By the time Sakusa stepped into the room, Bokuto already had two plates piled dangerously high with eggs, toast, and what looked like six different types of meat. Hinata was making some kind of horrifying smoothie concoction at the juice bar. Tomas was arguing with Meian about the optimal protein-to-carb ratio before a match. And Inunaki?

Inunaki was spinning a fork like a baton and loudly recounting his “top five karaoke crimes.”

Sakusa hovered near the back of the room. Not really seated. Not really standing. Just there.

And then—

A hand bumped gently against his arm.

A paper coffee cup appeared in his line of sight, still steaming. Black. Two sugars on the side. The way he liked it.

He looked up.

Atsumu didn’t even glance his way.

He just handed Sakusa the cup, then plopped himself into the seat beside Bokuto, already chiming in with, “Okay, but you cannot say Queen is overrated. That’s blasphemy, Inunaki.”

Sakusa stared at the cup for a second longer.

Then sat down.

Took a sip.

It was perfect.

“Guys!” Inunaki called across the table, waving a grape on a toothpick. “Karaoke was so fun last night! I did a solo of ‘I Want It That Way’ and Hinata tried to backflip off the couch!”

“I succeeded, thank you very much,” Hinata said, scowling into his bowl of cereal.

“You cracked your knee on the coffee table.”

Hinata’s scowl deepened. “Still a backflip.”

Meian frowned, “No more karaoke for a while please.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Bokuto said, mouth full of hashbrown. “It was so fun. Atsumu did, like, three different voices during his solo and somehow ended up doing interpretive dance with a hotel towel.”

“That towel,” Tomas said with the tone of a man who had seen things, “has been through enough.”

“It was a beautiful performance!” Atsumu defended, flicking a piece of melon at Tomas. “The towel understood the emotion I was conveying.”

“I think the towel’s gonna need therapy,” Inunaki muttered.

Sakusa didn’t laugh.

But he did smile into his coffee.

“Okay,” Inunaki said, slamming his juice down like a man declaring war. “New rule. No one’s allowed to sing anything by Ed Sheeran ever again.”

Hinata nearly choked on his toast. “That’s so harsh!”

“He sang ‘Thinking Out Loud’ at karaoke while staring at the TV like it betrayed him,” Bokuto added helpfully. “It was… an experience.”

“I was in character,” Tomas defended, offended. “It was dramatic. The moment called for emotion.”

“The moment called for therapy,” Meian muttered, reaching for another slice of melon.

Sakusa sat quietly at the edge of the group, coffee warm between his palms, head slightly bowed as if the cup required deep, meditative study. But his shoulders weren’t quite so tense anymore.

Atsumu noticed.

Not with words — but in the way he leaned back in his chair, elbow brushing Sakusa’s for just a second longer than it needed to. The way he didn’t try to fill the quiet, just let it settle around them like a familiar blanket.

Meian checked his watch, voice cutting over the chaos. “Don’t forget we’re heading out in an hour. Coach wants us at the stadium early.”

“Gotta scope out the Adlers,” Hinata grinned, bouncing in his chair. “I heard Kageyama’s been working on new serve formations.”

Bokuto lit up. “DUDE, what if we spike it right back into his face.”

“Bokuto,” Meian said, “please don’t start a brawl before nationals.”

“I’m just sayin’!”

Atsumu rolled his eyes, but he was smiling again. “Remind me to bring a leash for you next time.”

“Promise?” Bokuto grinned.

Sakusa didn’t laugh — but again, that slight twitch of the lips gave him away.

And Atsumu saw it.

Saw it, clocked it, and didn’t say a word. Just nudged the sugar packet closer to him without comment. Just in case.

A moment passed — then Inunaki leaned across the table, eyes glinting with mischief. “Yo, Omi.”

Sakusa looked up warily. “What.”

“You totally skipped out on karaoke last night.”

Sakusa’s brow twitched. “Correct.”

“You missed my duet with Meian.”

“It wasn’t a duet,” Meian said, deadpan. “You unplugged the mic halfway through and declared yourself ‘emotionally soloing.’”

“Point is,” Inunaki went on, ignoring the correction entirely, “you missed out.”

Sakusa took another sip of his coffee. “I’ll get over it.”

Laughter broke around the table — light, easy, unfiltered.

Even Tomas cracked a grin.

Atsumu leaned over, bumping Sakusa’s shoulder again, voice low and fond. “See? That’s why yer my favourite killjoy.”

And for a second — just a second — Sakusa let himself smile.

Not a smirk. Not the twitch of politeness.

But a real, small, warm thing that stayed just long enough for Atsumu to catch it.

And store it away.

Eventually, Meian cleared his throat — the signal everyone recognised even if he didn’t raise his voice. Chairs scraped back. Plates were abandoned mid-pick.

Sakusa stood a beat after Atsumu, quietly placing his now-empty coffee cup in the bin before following the group out.

The hallway was just a little quieter. Their laughter echoed behind them, but Sakusa didn’t turn back.

He didn’t need to.

He could hear Atsumu’s voice just behind his shoulder, feel the warmth of it settle into the space between them — not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

And as they made their way back to the elevators — toward uniform changes, warmups, and the slow hum of game day adrenaline rising under the skin — Sakusa let himself fall into step beside him.

No words.

Just quiet breath and steady steps.

And for now — just now — that was enough.

The Schweiden Adlers’ stadium was bigger than theirs.

Brighter, too — all glaring lights and polished concrete, high ceilings that echoed even the softest footfall. The court itself gleamed like glass. The stands stretched wide and high, already buzzing with early-arrival energy.

Sakusa hated it.

He didn’t say it — wouldn’t dare — but his stomach had twisted the second they stepped off the bus. Every hallway felt too sterile, every surface too exposed. His skin itched beneath his warmup jacket, and his fingers curled tighter around his bag strap with every step toward the court.

“C’mon,” Atsumu murmured beside him, voice low enough only Sakusa could hear. “Let’s get your station set up.”

He said it so casually, like it was just part of the routine — like he hadn’t spent all breakfast watching Sakusa out of the corner of his eye, like he hadn’t wrapped himself around him last night in a narrow twin bed and kept him grounded with soft words and softer hands.

Sakusa followed.

He always did.

They hit the lockers first, dropping their gear. Atsumu moved quietly, not rushing him, not asking anything. Just started laying out their towels, water bottles, knee pads — even handed Sakusa his own sanitiser spray without a word.

The smell was familiar. Anchoring.

Sakusa exhaled, slow and measured, then pulled his compression shirt from his bag and started working it on.

Bokuto was bouncing on the balls of his feet like a kid on sugar, Meian trying (and failing) to keep him and Hinata from making bets on who could block the Adlers’ ace first.

“Need anything else?” Atsumu asked, crouched beside him, glancing over the kit Sakusa had already laid out.

Sakusa shook his head. “No.”

Atsumu didn’t push. Just slapped his own thigh once and headed out the door, whistling low under his breath.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.

And Sakusa sat there, alone in a locker room that felt like it had been copy-pasted from their home stadium — every piece in the right place, every scent familiar, every shadow falling where it was supposed to.

But it still wasn’t home.

Still didn’t settle right under his skin.

So he focused on the only thing that helped — the quiet, deliberate routine that kept his hands steady.

One thing at a time.

The court felt colder than it looked.

Sakusa stepped onto it like he always did — measured, composed, precise — but the chill of the polished wood climbed up through the soles of his sneakers all the same. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. The echo of the ball bouncing across the other side of the net rang too sharp in his ears.

But across the court, Atsumu was already there.

He stood just inside the service line, tossing a ball lazily in one hand, spinning it once before catching it with the ease of habit. His hair was still a little messy from the locker room. His mouth moved as he said something to Inunaki — probably teasing, given the way the libero threw up his hands in protest — and then he turned.

Caught Sakusa’s eye.

Just for a second.

No smile. No wink. Just a tilt of the head, like you good? — and Sakusa didn’t nod, didn’t signal, didn’t do anything except walk steadily toward him.

Atsumu didn’t say anything when he reached him. Just passed him a fresh ball, smooth and seamless like it was always meant to be his.

Sakusa adjusted his grip. Felt the familiar weight settle into his palm.

Atsumu stepped back, catching another from a ball cart and sending a clean, low toss over the net to one of the juniors warming up their digs. The rhythm of the warmup buzzed around them — sneakers squeaking, coaches shouting, the low boom of hands meeting leather.

But in the middle of it all, this part was theirs.

Sakusa started with a light serve, letting the motion stretch his shoulders, testing the tension in his knees. Atsumu stayed close, setting up clean tosses, keeping anyone else from crowding his space.

Not a word about the night before.

Not a question about how he’d slept.

Just steady, reliable movement — a conversation in careful choreography.

And in this rhythm — the crisp snap of the ball, the scrape of sneakers, the unspoken familiarity between them — Sakusa felt the edges of his nerves begin to dull.

Not fade. Not vanish.

But ease.

Just enough.

Foster called out to the group to start stretching.

“Down.”

Sakusa’s voice was flat. Unamused.

Atsumu, of course, was grinning like a menace.

He dropped to the mat in front of him anyway, folding one leg over the other and stretching forward, hands grazing the edge of his sneakers. His spine curved lazily, like he wasn’t taking it seriously at all — which, to be fair, he wasn’t.

Sakusa crouched behind him, hands hovering just above the small of his back.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Sakusa warned, then pressed gently between his shoulder blades to deepen the stretch.

And Atsumu — Atsumu, the absolute nightmare of a human being — moaned.

Loud.

Obscene.

“Aghhh, Omi—”

Sakusa froze.

He felt every single head within a five-metre radius snap in their direction.

“I will kill you,” Sakusa muttered.

“I’m helpin’ ya train yer mental toughness,” Atsumu said, still folded in half, the picture of innocence. “C’mon, Omi, we’ve gotta simulate pressure on the court.”

“You’re gonna simulate a hospital visit if you do that again.”

Behind them, Bokuto let out a wheezing cackle. Hinata shouted something about needing earplugs. Inunaki, traitor that he was, immediately attempted to replicate the sound, and nearly pulled a hamstring doing it.

Sakusa, face burning, forcibly focused on pushing Atsumu deeper into the stretch. Not too hard. Just enough to make the menace shut up.

Unfortunately, that meant keeping his hands on Atsumu’s back. Which meant noticing how broad it was. How warm.

And how easy it would be to let his hands wander, just a little—

Nope.

Nope nope nope.

Sakusa yanked his hands back like he’d touched a hot stove. Straightened up so fast his knees cracked.

“You’re done.”

Atsumu turned to grin at him, shameless and smug. “Was it good for you, too?”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

He was too busy pretending his face wasn’t the colour of a tomato.

Coach Foster’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and direct.

“Alright, bring it in!”

The court cleared fast. Players jogged in from their corners, gathering in a tight circle around the clipboard and the calm, commanding presence that was their coach. Tomas cracked his knuckles. Inunaki bounced on the balls of his feet. Bokuto slung an arm over Hinata’s shoulders, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Sakusa moved toward the group like clockwork. Feet steady. Expression blank.

And then Atsumu was at his side.

Again.

He slipped in close, shoulder brushing Sakusa’s as he wedged himself between him and Tomas — too warm, too casual, standing like he belonged there. Which, okay, fine — he did — but did he have to stand that close?

The circle closed in.

Coach Foster was saying something about tempo, about service pressure, about exploiting their opponents’ weak left side, but Sakusa was barely hearing any of it.

Because Atsumu was still right there.

Arm against his. Breath brushing his cheek every time he leaned in to nod along to something. The faintest scent of his deodorant — something warm and clean, like cedarwood and skin — clung to the air between them.

Sakusa stared straight ahead.

Blinking. Breathing. Trying not to die.

His hands curled tighter around the sleeves of his jacket. One wrong move, one accidental glance, and it’d all spill over — the kiss, the spiral, the hotel room, the way Atsumu looked when he talked about Bokuto and Hinata like they were just dumb kids he adored.

His chest tightened.

Not with anxiety this time.

Just… something hot. Heavy. Impossible to name.

“Hey.”

Atsumu’s voice was quiet. Just for him.

“You good?”

Sakusa didn’t trust his mouth to answer. Just gave the faintest nod.

Atsumu didn’t press.

Coach clapped his hands once. “We start hard, we finish harder. You all know the drill. Let’s move.”

The circle broke apart. Players scattered.

Sakusa took one step back.

And felt Atsumu’s hand brush his wrist — quick, grounding, gone again.

Just enough to light another spark under his skin.

The crowd was loud.

Not just stadium-loud. Not just playoff-loud.

Adlers-loud.

Sakusa barely registered it. The echo of fans, the clang of cowbells, the stomp of feet — all of it faded beneath the thrum in his chest and the precise rhythm of his breath. In. Out. Controlled.

He stood at the service line, eyes locked across the net.

Adlers’ formation was tight. Perfect. Unforgiving.

Kageyama stood in the centre like a statue, expression carved in stone, eyes sharp as ever.

But Sakusa had played them before.

And MSBY had beaten them before.

He wasn’t afraid of perfect.

He just needed to break it.

The first set exploded out of the gate.

Fast.

Brutal.

Sharp spikes, faster digs, line balls that had the refs pausing to check footage — and through it all, Sakusa and Atsumu moved like they were wired into each other.

Set after set.

Call after call.

Every step aligned.

Atsumu shouted the tempo once and didn’t have to do it again. Sakusa knew. He knew where to be, when to swing, how hard to drive the ball into the dead space between the Adlers’ outside and their libero.

Point.

MSBY.

The crowd roared.

Sakusa didn’t react — just turned back to his team as Atsumu jogged up, eyes gleaming, grin feral.

“You’re a fuckin’ weapon, Omi,” he muttered low enough that only Sakusa could hear it. “You see Kags’ face just then?”

Sakusa barely spared Kageyama a glance. “I’m not here for his face.”

“Yeah, but I am,” Atsumu shot back, spinning on his heel to reset.

And sure enough — next serve, Atsumu stood behind the line, spinning the ball between his fingers.

“Hope ya stretched, Kags!” he yelled, right through the net. “Don’t wanna cramp up while yer losin’!”

Kageyama’s jaw flexed.

Hinata, from MSBY’s back court, howled.

“You’re such a little shit!” he screamed gleefully, doubling over.

Bokuto practically keeled over from laughter. Even Meian cracked a smile.

Sakusa just shook his head.

But then he looked at Atsumu.

The shine in his eyes.

The way his shoulders moved when he laughed — loose, free, electric.

And something inside Sakusa pulsed.

Sharp. Steady.

Not fear.

Just focus.

Him.

The Adlers answered with force.

Not finesse. Not flash.

Power.

Ushijima’s spike came down like thunder — sharp, final, and devastating — the kind of hit that left no room for doubt. The ball slammed into the floor just beyond Bokuto’s outstretched fingers, and the echo of it rang out across the stadium like a shot.

Point.

Adlers.

Sakusa straightened slowly, eyes narrowing as he followed the ball’s arc rolling back across the court.

Ushijima stood where he’d landed, unmoved. Unbothered. His expression was unreadable — the same stoic calm Sakusa remembered, like the man wasn’t even aware of the war they were in the middle of. Or maybe he was, and just didn’t care. That was somehow worse.

Sakusa inhaled through his nose, jaw tense.

He wasn’t surprised. Ushijima was a monster on court — all angles and timing and raw, brutal strength.

But knowing didn’t make it any easier to stop.

And that spike?

That was going to bruise.

Meian clapped hard, calling everyone back in with a voice that cut through the buzz of the crowd. “Eyes up. Shake it off. Reset!”

They shifted back into formation — faster now, more alert.

Atsumu moved beside him, crouching into serve receive with his hands loose and easy, like he hadn’t just watched one of the strongest hitters in Japan shatter their rhythm.

“Still winnable,” Atsumu muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Guy’s got a swing, but he ain’t got me.”

Sakusa glanced over, brief.

Atsumu was grinning.

Of course he was.

The serve was fast, but MSBY adjusted.

Hinata scrambled low and managed to get under it — a near-miracle receive — and the ball popped up enough for Tomas to push it wide.

Sakusa took the approach.

Clean contact.

Sharp angle.

The ball hit the floor just past the Adlers’ libero and the roar from the MSBY bench followed instantly.

Tie game.

But the tension didn’t lift.

If anything, it tightened.

Because now Kageyama was at the line.

And when he served, there was no telegraph, no wind-up. Just a sudden, blinding motion that sent the ball tearing through the air like it had something to prove.

Atsumu dropped low.

Perfect receive. Like he was born for it.

They transitioned so fast it left the Adlers scrambling.

Hinata feinted. Bokuto moved wide and slammed it down.

Another point for MSBY.

Atsumu went straight for the net — just him and Kageyama.

And he grinned.

Wide. Sharp.

“Gotta say,” he called across the tape, loud enough for the first three rows to hear, “it’s really gonna suck losin’ to yer boyfriend, huh, Kags?”

The gym buzzed.

Kageyama didn’t blink — didn’t flinch — but his fist tightened visibly.

And behind him, Hinata nearly collapsed onto his knees, face bright red, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Oh my god,” Hinata gasped, trying and failing to stay upright. “Stop it, I’m gonna die.”

Atsumu didn’t miss a beat.

“Then play better, babe,” he shot back, flicking the ball in his hands.

Sakusa turned away and hid his face.

Not because he was annoyed.

But because — despite everything — he could feel the edges of a smile creeping into his chest.

The first set ended in a blur of motion.

Atsumu’s serve — low, fast, cutting — had just enough spin to throw the Adlers’ rhythm. Hinata read the panic a second before it bloomed and bolted up for the block, climbing higher than he should’ve been able to. Tomas was already moving to cover, Meian called the shift, and Sakusa saw the ball hang for just a moment in Kageyama’s hands before he swung.

Too low.

Too sharp.

Straight into Sakusa’s hands.

The block landed clean, hard, and final.

Point.

Set.

MSBY.

The whistle echoed through the arena and the gym erupted — their bench on its feet, fans cheering, Bokuto nearly tripping over a water bottle as he sprinted to meet them at the sideline.

Sakusa exhaled slowly.

Let it settle.

They were in this.

On the bench, the energy was chaotic — electric.

Hinata was still wheezing from laughter, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the words that had come out of Atsumu’s mouth.

“You can’t just say that stuff across the net,” he gasped, elbowing Atsumu in the ribs.

“Why not?” Atsumu said, all cheek. “I meant it.”

“You’re gonna give Kageyama an aneurysm.”

Atsumu shrugged, cracking open a water bottle with his teeth and spitting the cap into his lap. “He’ll live.”

Hinata doubled over again.

Sakusa sat just behind them, towel draped around his neck, quietly watching the way Hinata leaned into Atsumu’s shoulder, still laughing. The way Atsumu nudged him back, just enough to make him squeak.

It should’ve annoyed him.

All that noise. All that chaos.

But right now?

Right now it was just… warm.

Familiar.

A beat of ease between the storm.

His shoulders were still tense — they always were — but for once, the pressure in his chest didn’t feel like it was crushing him.

He reached for his water bottle, glanced to the side—

—and saw Atsumu watching him.

Not smug.

Not teasing.

Just looking.

Then — casually, like he didn’t think twice — Atsumu leaned over and reached for Sakusa’s towel.

“Here,” he said, brushing a bit of dust from Sakusa’s shoulder. “Ya got some crap on ya.”

His fingers lingered for a second longer than they needed to.

Sakusa blinked.

Atsumu didn’t explain.

Just gave him a small, crooked smile and turned back to slap Hinata upside the head for making fun of his form.

Sakusa looked down at his knees.

And the warmth in his chest sparked again.

The match went the distance.

Five sets.

Two hours.

Every rally a battle, every point clawed from the jaws of exhaustion.

First and third — MSBY.

Second and fourth — Adlers.

And the fifth?

The fifth was hell.

The kind of set that didn’t feel like volleyball anymore, but survival — the crowd roaring, the floor slick with sweat, Hinata’s hair stuck to his forehead, Bokuto screaming himself hoarse, Tomas diving like his life depended on it.

Sakusa felt like his lungs were made of sandpaper.

His thighs burned with every jump.

His hands stung from too many blocks, too many tips just skimming his fingers the wrong way.

He was going to feel this tomorrow.

But when Atsumu set the final ball — low, quick, and just barely legal — and Hinata soared up past two Adlers and slammed it straight down the line—

When the whistle blew, final and loud and blessedly done—

When Bokuto dropped to his knees and Tomas let out a hoarse, wordless yell and Meian raised his fists to the sky—

Sakusa didn’t collapse.

He just stood there, blinking sweat out of his eyes, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst, and let it wash over him.

They won.

They actually won.

The net was a blur of handshakes — damp palms, nods of respect, a pat on the back from Ushijima that nearly knocked Atsumu off his feet.

Sakusa moved through it fast, as little contact as he could get away with, and beelined for the bench the second they were done.

Sanitiser. Wipes. Routine.

His hands trembled as he scrubbed them clean, once, twice, three times.

Not because of the germs.

Not just because of the germs.

He was bone-deep exhausted. Shaky in a way he hated. Adrenaline crashing. Muscles burning.

But under it all — layered beneath the clean and the routine and the tension—

There was something else too.

Something warm.

They won.

And it was his block, in the end, that sealed the match point.

He let himself sit.

Breathed once.

And just for a second — behind the sharp smell of alcohol gel, the sound of Bokuto yelling about celebratory ramen, and the heat still lingering in his chest from everything he wasn’t letting himself think about —

Sakusa smiled.

Barely.

But it was there.

The chaos started the second they stepped off the court.

Reporters surged toward the tunnel — cameras flashing, mics extended, questions flying like arrows. The roar of the crowd hadn’t even died down yet, and already Sakusa could feel the edge of it pressing in — lights too bright, voices too sharp, everything too close.

Meian was handling it like a pro, Bokuto was eating it up, and Hinata was bouncing between interviews like someone had spiked his water bottle with caffeine and glitter.

Sakusa?

He stood stiffly off to the side, sweat still dripping down the back of his neck, trying to keep his breathing even as a microphone was shoved into his space. 

“Sakusa-san! Incredible block on match point — how’re you feeling right now?”

He blinked once.

Twice.

There was a script in his head. Something about teamwork. Resilience. Giving it our all.

But the words wouldn’t come.

He glanced at his team filtering into the locker room up ahead.

The lights were too bright.

The voice too loud.

His mouth opened—

—and then a hand slipped around his elbow.

“Sorry, sorry—” Atsumu’s voice cut through, all charm and fake innocence, turned up to full wattage. “We’ve got a post-game debrief with Coach Foster. Gotta steal him from ya.”

The reporter opened their mouth, but Atsumu just flashed that irritatingly perfect smile and started steering Sakusa away, voice syrupy-sweet:

“Many apologies. You know how it is. Strategy waits for no one.”

By the time they turned the corner into the relative quiet of the locker room hallway, the press had moved on to someone else.

Sakusa exhaled — shakily.

The fluorescent lights weren’t kind, but at least they weren’t cameras.

“You okay?” Atsumu asked, quieter now, not looking at him as he kept walking alongside. “Kinda looked like you were about to bite someone.”

“I might’ve,” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu laughed, quick and soft.

Then — after a beat — his hand brushed Sakusa’s again.

Not grabbing. Not pushing.

Just there.

And Sakusa didn’t pull away.

The locker room was already halfway to unhinged when they pushed open the door.

Bokuto was shirtless and mid-air, doing some kind of victory leap from the benches to the floor — yelling something about fate. Hinata had a towel slung around his neck like a cape, hyping him up like they’d just saved the world. Inunaki was pouring water over his head like it was champagne. Tomas was filming it all on his phone, gleefully narrating like a nature documentary.

Sakusa didn’t even flinch.

He just reached into his bag, pulled out his earbuds, and slipped them in without ceremony.

Noise-canceling, thank fuck.

The music wasn’t even playing yet — just the soft hum of silence as the rest of the world dulled.

He took a breath.

And then he got to work.

Shoes off. Socks rolled, folded, tucked neatly beside his bag. Wristbands peeled off, folded just as precisely. Towel over his arm. Shower caddy in hand. Every step a routine. Every motion deliberate.

He didn’t look at anyone.

Didn’t acknowledge the chorus of chaos unfolding just behind him.

He could feel the sweat drying on his back, could practically see the invisible grime on his arms — and he knew, no matter how loud the room got, he wasn’t walking out of here without showering.

They weren’t at home.

No clean bathroom waiting for him down the street.

No privacy. No escape.

Just him. This locker room. These showers.

And his own skin, crawling at the thought.

He closed his locker gently. Pulled his towel tighter across his chest.

Then — a breath.

Another.

And he walked toward the showers like a soldier into battle.

Sakusa hadn’t made it more than three steps into the tiled corridor when a voice caught his attention — low, close, and carefully aimed so it wouldn’t carry.

“Hey,” Atsumu said, leaning against the wall just beside the first row of lockers, towel draped over his shoulders, hair still damp from the game. “The far-right stall’s free. No one’s used it yet.”

Sakusa paused. His grip tightened slightly on his caddy.

“I told the guys I called dibs,” Atsumu added, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth, but not reaching his eyes. “Said I wanted the good water pressure.”

Sakusa glanced over his shoulder.

Bokuto was now singing. Hinata was doing push-ups for some reason. Meian had his jersey half-off, yelling instructions over the commotion like they weren’t already off the clock.

Sakusa looked back at Atsumu.

“You didn’t use it?”

Atsumu shrugged, casual. “Figured you’d want it more.”

Their eyes met for a beat — something quiet passing between them. A thread, a tether, soft and invisible.

Sakusa nodded once.

“Thanks.”

He turned and headed for the far-right stall.

And maybe — just maybe — his shoulders were a little looser than they’d been when he walked in.

Steam curled off his shoulders as he stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped low around his hips, water still dripping from the ends of his hair. The sharp edge in his chest had dulled — not gone, but quieter now, softened by heat and clean skin and the silent relief of getting through it without incident.

The locker room was still loud, still chaotic — but it felt distant, like the roar of a crowd from behind soundproof glass.

Sakusa padded over to his bag, each step damp against his shower slippers. He crouched, pulled it open, and methodically began his post-shower routine — deodorant, moisturizer, clean socks first. Always socks first.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look up.

Just moved through the motions like muscle memory, towel still clutched with one hand to keep it from slipping. His movements were fluid, controlled, the practiced precision of someone who needed control over something when everything else refused to quiet down.

Behind him, the others were laughing — someone yelled about a group photo, someone else about ramen.

Sakusa kept his head down and started buttoning his shirt.

And then — from his left — a familiar presence settled next to him.

Not too close. Just near enough to be felt.

He didn’t need to look up to know it was Atsumu.

Didn’t need to say anything, either.

Atsumu didn’t speak. Just reached down, grabbed his own bag, and started lacing up his shoes, one hand lightly bumping Sakusa’s arm on accident.

Or maybe not.

Sakusa didn’t flinch.

He just kept dressing — quietly, steadily, heart beating a little too loud in his ears, but not in a bad way.

Just… alive.

The bus ride back to the hotel was somehow louder than the game.

Someone had started a chant before they’d even made it out of the parking lot. Bokuto and Inunaki were harmonizing terribly to a song that hadn’t been on the radio in a decade. Tomas had his arm slung around Hinata’s shoulders like they were going to prom. The air buzzed with leftover energy, victory clinging to their skin like sweat.

Sakusa boarded in silence, bag slung over one shoulder, freshly scrubbed and dry, his curls still damp at the nape. He climbed the steps without looking at anyone, headed straight for the back third of the bus, and slid into a window seat with practiced precision.

Without a word, he popped his earplugs in.

Not earbuds. Not music.

Just soft, silicone plugs that dulled the world to something tolerable.

He leaned his head lightly against the window. Exhaled. Closed his eyes.

And then —

The seat dipped beside him.

Sakusa didn’t need to look to know who it was. He could tell by the way the bag dropped to the floor. The sound of shoes scuffing lazily against the vinyl. The warmth that radiated without crowding.

Atsumu slid in like he belonged there.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t elbow Sakusa or try to yank the plugs out of his ears. Just settled in, leaned back, and pulled out his phone — screen lighting up his face in flashes as he scrolled through god-knows-what.

Sakusa cracked one eye open.

Atsumu was smiling at something.

Sakusa closed it again.

And let himself rest.

Just for a little while.

The bus pulled to a stop outside the hotel, headlights washing the curb in pale gold.

Sakusa was halfway to the lobby when the conversation turned.

“We should go out,” Bokuto said, slinging his bag higher on his back like he was about to scale a mountain instead of ride an elevator. “Celebrate properly. First round’s on me.”

“Inunaki’s definitely gonna cry into his beer again,” Tomas muttered.

“I only cried once!” Inunaki yelled. “And it was beautiful!”

“We should hit that bar around the corner,” Hinata said, bouncing on his toes. “The one with the flaming cocktails. I wanna see Bokuto try and blow one out again.”

There were groans. Laughter. Someone cursed about sore legs. But nobody disagreed.

Then — Atsumu’s voice, just loud enough to be heard:

“Well, I’ll only go if Omi goes.”

Sakusa froze mid-step.

The group paused, too — all eyes shifting, all focus suddenly, irritatingly, on him.

“C’mon, Sakusa,” Meian called. “Don’t make the kid drink alone.”

“You’d be doing him a favour,” Inunaki added with a smirk. “Roommate bonding, or whatever.”

“I hate you,” Sakusa muttered under his breath, aiming the words at Atsumu, who had the audacity to smile like the sun.

A slow, smug grin tugged at Atsumu’s mouth. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Sakusa scowled.

But he didn’t say no.

The bar was loud.

Not just volume loud, but crowded loud — a crush of bodies and overlapping conversations, clinking glassware and bass-heavy music that pulsed through the floorboards. The kind of loud that made Sakusa’s skin itch and his jaw clench, even with the sleeves of his hoodie pulled down over his wrists and his mask still looped around one ear, half-forgotten but not removed.

He sat pressed tight against the wall of the booth, shoulder angled in, like he could sink into the paneling and disappear. His fingers curled lightly around his glass — soda water with lime, untouched.

Atsumu was beside him.

Too close.

Not close enough.

He had one arm thrown along the back of the booth, casual and crooked, fingers brushing Sakusa’s shoulder every time he shifted to laugh at something Hinata said across the table. His other hand was wrapped around a drink that looked suspiciously like something on fire had been dropped into it — probably Bokuto’s doing.

The table was a riot of noise and stories — someone was already retelling one of Hinata’s karaoke performances, and Inunaki was making dramatic hand gestures that were definitely exaggerated. Bokuto had ordered three different drinks just to see which looked the coolest on camera. Tomas was groaning like he’d aged twenty years in the span of a match.

Sakusa tuned most of it out.

But he didn’t move away when Atsumu’s thigh brushed his.

Didn’t flinch when his laughter — bright and sharp and so him — rose close to his ear.

He just sat there, silent and steady, and let the noise happen around him.

A bubble, forming in the chaos.

And Atsumu, warm against his side.

“Drinking game!” Inunaki announced like it was a sacred rite, banging his empty glass against the table. “Let’s go!”

“No—no games that involve dares or stripping,” Tomas said immediately, like it was muscle memory.

“Then what’s the point?” Atsumu grinned, lifting his drink.

Bokuto perked up, eyes wide. “Let’s play Ring of Fire!”

“We don’t have cards,” Meian pointed out, not even trying to stop them.

“We’ll make up rules!” Hinata declared, already halfway to climbing over the table like that would speed things up.

Sakusa sipped his soda water with all the pointed grace of someone trying to will himself out of existence.

And then—

“Omi,” Hinata said, turning toward him with full force, eyes wide and ridiculous and pleading.

“No,” Sakusa said flatly.

“You didn’t even let me ask!”

“Still no.”

“Please,” Hinata whined, dragging the word out like it was physically painful. “Just one round. One! You don’t even have to drink anything gross, I’ll drink it for you—just play, I’ll do all the drinking—”

“That’s not how drinking games work.”

“It is if you love me,” Hinata shot back.

“I don’t.”

“Harsh,” Atsumu muttered beside him, clearly trying not to laugh.

Hinata made a wounded noise, like Sakusa had just betrayed him on live television. “Please, Omi, just one turn. Just once. I swear I’ll never ask you for anything ever again, I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t want me to—”

“Tempting,” Sakusa muttered.

But Atsumu was already shifting closer.

He leaned in, voice lower, just for Sakusa.

“C’mon,” he said, bumping their shoulders together. “Just one round. I’ll owe ya.”

Sakusa sighed through his nose.

And picked up the empty shot glass in front of him.

“Fine.”

The cheer that rose from the table could’ve shattered glass.

Sakusa looked at Atsumu out of the corner of his eye.

“You owe me so much more than one,” he said quietly.

Atsumu grinned.

“Baby steps.”

“Okay, okay!” Hinata bounced in his seat like someone had just plugged him into a power outlet. “We’ll go around the table. One question, one rule, one shot. No backing out.”

“That’s three rules,” Meian muttered.

“No backing out!” Hinata repeated, ignoring him entirely. “Tomas, go!”

Tomas groaned but rolled his eyes and pointed at Inunaki. “Truth or drink. Have you ever hooked up with a teammate?”

Inunaki grinned like the little menace he was. “Define hooked up.”

“Drink!” half the table shouted in unison.

Sakusa stared at his glass, wondering how long he’d have to hold it before someone forgot he was there.

Spoiler: not long.

“Your turn, Omi!” Bokuto said way too loudly, drumming the table with both hands.

“Pass,” Sakusa said.

“No passing!” Hinata cried. “It’s literally the one rule!”

“That’s not what you said five seconds ago.”

“Please,” Hinata begged again, all wide eyes and fake betrayal.

Sakusa looked at Atsumu, who raised his eyebrows like don’t look at me, you agreed.

He sighed. “Fine.”

A beat.

Then, slowly, dryly: “Atsumu. Truth or drink.”

The table erupted.

“Oh my God!” Inunaki screamed, nearly falling off the bench.

“Y’all are insane,” Tomas muttered, but didn’t look away.

Atsumu blinked, clearly not expecting to be targeted this early. He tilted his head, grinning slow. “Truth.”

“Have you,” Sakusa said, calm and clear, “ever flirted with someone just to get free food?”

Atsumu didn’t even flinch. “Obviously.”

Everyone burst out laughing.

“You absolute whore,” Hinata choked, clutching his chest.

“I got free dumplings and a drink once,” Atsumu said proudly. “What about you, Omi? Ever flirt for free food?”

Sakusa gave him a look so dry it could’ve turned sand to dust. “I don’t even like talking to people for food I’m paying for.”

Another wave of laughter.

And then—

He felt it.

A smile.

Small. Unintentional. Barely a twitch of his mouth.

But Atsumu saw it.

And didn’t say a word.

Just bumped their knees together under the table.

And passed him a fresh soda water without asking.

“Hinata, your turn,” Tomas said, pointing like a court judge.

“Okay, okay—uhh… Inunaki! No—wait. Meian. Truth or drink!”

Meian sighed like a tired father. “Truth.”

“Have you ever cried watching a movie?”

“Obviously,” Meian said without hesitation. “When the dog dies? Every time.”

“Valid,” Inunaki nodded solemnly.

The game rolled on, questions getting bolder, funnier, more chaotic with each round. Atsumu revealed he once got dumped mid-date for complimenting a guy’s cat more than the guy. Hinata admitted he accidentally flashed a gym full of middle schoolers when his shorts ripped. Bokuto’s question turned into a passionate monologue about protein powder.

And then—

“Sakusa,” Inunaki grinned like a gremlin. “Truth or drink.”

The whole table leaned in.

Sakusa didn’t move, just raised his glass slightly. “Truth.”

Inunaki’s eyes gleamed. “Who was your first crush?”

There was a pause.

A beat too long.

Sakusa stared at the table.

Someone snorted. “Omi.exe has stopped working,” Atsumu whispered.

Sakusa’s fingers tightened around the rim of the glass.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

And without saying a single word—

He reached for the shot.

The entire table screamed.

“NO WAY—”

“COME ON—”

“THAT’S A CONFESSION IN ITSELF!”

“Spicy!” Hinata yelled.

But Sakusa just downed the shot, face impassive.

When he set the glass back down, Atsumu leaned in with a grin that could melt steel.

“So,” he murmured, just for him, “who was it omi?”

Sakusa didn’t even blink.

“Stop talking.”

Atsumu laughed so hard he nearly choked.

And next to him, Sakusa looked away—

But that tiny twitch of his mouth was back.

“Okay,” Hinata declared, slamming his hands on the table and nearly knocking over a beer. “Last round! Winner takes glory. Loser takes a shot and has to read their last five Google searches out loud.”

“I refuse,” Tomas said flatly.

“You’re not even drinking,” Inunaki whined.

“Exactly.”

Across the table, Atsumu was hiccuping with laughter, half draped over Sakusa’s shoulder. Not that Sakusa noticed — or maybe he was just too far gone to care. His cheeks were flushed, hair mussed from Bokuto trying to “style” it during a round of “truth or dare,” and he’d somehow collected four empty shot glasses in front of him.

“Alright, alright,” Bokuto slurred, pointing a chopstick like a wand. “Kiyoomi. Truth or drink.”

“Again?” Sakusa muttered.

“You’re the most fun drunk,” Inunaki grinned.

“I am not drunk.”

Atsumu snorted so hard he wheezed.

“You’re literally pink,” Hinata said, poking his cheek. “Like a mochi.”

“Fuck off,” Sakusa grumbled, but didn’t swat the hand away.

Bokuto grinned wider. “Okay. If you had to kiss one person at this table—”

Sakusa’s hand was already on the shot glass.

“HEY!” Hinata howled. “Let him finish the question!”

But Sakusa tipped his head back and drank anyway, throat working as the liquid burned down. He slammed the glass down like punctuation and glared at the wall.

Atsumu leaned in, absolutely beaming. “Was that you being shy, Omi?”

“Was that you being loud, Miya?”

“Always, baby.”

Sakusa didn’t even flinch at the nickname.

Just blinked at him, a little too long, like his brain was working overtime to store this moment somewhere it couldn’t lose it later.

Then—

“Alright, alright, someone else,” Meian cut in, very obviously saving Sakusa from a murder charge. “Let’s wrap this up before Bokuto starts doing push-ups on the table again.”

“I WOULD NEVER— okay maybe one set.”

“You’re sitting down.”

“One. Set.”

The table dissolved into laughter again. Atsumu bumped Sakusa’s shoulder with his, smiling wide, loose and warm in a way that made Sakusa’s head spin just a little more.

And Sakusa didn’t move away.

Didn’t say a word.

Just sat there.

Tipsy, tired, full of too many thoughts and not enough air.

And let himself enjoy the noise.

The walk back to the hotel was quieter than the night deserved.

Behind them, someone — probably Bokuto — was still trying to convince Meian that one more round wouldn’t kill them. Inunaki was shrieking with laughter. Tomas had his hands in his pockets and an expression that said he was regretting everything.

“We’re done,” Meian said, voice low and final, like it was a mutual decision. “We have to be done. Hinata just tried to pay the bar tab with a sticker of his dog.”

Atsumu had looped his arm through Sakusa’s and was pulling them gently away.

‘Besides we gotta get Omi to bed, this was his annual drink with the team night’ Atsumu chuckled.

Sakusa hummed.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t pull his arm free, either.

The night air nipped at his skin — cool and sharp and sobering in the way a cold shower never quite managed. His legs felt steady, but his chest was full. Buzzing, like his thoughts were too loud for his own skull.

Beside him, Atsumu was humming under his breath. Some stupid song they’d been screaming at dinner, probably. The kind that stuck in your head for hours after, catchy and dumb and just enough to make Sakusa’s lips twitch.

He didn’t realise they’d stopped walking until Atsumu spoke again.

“You good?” he asked, turning to face him fully. “Yer quiet.”

Sakusa blinked. “I’m always quiet.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu said, eyes crinkling. “But this one’s different.”

Sakusa looked away.

The hotel loomed up ahead — a tower of light and warmth and too many beds that weren’t his.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But all he could manage was, “You didn’t have to pull me away.”

Atsumu grinned. “Yeah, I did.”

He bumped their shoulders together lightly.

“You looked like you were about five minutes from punching Inunaki in the teeth.”

Sakusa scoffed. “He deserves it.”

“True.”

Another beat.

Softer, now—

“Thanks,” Sakusa said, barely above a whisper.

Atsumu just smiled.

“No worries, Omi,” he said, and tugged him gently by the arm toward the hotel doors. “Let’s get ya some water before ya turn into a raisin.”

Sakusa let himself be led.

Didn’t resist at all.

The hotel room door clicked shut behind them with a soft thunk.

The air inside was still — quiet in that way that made the buzz in Sakusa’s head feel louder than it was. He toed his shoes off near the wall, careful not to let them touch the rest of the floor. Habit. Comfort.

Atsumu dropped his keys in the bowl by the door like he’d lived there for years. His jacket landed on the back of a chair. Sakusa stared at it for a second.

“…That’s not where it goes,” he said.

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna remember where it does,” Atsumu replied, already moving into the kitchenette. “You want water or electrolytes?”

Sakusa blinked. “Water’s fine.”

Atsumu handed him a bottle a second later — already cracked open. Already held with the label turned out so Sakusa wouldn’t have to touch the part his hand had been on.

He noticed.

Didn’t say anything.

Just took it with a small nod and leaned against the table.

Atsumu leaned beside him. Close. Too close.

Shoulder almost brushing his again.

“You’re flushed,” Atsumu murmured after a moment. “You hot?”

“No,” Sakusa said, even though he kind of was. “Just drank too much.”

“Not as much as Inunaki. He tried to order a round for ‘the ghosts in the corner’.”

Sakusa huffed a laugh. “Unsurprising.”

They both went quiet again.

The tension settled back between them like steam — thin, invisible, but warm. Persistent.

Atsumu turned slightly, eyes skimming Sakusa’s face.

“You’re looking at me,” Sakusa said flatly, not meeting his eyes.

“I’m tryin’ to figure out how someone can be this pretty and this grumpy at the same time.”

That made Sakusa blink.

He didn’t flush — not properly — but the tips of his ears did go pink.

“I’m not grumpy.”

“You’re grumpy right now.”

Sakusa narrowed his eyes. “I’m not.”

Atsumu grinned, full and bright. “Sure, Omi.”

He bumped their elbows. Let it linger.

Neither of them moved.

Sakusa’s heart thudded hard in his chest.

“I should shower,” he said, voice slightly strained.

“You should,” Atsumu agreed. “I’ll get your wipes.”

And somehow, that made it worse.

The care. The quiet knowing. The ease.

Sakusa didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t trust his voice to work properly.

But when Atsumu handed him the familiar pack — unopened, clean, safe — he paused for just a second too long before taking it.

Their fingers brushed.

His skin tingled.

And for a second, neither of them moved.

He should’ve gone to the shower.

Should’ve taken the wipes, slipped into the bathroom, scrubbed the night off his skin like he always did. Should’ve shut the door. Shut his brain off. Pretended he hadn’t noticed the way Atsumu was still looking at him like that.

But he didn’t.

Not this time.

He just stood there, wipes in hand, skin buzzing.

And Atsumu — stupid, brilliant Atsumu — cocked his head.

“What?” he asked, soft.

Sakusa looked at him.

Really looked.

Blonde hair tousled from the wind, cheeks still warm with leftover blush from the alcohol. Hoodie riding up slightly at the waist. And eyes — those impossible, knowing, golden eyes — watching him like he wasn’t just a mess of routines and sanitizer and carefully folded control.

Like he was wanted.

Like he was safe.

Sakusa’s breath caught.

Atsumu opened his mouth to say something else.

But Sakusa didn’t let him.

He dropped the wipes.

Took one step forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t neat. Or practiced. Or even confident. It was too fast, too sharp, like Sakusa had been holding it back for too long and it had finally — finally — spilled out.

Atsumu made a sound of surprise against his mouth. Didn’t pull back.

His fingers curled lightly into Sakusa’s shirt.

And when Sakusa leaned in just a little more, heart hammering, mouth softening into the kiss like he was trying to memorize it — Atsumu kissed him back.

Slow. Warm. Open.

Not rushing. Not teasing.

Just there.

Sakusa’s hands hovered uselessly for a moment — then slid up, one curling into the fabric at Atsumu’s hip, the other coming to rest lightly against his jaw. Not gripping. Just touching.

Like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to.

They didn’t say anything at first.

Just stood there, close enough to feel each other breathe, hearts still tripping over themselves from the kiss.

Sakusa felt like his lungs weren’t working right — too full, too tight, like he’d been holding something in for so long he didn’t know how to let it out now that it was finally here.

Atsumu’s hands were still on him. Barely. Light, like he was scared to push.

And then—slowly, carefully—he stepped back.

Just a little.

Sakusa’s hands dropped to his sides.

Atsumu didn’t move far. Just enough that there was space again. Just enough that Sakusa could feel the ache of it.

“Hey,” Atsumu said softly.

Sakusa blinked. Looked up.

Atsumu’s eyes were darker now. Steady. Serious.

“I want this,” he said. Voice quiet. Sure. “So bad.”

Sakusa’s chest clenched.

“But I just…” Atsumu swallowed. “I need to know that you do, too. That it’s not—” He hesitated. Glanced down for half a second before meeting Sakusa’s gaze again. “That it’s not just heat of the moment. Or confusion. Or guilt.”

Sakusa didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t know how.

Because it wasn’t confusion.

And it wasn’t guilt.

But it was terrifying.

To want something this much. To admit to it. To have it.

To hold something in his hands that might not break him, even if everything in him was screaming it would.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sakusa said eventually. Voice low. Rough around the edges. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to—how to be this.”

Atsumu stepped forward again. Just enough for their fingers to brush.

“Ya don’t have to be anything,” he murmured. “Just gotta want it.”

Sakusa swallowed.

“I do.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. “Yeah?”

Sakusa nodded, barely.

Their lips met again, slower this time. Less drunk, more deliberate. It didn’t feel like a mistake or a rush of adrenaline. It felt earned. Real.

And when Sakusa’s fingers fisted in the hem of Atsumu’s shirt, pulling him in, Atsumu didn’t hesitate. He shifted, guiding Sakusa back into the wall.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t frantic.

It was deliberate.

Atsumu kissed him like he’d been waiting to. Slow at first, one hand curled under Sakusa’s jaw, the other slipping beneath his shirt like he wanted to memorise every inch of skin. His fingers were warm. Calloused. Familiar.

Sakusa felt like he was floating and falling all at once.

“Tell me if you wanna stop,” Atsumu murmured, voice rough and quiet against his mouth.

Sakusa swallowed, nodded — then pulled him back in with shaking fingers.

✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°

Their clothes flew off.
T-shirts, hoodies — layers peeled back until there was nothing left to hide behind but skin and heat and need. Sakusa couldn’t stop touching — the dip of Atsumu’s spine, the curve of his waist, the press of his chest. Every inch of him was unreal, like something Sakusa had imagined too vividly, too often — and now couldn’t quite believe was real beneath his hands.

It felt like fire under his fingertips. And still not enough.
He wanted more — wanted all of him — but didn’t know how to ask. Didn’t know if he could.

They stumbled toward the bed, laughing breathlessly, falling into it without grace. It should’ve been awkward. Should’ve jolted him out of the moment. But it didn’t. It felt electric. Immediate. Real.

And then Atsumu was above him — eyes golden, mouth soft — watching him like Sakusa was something he wanted.

“Can I…” Atsumu’s hand drifted low, paused. “Wanna make you feel good, Omi. Can I?”

Sakusa’s breath caught. Words refused to come. He just nodded — too fast, almost frantic — like if he didn’t, the moment might disappear.

Atsumu leaned down and kissed him again, slower this time. Gentler. A promise.

And Sakusa let it happen.

He didn’t know what he was doing — not really. He’d never wanted someone like this. Never let someone this close. Not in the ways that counted. Not with the noise in his head and the panic that always came rushing in at the worst times.

But none of that came now. Not with Atsumu.

Not when his hands were this gentle.

Not when his mouth was this soft.

Not when Sakusa felt like he was being chosen, not tolerated.

And then—

Atsumu was sliding down Sakusa’s body, fingers tracing patterns over his thighs as he whispered, “Just breathe for me, yeah?”

Atsumu slid lower, slow and steady — like he was giving Sakusa time to stop him. Time to change his mind.
Sakusa didn’t.
Couldn’t.

He barely had time to brace himself before Atsumu’s mouth touched his skin.

Just a kiss.
Nothing obscene — not yet. Just warm lips on the inside of his thigh, soft and reverent, like he was pressing heat into him.

Sakusa’s breath hitched hard. His thighs tensed. He didn’t mean to flinch — didn’t mean to react so much — but his body was too tight with wanting and nerves and too many thoughts all crashing at once.

Each kiss was careful. Measured. Like Atsumu was learning him.
Not just his body — but what he needed. What he feared.

Sakusa’s hands twisted in the sheets. His jaw clenched like it might keep everything else from unraveling.

But nothing felt wrong.
There was no panic. No static.
Just touch. Just breath. Just Atsumu — kissing a line down the inside of his leg like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then he shifted lower — and Sakusa gasped.

The first drag of heat over him — tongue slick, lips parting around the head — was so good it bordered on unbearable.

Sakusa’s hips jolted against the mattress before he could stop them. His thighs were already trembling.
His hand reached blindly — not to push, but to hold. He found Atsumu’s shoulder, clutched it hard, fingers curling like he needed an anchor just to stay here.

Atsumu let out a pleased little hum — and Sakusa felt it everywhere.

His hips jerked helplessly against the mattress, thighs already shaking by the time Atsumu’s mouth found him fully — lips parting around him, tongue dragging hot and wet from base to tip, then down again.

Heat bloomed low in his belly. A slow, molten ache that made his breath stutter and his chest lift like he couldn’t get enough air.
His fingers scrambled for something to hold — the sheets, the pillow, anything — before landing on Atsumu’s shoulder and clutching like he might fall straight through the bed without it.

Atsumu hummed — low and pleased — and Sakusa felt it everywhere.

“Fuck—” he gasped, voice already fraying at the edges.

Atsumu glanced up. Eyes golden. Dark. So fucking focused. Like Sakusa was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
“Good?” he asked, voice rough, thumb rubbing slow circles into Sakusa’s hipbone.

Sakusa couldn’t answer — not out loud. He whimpered — soft and unsteady — then nodded once, a barely-there twitch that felt like giving in.
His spine arched. His legs shook.

And Atsumu didn’t tease. Didn’t push.
Just kept going like that was all the answer he needed.

Atsumu just went back to it — mouth open, hungry now, but still careful. Still steady.
Not slow, exactly. Just sure. Like he knew what Sakusa needed before Sakusa could even ask.

The rhythm of it — warm, wet, relentless — had Sakusa’s legs trembling and his jaw slack, breath hitching with every flick of heat.

He didn’t tease.
Didn’t make it a game.
He just gave — over and over — like he wanted to teach Sakusa how it could feel when it was good.
When it was safe.
When it was real.

“Yer doin’ so good,” Atsumu murmured between licks, breath hot against his skin. “Just relax, baby. Let it happen. Let me take care of ya.”

Sakusa whimpered — higher now, less contained — his thighs falling open like his body had stopped asking permission.
His heels dug into the bed. His hips lifted without thought, without shame — chasing every flick of Atsumu’s tongue like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

His breath was a mess. His hands had started to shake again — this time with want. With too much.

“Ah—fuck, ‘Tsumu—” he gasped, barely more than a whisper. “I’m—”

“Yeah?” Atsumu’s hand slid up, palm warm against his stomach. “C’mon then. Let go.”

And Sakusa did.

The pleasure didn’t just build — it broke.
Cracked straight through him like lightning, cresting so fast he barely had time to hold on.
He came with a long, broken moan, thighs trembling, back arching clean off the mattress.

His fingers twisted tight in the sheets. His mouth opened around a sound he didn’t recognize — breathless, desperate, raw.

It didn’t feel like losing control.
It felt like finally letting go.

Atsumu didn’t stop until Sakusa was done. Until he was panting and flushed and trembling all over, his legs slack and his body reduced to heat and haze.
Then — finally — Atsumu pulled back.

He crawled up Sakusa’s body, slow and careful, wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed him — soft and slow, like he wasn’t trying to start anything, just needed to be close. Needed to be there.

Sakusa blinked up at him, dazed. Still shaking.
He felt like his whole body had been rewritten.

Atsumu grinned, lopsided and affectionate. “Still breathin’?”

Sakusa let out a rough laugh — part wheeze, part disbelief. “Barely.”

Atsumu’s eyes softened, but there was something else there too — heat, need, a little teasing edge beneath the breathlessness.
He ducked down, nosed along Sakusa’s jaw, and murmured,
“Still got any energy left, or d’you need me to beg?”

Their eyes met — wide, startled, a little stunned.

But when Sakusa leaned in again, kissed him softly, then pulled back with flushed cheeks and trembling lips, Atsumu’s heart stuttered.
“I want to,” Sakusa said, voice low and barely audible. “Just… tell me what to do.”

And fuck if that didn’t light Atsumu up from the inside.

He dragged him back in — kissed him deeper now, messier, like the words had cracked something open. His hands skimmed down Sakusa’s sides, greedy and sure, until they were shifting again, bodies sliding against each other, skin damp and sticky with heat.

“C’mere,” Atsumu whispered, breath catching. He guided Sakusa down, settling back against the pillows. “Use your mouth.”

Sakusa froze for a half-second — not pulling away, just… still.
Then he nodded. Swallowed hard.

His hands moved first — tentative, reverent — fingers skimming down Atsumu’s thighs like he needed to feel everything before he could act. He shifted lower, breath shallow, gaze flicking up and down like he was trying to memorize how.

Atsumu hissed when warm breath ghosted over him. “That’s it. Take your time.”

Sakusa did. He leaned in slowly, lips parting, tongue flicking out in a cautious, barely-there lick.
Testing. Tasting.
Learning.

Atsumu groaned — deep and ragged — and it made Sakusa twitch, startled, like he wasn’t expecting to get it right on the first try.
But he kept going. Small, hesitant licks. A little shaky. A little unsure. But so earnest it made Atsumu ache.

“Just like that,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re doin’ so good, baby. Try usin’ your hand too — yeah, right there—fuck, Omi.”

Sakusa looked up through his lashes, cheeks flushed, curls falling over his forehead, lips wet and parted — and Atsumu swore it nearly killed him.

Atsumu guided him gently — fingers threading through Sakusa’s hair, not pushing, just there.
Steady. Warm. Encouraging.

“Yeah, that’s it — fuck — look at you,” he gasped, voice all breath and wreckage.

Sakusa’s rhythm was messy, still awkward at the edges — but determined.
His hand worked in tandem with his mouth, lips hot, tongue careful, and every time Atsumu gasped or swore, it shot lightning through his spine.

“You’re doin’ so good,” Atsumu whispered, voice shaking as his head tipped back against the pillows. “So good for me, baby. Just like that. Fuck—fuck, you’re…”

Sakusa thrived under it.

The praise. The heat. The soft, ruined edge to Atsumu’s voice — it fed something deep in Sakusa’s chest, something coiled and aching and desperate to be wanted. It made his hands steadier, made his mouth bolder, made every careful drag of his tongue more certain, more greedy.

He wanted more of that voice.
Wanted to earn it.

Atsumu’s thighs were trembling now. His fingers still buried in Sakusa’s curls, not guiding, not controlling, just holding.
Anchoring. Like Sakusa was the only thing keeping him grounded while the rest of him shattered.

And Sakusa felt it.
Felt the way Atsumu’s body tightened under his hands, the way his breathing fell apart, the way he moaned like it was being pulled out of him — honest, messy, his.

He’d never known it could feel like this.
Not just the act but the power.
The giving.
The way Atsumu looked like this, sounded like this because of him.

Sakusa dragged his tongue along the underside of Atsumu’s cock — slow and firm — then hollowed his cheeks and took him deeper, swallowing as far as he could manage.

The sound it earned him was obscene.
Strangled. Helpless. Perfect.

Spit dripped down his wrist, strings of it catching the low light. He didn’t notice.
Couldn’t.

He was too focused. Too far gone. Every sound, every twitch, every breathless curse from Atsumu hit him like fuel — like proof that he was doing it right. That he was wanted. That he was the one doing this to him.

“Fuck—Kiyo—shit,” Atsumu gasped, hips twitching like he was trying so hard not to thrust. “Just—ah—don’t stop—feels so fuckin’ good—”

Sakusa moaned around him — needy, desperate — and the vibration made Atsumu shudder. Made him curse again.

His lips were slick. His jaw ached. His throat worked around every soft gag, every hitched breath, every gasp that slipped out between sucks.
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t want to.

He reached up, fingers splayed over Atsumu’s hip, grounding them both, feeling every jolt, every breathless stutter, every tremor building like a wave.

Atsumu was close.
Sakusa could feel it in the way his voice cracked, in the sharp clench of his stomach, in the tremble running through his thighs.

He looked up and their eyes met.

Hazy. Dark. Wide with need.
It stole the air from Sakusa’s lungs.

“I’m close,” Atsumu warned, voice catching. “Shit, Omi, I’m—fuck—”

The words didn’t finish.

Atsumu’s whole body arched.
Hips bucking despite himself, mouth falling open on a strangled cry. His legs shook — thighs quivering, toes curling — like the orgasm had been torn out of him.

One hand flew to his mouth, muffling the sound — the other tangled hard in Sakusa’s hair, holding on like a lifeline.

Sakusa swallowed what he could. Let the rest spill.
His lips were raw, his chest heaving, but all he could do was look up at him.

Mouth swollen. Fingers still clutching Atsumu’s hip. Eyes wide and shining and so fucking wrecked —

But smiling.
Waiting.
Like he’d do it again if Atsumu asked.

No teasing. No smugness.

Just reverence.

Atsumu let out a groan. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

Then — without saying a word — Sakusa leaned in and kissed his thigh.

✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°

Atsumu laughed, hoarse and wrecked, dragging him up into a lazy, messy kiss that had no rhyme or reason except for want.

They collapsed sideways together, limbs tangled, hearts pounding.

And for a while, neither of them said anything at all.

Just breathed.

Just stayed close.

Just felt.

The silence stretched between them.

Not awkward. Not cold. Just… tentative.

Atsumu’s breath still hadn’t evened out. His heart was thudding somewhere near his throat, and his skin felt too tight for his body. Sakusa hadn’t let go yet — his head tucked into the crook of Atsumu’s neck, curls damp with sweat, arms loose around his waist like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

Atsumu exhaled carefully. Raised a hand. Ran it gently over Sakusa’s spine.

“We should… probably shower,” he murmured, voice hoarse from everything — the moaning, the breathing, the break in his own damn heart.

Sakusa nodded without lifting his head.

They moved slowly. No jokes. No eye contact. Just quiet fingers tugging at sheets and discarded clothes and doors that creaked open into dim bathroom light.

The shower hissed on. Steam bloomed. And Atsumu stepped in first, holding the curtain back for Sakusa like it was muscle memory. Sakusa didn’t speak. He just followed.

Water rushed over them in soft, steady lines.

Neither of them moved for a moment — just stood there, close but not quite touching, like they weren’t sure if they were allowed to anymore.

Atsumu swallowed.

He reached for the soap. Poured a little into his palm, rubbed it between his hands, then hesitated. Turned.

“Can I…?”

Sakusa looked up.

His eyes were soft. Barely there.

And he nodded once.

Atsumu washed him gently — hands slow, careful, reverent. Over his shoulders, his chest, the curve of his back. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Just cleaned him like he meant it. Like it was something sacred.

When he was done, Sakusa did the same.

Their fingers brushed once. Neither of them pulled away.

By the time they turned the water off, everything felt heavier. The steam, the silence, the fact that they still hadn’t looked at each other properly.

Atsumu wrapped a towel around his waist and handed Sakusa the other. Avoided the mirror. Avoided his own thoughts.

They dressed in quiet again.

No words. No eye contact.

Just the rustle of fabric and the hush of breath, the soft creak of the mattress as they moved around each other like ghosts — like something fragile might shatter if either of them reached too quickly.

And then—

Atsumu glanced at the twin bed. Sheets still mussed from earlier. Pillows slightly askew. Too small for two grown men, clearly.

But Sakusa didn’t move toward the other one.

Didn’t even glance at it.

He just stood there, towel-dried curls a little flattened, shirt hanging loose over one shoulder like he’d gotten too tired halfway through fixing it.

Atsumu’s throat worked. “We, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “We should prob’ly— like, the other bed’s kinda— I mean we can ask reception for new sheets.”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Just looked at him for a second — really looked — and then, so quietly it barely made a sound, he sank onto the same bed.

Turned down the covers.

Slid beneath them.

Atsumu stared.

His heart was in his mouth.

But Sakusa didn’t say no.

Didn’t push him away.

Didn’t ask him to leave.

So Atsumu followed.

He slipped in carefully, the heat of Sakusa’s body already blooming beside him, and pulled the blanket over both of them with trembling fingers.

They laid there for a moment — not touching, not speaking — just breathing in the dark.

And then Sakusa turned.

Rolled onto his side.

Pressed his forehead gently to Atsumu’s shoulder.

And whispered, “Thank you.”

Atsumu didn’t speak. He couldn’t. There was too much in his chest and too little space in the room for all of it.

So instead, he curled an arm around Sakusa’s back. Held him close.

And when Sakusa finally exhaled — shaky, uneven, but a little bit lighter — Atsumu pressed a kiss to his hair and whispered, “Always.”

The morning came slow.

Soft light filtered through the thin hotel curtains, pale and gold, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets. The room smelled like detergent and skin, like something lived-in and safe, and the only sound was their breathing — slow, even, in sync.

Atsumu woke first.

Sakusa was still curled toward him, lashes brushing his cheeks, hair a dark mess on the pillow. His face was calm — not neutral, not blank, just… calm. Like he wasn’t wearing a mask for once.

Atsumu didn’t move.

Not until the ache in his chest bloomed too strong to ignore.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Sakusa’s forehead — feather-light, careful, more like a promise than a hello.

Sakusa stirred at the touch. His lashes fluttered, and after a moment, his eyes opened — unfocused at first, then settling on Atsumu.

No frown. No hesitation.

Just warmth.

And then — without a word — Sakusa leaned in and kissed him.

Slow. Intentional.

Not clumsy. Not frantic.

Just a real kiss. Meant.

When he pulled back, Atsumu was staring at him like the whole world had tilted.

“I know you…” he started, voice rough and unsure. “You haven’t really—done this. Like… this.”

He fidgeted a little. Swallowed hard.

“I don’t wanna push you or scare you off or—fuck this up, y’know?”

Sakusa exhaled slowly.

Then said, quiet but steady, “It wasn’t an issue with you.”

A pause. His gaze dropped to where their hands had tangled in the sheets.

“It was an issue with me.”

Atsumu’s heart clenched.

He didn’t rush to fill the silence. Just waited — let Sakusa breathe, let him decide if that was all he wanted to say.

Sakusa didn’t elaborate. But he didn’t close off either. His hand stayed right where it was — resting against Atsumu’s ribs, fingers curled slightly.

Atsumu reached up and brushed a knuckle against his cheek.

“Thanks for tellin’ me,” he said gently. “And for lettin’ me be here. With you.”

Sakusa didn’t answer with words.

He just kissed him again — soft, steady, a little braver now.

They didn’t move for a while.

Just lay there, limbs tangled under the sheets, letting the quiet settle around them like a second blanket. Every so often, Atsumu would trace gentle patterns over Sakusa’s back — not trying to coax anything out of him, just grounding. Steady.

Sakusa didn’t speak right away.

But eventually — after enough silence had passed to feel safe — his voice came low, almost too soft to hear.

“My parents would disown me for this.”

Atsumu froze.

His hand stilled mid-motion, but he didn’t say anything. Just let the words hang, heavy and unchallenged.

Sakusa kept going.

“They’re… traditional. Extremely. The kind that still believes in shame and saving face and how appearances matter more than people.”

He shifted slightly, eyes fixed on a crease in the sheets.

“I was raised to be perfect. Quiet. Obedient. Clean. I thought if I did everything right, they’d love me more. Or at least… accept me.”

Atsumu’s chest ached.

“And the gay thing?” Sakusa continued, almost hollow. “That was just… another failure to them. One I never even dared to say out loud.”

A long pause.

Then, softly—

“I think they’ve always known. But we don’t talk about it. Like if we ignore it long enough, it’ll disappear.”

Atsumu swallowed hard.

He wanted to reach for him, wanted to say something brilliant and comforting and world-changing — but Sakusa turned his head before he could speak, eyes meeting his.

“That’s why,” he said. “Why I’ve never really done this before. With anyone. It’s not that I didn’t want to. I just—”

He hesitated.

“Never felt safe.”

Atsumu didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say ‘That’s fucked’ or ‘You don’t deserve that’ — even though all of it was true.

He just shifted closer. Curled a hand around the back of Sakusa’s neck and pressed their foreheads together.

“You’re safe now,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

And Sakusa… nodded.

Not like it fixed everything. But like it was enough, for now.

The breakfast buffet was a mess.

Hinata looked like he’d been hit by a truck. He was slumped over a plate of dry toast with sunglasses on indoors, hood pulled up, muttering something about “never drinking again” while Bokuto groaned beside him, head in his arms like the table was a lifeline.

Inunaki, somehow, was worse.

Which made zero sense because he’d sworn up and down he “wasn’t even that drunk last night,” but now he was curled into a corner booth like a gremlin with a greasy hash brown in each hand and murder in his eyes.

Atsumu was thriving.

He strolled in with Sakusa not far behind — looking just slightly too smug for someone who was definitely hungover himself — and zeroed in on Inunaki like a heat-seeking missile.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he chirped. “Sleep okay? Or were the demons in your closet too loud again?”

Inunaki raised one hash brown like a weapon. “I will kill you.”

“No ya won’t.” Atsumu stole the other hash brown mid-swipe and shoved it in his mouth with zero remorse. “Ya need me. I’m your setter.”

“You’re the devil.”

“I’m talented,” Atsumu corrected.

“Debatable,” Inunaki muttered, slumping lower.

Sakusa, trailing behind, settled next to Bokuto and handed him a bottle of water without a word. Bokuto made a noise that sounded like gratitude and death simultaneously.

Hinata peeked out from under his hood and offered Sakusa a tragic smile. “You feeling okay, Omi?”

Sakusa sat down stiffly and blinked at him. “I didn’t drink as much as you.”

Bokuto let out a muffled “don’t talk about it” and knocked his head against the table again.

Sakusa gave him a look that was equal parts judgment and pity.

Then Atsumu took the seat beside him — uninvited, inevitable — and slid a fresh coffee across the table like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Didn’t say anything. Just nudged it toward Sakusa and turned back to the chaos, biting into a stolen pancake like he hadn’t just delivered a silent “I got you.”

Sakusa stared at the cup for a beat.

Then wrapped his hands around it without comment.

Atsumu smiled into his fork.

Inunaki, still glaring, pointed a hash brown at him. “I hate you.”

“Love ya,” Atsumu said, beaming.

They were halfway through a round of complaints about the orange juice tasting like lies when Sakusa’s phone buzzed on the table.

He glanced at it absently.

Then stilled.

Mother:

Played well. Let me know how dinner with Kaya goes next week. We’re expecting updates.

No heart. No context. Just a cold acknowledgement, like ticking off a box. Like Sakusa’s entire life could be managed through calendar slots and indirect reminders.

His stomach twisted.

He locked the screen and set the phone face-down.

Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t touch his toast again.

The conversation around him kept going — Bokuto retelling karaoke stories, Inunaki trying to convince Hinata he didn’t vomit in the elevator (he did), and Atsumu laughing, bright and loud — but something shifted beneath it.

Atsumu noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His hand drifted under the table, fingers brushing gently against Sakusa’s thigh in quiet question — not pushing, just offering. Just there.

And Sakusa — without thinking — flinched.

Just barely. A twitch of muscle. A pull of breath.

But enough.

Atsumu’s hand vanished like he’d been burned.

Sakusa’s chest went cold.

He didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

They left a little early.

Atsumu walked beside him the whole way back to the room, not saying much. Not teasing. Just… there. Like a shadow with warm shoulders.

The mood shifted the second they got back to the room.

It wasn’t immediate, but it was noticeable — a slow unravel, like someone had tugged a thread too hard and now everything was coming loose at the seams.

Sakusa didn’t speak.

He just moved around the room with quiet efficiency, methodically gathering his things and packing his bag like muscle memory was the only thing holding him together. His face was blank. Movements precise. Controlled.

Too controlled.

Atsumu lingered by the door for a second, unsure if he should help. Unsure if he even could.

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” he said eventually — soft, careful, like his voice might break the air between them. “Back there. At breakfast. I just—thought maybe—”

He stopped. Swallowed.

Sakusa didn’t look up. He folded his hoodie and placed it gently into his bag, fingers smoothing over the fabric like it gave him something to do.

“You didn’t,” he said finally. Voice low. Distant. “You didn’t overstep.”

But he didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t offer a smile. Didn’t meet Atsumu’s eyes.

And that — more than anything — made Atsumu feel like the ground was shifting beneath him.

He hesitated, then crossed the room slowly, stopping a step behind Sakusa.

“Omi,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You flinched.”

That made Sakusa pause.

Only for a second.

But it was enough.

He closed his bag. Straightened up. Still didn’t turn around.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I just… wasn’t ready.”

And Atsumu nodded, even though Sakusa couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s okay.”

But the air still felt heavy.

Like something had been cracked open — and neither of them quite knew how to close it again.

The bus ride back to the airport was quiet.

Not in the usual way — not the hungover, half-asleep, earbuds-in kind of quiet. No, this was different. This was careful. Weighted. Like everyone could feel the tension bleeding off Sakusa in waves and instinctively chose not to poke it.

Atsumu hovered at the front for a moment, watching the rows fill up. His fingers toyed with the strap of his bag, jaw tight.

Normally, he’d slide right into the seat next to Sakusa without asking — knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, easy. But now? Now he hesitated.

“Hey,” he murmured, low enough that no one else would hear. “Can I… still sit here?”

Sakusa looked up from where he’d been staring out the window, expression unreadable.

He didn’t answer right away.

But eventually — after a beat too long — he nodded.

Atsumu let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and slid in beside him, movements stiff. He kept to his side of the seat, hands clasped tightly in his lap, thighs carefully not touching. No teasing nudges. No casual comments. Just silence and space and the constant awareness of how close they used to sit.

The ride started. Conversations picked up behind them — Bokuto’s too-loud laugh, Hinata whining about his headache, Inunaki complaining about leaving his charger in the hotel.

But none of it cut through the silence between them.

Sakusa kept his gaze fixed on the window.

Atsumu kept his hands still.

Neither of them spoke.

And for the first time in weeks, Atsumu didn’t know how to reach him.

The road home stretched long and winding, all grey skies and flickers of trees through fogged-up windows. The engine hummed steady beneath them, a low, constant rhythm, and somewhere near the back, Hinata had finally dozed off against Bokuto’s shoulder. Even Inunaki had gone quiet, slumped with his hood drawn over his face like a gremlin in hibernation.

But up front?

The silence still sat thick between them.

Atsumu hadn’t moved since he sat down.

He’d kept his elbows tucked in, knees angled slightly away, trying to make himself small — trying not to brush Sakusa by accident. Every bump in the road had his stomach tightening, afraid it might shift him too close. Afraid it might break something that already felt fragile.

Sakusa hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t looked at him.

He just stared out the window, arms folded tight across his chest like he was holding himself together.

And then — almost an hour into the trip — something shifted.

Sakusa let out a breath. Not sharp. Not annoyed. Just… tired. Deep.

And slowly, cautiously, he leaned sideways — head tilting, shoulder nudging — until his temple came to rest against Atsumu’s shoulder.

Atsumu froze.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t dare breathe.

Then, slowly, his muscles unlocked — chest easing, hands unclenching — and something soft bloomed behind his ribs.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a joke or push for more.

He just turned his head slightly. Pressed his cheek to the top of Sakusa’s curls. Let his shoulder sink under the weight.

The quiet between them softened.

Somewhere along the way, Atsumu shifted his hand just a little — enough that the backs of their fingers brushed. He didn’t push further. Just stayed there.

Still. Steady.

And when Sakusa didn’t flinch?

He let himself close his eyes.

The bus rumbled to a slow crawl as it pulled into the lot outside the training center, brakes hissing in the cool afternoon air. The chatter had died down miles ago, replaced by heavy eyelids and the occasional groan of someone stretching too fast after too long in the same seat.

Atsumu blinked awake when the engine finally cut off. His neck was stiff, mouth dry, and Sakusa’s head had long since lifted from his shoulder — but his warmth lingered, tucked like a memory against his side.

The team shuffled off one by one, duffel bags slung over shoulders, movements lazy and half-hearted. Bokuto yawned so loud it startled Hinata into giggles, and Meian gave a half-hearted clap on the back to each player as they passed, mumbling something about recovery and ice baths.

Atsumu stepped off the bus last.

He was halfway through a stretch when Sakusa’s voice came, quiet and a little hoarse behind him.

“Do you want a lift?”

Atsumu turned.

Sakusa stood by the door, hair tousled, bag slung low on his shoulder, eyes still heavy with sleep — or something like it. His expression gave nothing away.

Atsumu blinked. “You sure?”

Sakusa shrugged, looking away. “You live five minutes from me. It’s not out of the way.”

It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but it wasn’t cold, either.

And maybe that was the point.

Atsumu nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

They walked to Sakusa’s car in silence. Not awkward. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.

When they reached the car, Sakusa unlocked it without a word, tossing his bag in the back. Atsumu followed, sliding into the passenger seat, hands folded in his lap as the door thunked shut beside him.

The engine turned over low and smooth.

The drive wasn’t long. No music, no small talk.

Just the familiar sound of tires on pavement. The occasional click of the indicator. The shared awareness of space — warm, tentative, unspoken.

Halfway through, Sakusa’s hand tightened slightly on the wheel. Not enough for Atsumu to comment. Just enough to notice.

By the time they pulled up outside Atsumu’s place, the sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows down the street.

Sakusa shifted into park. “You need help with anything?”

Atsumu blinked. “Nah. I’m good.”

He didn’t open the door right away.

And neither did Sakusa say goodbye.

They just sat there for a second — caught in that quiet space between departure and decision.

Atsumu didn’t reach for the door handle. Not right away.

Instead, he glanced sideways, watching Sakusa’s profile in the fading light — the tense line of his jaw, the faint twitch of his fingers on the steering wheel, the way his gaze stayed pinned to the dash like he was bracing for something.

The silence stretched, heavy but not cruel.

Then, quietly:

“Omi.”

Sakusa’s fingers flexed. He didn’t turn.

Atsumu swallowed. “I like ya.”

He let it hang there. No frills. No backpedaling.

“I know you probably know that. And I know it’s… messy. And I know you’ve got reasons, or history, or maybe just shit you’re still trying to work through, and that’s all okay. But I need you to hear this.”

Sakusa’s lips pressed together. His grip on the wheel tightened.

“I like you,” Atsumu said again, softer now. “And I’m gonna take whatever you can give me. However little. However slow. I just… I wanna be close to you. Even if it’s complicated.”

The air inside the car was still, quiet enough to feel every breath.

Sakusa’s voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t know what I can give you.”

Atsumu’s chest ached. “That’s not a dealbreaker, y’know.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Atsumu said, voice firm despite the tightness in his throat. “Not if you’re honest with me. Not if you’re still here.”

Finally, Sakusa looked at him.

And there was something fractured in his eyes — like hope trying to bloom through the cracks of everything he’d been told to suppress.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

“I know.” Atsumu leaned forward just enough to press his forehead against Sakusa’s shoulder. “Me too.”

They stayed like that for a beat.

Then Sakusa sighed, slow and careful, and tilted his head just slightly — so his cheek brushed Atsumu’s hair.

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a yes.

But it wasn’t a no either.

They stayed there a moment longer — heads close, breath syncing — the car quiet save for the low hum of the engine and the distant sound of someone dragging a suitcase across the lot.

Then Atsumu pulled back just slightly, enough to look at Sakusa again.

His voice was low. “Thanks for the ride.”

Sakusa gave the smallest nod, but didn’t speak.

Atsumu hesitated — just for a second — then leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sakusa’s cheek. Barely there. A whisper of warmth against his skin.

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t flirty.

It was careful. And grateful. And real.

Sakusa didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. His eyes fluttered shut for the briefest moment, like he was memorising the feeling, just in case.

When Atsumu pulled back, he offered a soft smile. “Get some sleep, yeah?”

Then he was out the door, grabbing his bag from the back and jogging up the steps without looking back.

Sakusa stayed in the driver’s seat long after the door clicked shut. His cheek still burned. But not from shame.

Not this time.

His apartment was too quiet.

Sakusa dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, toed off his shoes with a practiced motion, and stood in the hallway like a ghost in his own home. The stillness pressed in immediately — no hum of conversation, no laughter down the hall, no warmth beside him. Just silence.

It had been less than an hour since he’d left Atsumu standing on the curb.

And already, it felt like too long.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at the blank wall across from him. Then, without letting himself think, he reached for his phone.

It rang twice.

Then: “Kiyoomi?” Motoya’s voice was raspy with sleep. “Dude. You dead or something?”

Sakusa didn’t answer right away.

He swallowed. “I kissed him.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “…Okay,” Motoya said slowly. “I feel like I missed an entire act of this play. Who?”

Sakusa exhaled hard through his nose. “Atsumu.”

Another pause.

A longer one.

“Wait. Miya Atsumu?” Motoya repeated, suddenly wide awake. “Your teammate Miya Atsumu? Blonde, loud, pretty mouth, never shuts up—that Atsumu?”

Sakusa pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, that one.”

“Jesus Christ, Kiyo.” Motoya let out a short laugh. “And when were you gonna tell me you were in love with him?”

“I’m not—” Sakusa started, then stopped. His voice was thin. “I don’t know. Maybe. I—fuck.”

There was a rustling sound on the other end of the line, like Motoya was sitting up. “Okay. Start from the beginning.”

“We kissed,” Sakusa said again, voice tight. “We—did more. He stayed close. And I didn’t hate it. I didn’t panic. It was—good. And now I’m home and it feels like I can’t breathe.”

“Because you like him,” Motoya said, like it was obvious. “Because he made you feel safe for once, and now your brain’s in fight-or-flight mode trying to convince you it was all too much.”

Sakusa said nothing.

“God, you’re so annoying,” Motoya groaned. “Kiyo. It’s okay to want things. It’s okay to let yourself have something that makes you feel good. You’re not twelve anymore.”

“I told him about my parents,” Sakusa said quietly, like it still tasted strange in his mouth. “I actually said it out loud. And he looked at me like it didn’t make him want to run.”

Motoya went silent. Listening.

“I kept thinking it’d scare him off,” Sakusa admitted. “That if he knew the truth — if he saw the mess — he’d decide I wasn’t worth it. But he didn’t. He just… stayed.”

He stared at the edge of his bedspread like it had answers.

“And now I’m sitting here trying to convince myself I didn’t imagine the whole thing.”

Motoya exhaled, soft but firm. “You didn’t.”

Sakusa let the quiet sit for a beat before whispering, “It’s just… new. Letting someone see me. I’ve never done that. Not like this.”

“And he didn’t run,” Motoya reminded him gently. “He stayed. So maybe—maybe—you should try doing the same.”

There was a pause on the line after Sakusa said it.

“Miya,” he repeated, quieter. “Atsumu.”

For a second, Motoya didn’t answer — and then:

“…Miya Atsumu?”

Sakusa pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

“The Miya Atsumu?”

“Yes, Motoya.”

“Oh my God.” Motoya let out a low whistle. “You’re not subtle, y’know. You two have been weird for months.”

Sakusa groaned. “Can you not—”

“Don’t worry, I’m not judging,” Motoya cut in, a smile clear in his voice. “He’s hot. And he’s obviously obsessed with you. I’m just… impressed. I didn’t think you’d actually let yourself—” He stopped. Pivoted. “You like him?”

Sakusa hesitated.

He picked at the hem of his hoodie. Stared at the floor.

“I do,” he said quietly. “It’s just… everything feels like too much. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You’re not gonna ruin it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Motoya said gently, “but I know you. And you’re already spiralling, which means it matters. Which means you care. And if he’s as smart as you say he is, he’ll be patient.”

Sakusa didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch.

Then:

“I didn’t think it’d happen like this.”

Motoya chuckled. “It never does.”

There was a beat — and then his voice turned smug again.

“Does he call you Kiyoomi? Or are we still at last-name basis with your boyfriend?”

Sakusa made a wounded sound. “He’s not—”

“Oh, shut up. You like him. He likes you. You’ve seen each other naked, you emotionally collapsed on my phone line — that’s boyfriend territory.”

Sakusa groaned and let his head drop against the couch.

Motoya was quiet for a moment longer, and then said, softer now:

“Don’t be afraid to be happy, Kiyo.”

Sakusa blinked. Swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I’m trying.”

The gym felt too bright come monday morning.

Sakusa stepped inside with his usual calm — or the mask of it, at least — earbuds in, hoodie up, sleeves tugged low around his wrists like they could hide the tension burning beneath his skin. The others were already sprawled across the court, stretching in lazy half-circles, half-hearted groans echoing off the walls. The usual noise.

Atsumu was there too.

Laughing at something Bokuto said, bent in half with his palms flat against the floor like it didn’t cost him anything. Like the weekend hadn’t happened. Like Sakusa hadn’t—

Sakusa looked away.

He dropped his bag near the wall and joined the stretch circle like his lungs weren’t tight and his spine didn’t feel too straight. He didn’t know where to sit, so he picked the one spot that wouldn’t draw attention — right next to Atsumu.

“Morning, sunshine,” Atsumu said, grinning sideways at him.

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just pressed his heel into the floor and leaned forward, pretending to stretch.

Then it started.

The moment they were paired up — coach barking instructions about partner hamstring holds — Atsumu moaned. Loudly. Theatrically.

“Ohh—fuck, that’s the spot,” he groaned, tilting his head back dramatically as Sakusa pushed gently on his lower back. “Omi, yer so good with yer hands, how do ya do it?”

Sakusa’s eye twitched.

The rest of the team erupted. Bokuto cackled, Hinata actually fell over, and Inunaki wheezed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Tomas didn’t even pretend to hide his smirk.

Sakusa dug his palms in harder.

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

But Atsumu just kept going. Every stretch was an opportunity.

“Oh, right there, fuck—”

“Omi, yer gonna make me cum—plete my stretches so fast.”

Sakusa’s hands twitched.

He pulled Atsumu forward a little too far, a little too hard.

“Yowch—okay okay okay—”

“You deserved that.”

“You love it.”

Sakusa looked at him — really looked. And despite the shit-eating grin, there was something else underneath. A flicker of warmth. Something gentle in his eyes, in the way he held Sakusa’s gaze for just a beat longer than necessary.

Sakusa’s chest did something strange.

He pushed it down. Focused on the stretch. Focused on not strangling him in front of everyone.

“Try moaning again,” he said flatly, “and I’ll snap your hamstring in half.”

Atsumu bit back a laugh. “Kinky.”

Sakusa shoved him.

Atsumu went sprawling backward with a yelp, laughing all the way.

And for the first time since Sunday morning, Sakusa felt something loosen in his chest.

Just a little.

It didn’t stop after warmups.

If anything, it escalated.

By the time they were halfway through drills, Sakusa was actively fantasising about strangling Atsumu with his own sweatband.

“Mine!” Atsumu shouted, leaping for a ball that was very clearly Inunaki’s, colliding with him mid-air and sending both of them tumbling to the floor in a tangled heap. “Oops.”

“Are you five?” Meian called from the sideline.

“Five and a half,” Atsumu called back, sprawled across Inunaki’s back like a starfish. “With a killer jump serve.”

Inunaki groaned. “Get off me, you heavy bitch—”

Sakusa ignored them. Or tried to. He had drills to run, stats to maintain, and a very particular routine that did not include the human embodiment of chaos trying to wedge himself under his skin.

But Atsumu didn’t let up.

Every pass, every serve, every rotation — he found some way to comment.

“Nice spike, Omi. Real dominating. Makes me feel so safe.”

“Yer tosses are so consistent. Like marriage material consistent.”

“I’ve been thinkin’—if I die, I want yer hands listed as cause of death.”

At one point, Bokuto joined in.

“Atsumu, if he murders you, can I have your game shoes?”

“You’re all gonna miss me when I’m gone,” Atsumu said solemnly, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. His abs flashed. Sakusa did not look.

He turned away.

Tried to focus.

But then — of course — Atsumu served directly at him during a mock match. It wasn’t even subtle. A straight-line laser that cracked against Sakusa’s forearm with a sharp thwack.

“Oops,” Atsumu said again, not even pretending to be sorry.

Sakusa threw the ball back hard.

It hit Atsumu square in the chest.

“Double oops,” Atsumu wheezed.

Sakusa glared. “Grow up.”

Atsumu grinned at him like it was the best compliment he’d ever received.

And Sakusa?

He hated that he wanted to laugh.

Because despite the teasing, the constant noise, the heat blooming low in his stomach whenever Atsumu leaned too close or winked like they were in on a secret — he liked it. Liked the attention. Liked the way it cut through the nerves and the weight and the noise in his head.

Even if he’d never admit it.

Not yet.

They were split into threes for the last drill of the day.

Inunaki threw his hands up immediately. “Why do I have to be with the actual gremlins?”

“Because you complained first,” Meian said flatly, tossing him a ball. “Suck it up.”

Atsumu bumped his shoulder into Sakusa’s as they jogged to their side of the court. “Think we can take ‘em, Omi?”

Sakusa rolled his eyes.

They warmed up quick, passing back and forth with Inunaki while Bokuto cackled on the other side of the net, already tossing Hinata into the air like a volleyball-shaped toddler. Meian stood behind them, calm and terrifying like the volleyball equivalent of a final boss.

But before they started, Sakusa stepped closer to Atsumu — just out of view, where the others couldn’t hear.

He tilted Atsumu’s chin up with two fingers, thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw.

“If you make us lose,” Sakusa said quietly, voice smooth as sin, “I don’t kiss you for a week.”

Atsumu’s eyes went wide.

His whole brain visibly bluescreened.

“You—what—”

“No kiss,” Sakusa repeated, gaze steady. “Not one. Not even a peck.”

And then he turned, calm as anything, and walked back to his position like he hadn’t just flipped a switch in Atsumu’s soul.

“Okay,” Atsumu said to himself, slapping his cheeks. “Okay. Okay. Fuckin’ war mode.”

“War mode?” Inunaki asked warily.

“You’ll see.”

And oh. They saw.

Atsumu played like his life depended on it. Dives, saves, brutal sets that put Hinata flat on his ass. He sniped serves into corners, blocked Bokuto twice, and even baited Meian into a net foul with the most irritating smirk known to man.

Inunaki nearly cried. “Why aren’t you always like this?!”

Atsumu didn’t answer. Just caught Sakusa’s eye across the court with a look that said I demand a reward.

And Sakusa, bastard that he was, just arched a brow like he hadn’t seen a thing.

“Bestie,” Inunaki hissed. “What drugs is he on?”

“Denial,” Sakusa murmured.

“Powerful.”

They won. Barely. But they won.

And Atsumu?

Collapsed to the floor, arms splayed, gasping as Sakusa crouched next to him, “You’re kissin’ me the second we get out of here, I swear to God—”

Sakusa just smirked, stood up, and walked past him.

Atsumu didn’t say a single word after practice.

Not when they hit the showers. Not while he towel-dried his hair. Not even when Bokuto flung an arm around him and said something like, “Bro. That game? Spiritual awakening.”

Just a grunt. A nod. Eyes on Sakusa like a man possessed.

And Sakusa?

Took his sweet time.

Folded his shirt. Laced his shoes. Pulled on his jacket like it hadn’t been weaponised earlier that day. Like he didn’t know exactly what he’d done.

When he finally turned, gym bag slung over one shoulder, Atsumu was already waiting by the door.

Silent.

Obedient.

Fuming.

They didn’t speak the whole walk through the parking lot either. Not even when Sakusa popped the trunk and tossed his bag in. Atsumu just climbed into the passenger seat, crossed his arms, and stared straight ahead like he’d just been benched for swearing at a ref.

It wasn’t until the car door shut behind Sakusa that he broke.

“You’re a devil,” he muttered. “An actual, kiss-rationin’, cold-hearted, curly-haired devil.”

Sakusa didn’t look over at him. “Mm.”

“Don’t ‘mm’ me. You know what you did.”

“I told you the stakes.”

“You threatened me with a week-long drought.”

Sakusa glanced over, calm as anything. “And did you or did you not play your best game in months?”

Atsumu groaned, kicked the dashboard lightly, then slumped in his seat. “I hate how well that worked.”

Sakusa didn’t answer, just leaned over, and kissed him.

No warning. No words.

Just one hand curling behind Atsumu’s neck, the other bracing on the headrest as he tilted in and pressed their mouths together — slow and warm and deliberate.

Atsumu melted. Instantly. Hands fumbling for Sakusa’s jacket, lips parting on a sound that was half-gasp, half-sigh.

When Sakusa finally pulled back, Atsumu was flushed and breathless and blinking like he’d been hit by a freight train.

“That,” Sakusa murmured, thumb brushing over his cheek, “is for not losing.”

Atsumu blinked again.

Then groaned, loud and wrecked. “You bastard. Now I gotta win every damn scrimmage for the rest of the season.”

Sakusa smirked, putting his seatbelt on. “Guess you better start warming up early.”

Sakusa settled into the driver’s side with the kind of quiet confidence that made Atsumu bite the inside of his cheek. He adjusted the mirrors, started the engine, tapped the wheel like he was considering something.

Then, casually — but not really — Sakusa asked, “Do you wanna come over?”

Atsumu blinked. “Huh?”

“My place,” Sakusa clarified, still looking straight ahead. “Just for a bit. Unless you’ve got plans.”

Atsumu stared at him. His voice was gentler when he spoke this time, more careful. “Yeah… if that’s okay with you?”

Sakusa’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “I wouldn’t’ve asked if it wasn’t.”

Atsumu exhaled through his nose, settled back into the seat. “Cool. Yeah. Alright then.”

The drive wasn’t long, but it felt different this time. Familiar streets blurred past in the warm afternoon light, but everything inside the car was shifted. Their elbows brushed on the console. Sakusa’s knuckles tapped against Atsumu’s knee at a red light and didn’t move away.

Nothing was said about it.

Didn’t need to be.

By the time they pulled into Sakusa’s driveway, Atsumu’s chest felt tight with something he didn’t want to name yet.

Sakusa turned the ignition off. “C’mon,” he said, already getting out. “It’s not much, but it’s clean.”

“Didn’t think I’d be touring a fuckin’ mansion,” Atsumu muttered as he followed. “Just don’t tell me yer the type who colour codes his mugs or somethin’.”

Sakusa snorted under his breath — and when he glanced back, his eyes were soft.

“Relax. No mug system. Just tea.”

Atsumu smiled.

He could live with that.

They didn’t talk much inside.

Not because there was tension — not anymore — but because the air between them was thick with that kind of hush that only comes after a long day, when adrenaline drains and silence feels like a balm instead of an absence.

Sakusa kicked his shoes off by the door. Atsumu… launched his sneakers halfway down the hall.

“Pick those up,” Sakusa said flatly, not even looking.

Atsumu snorted and didn’t move. “Make me.”

Sakusa didn’t. Just walked off toward the kitchen like he hadn’t heard, shedding his jacket along the way and flicking the kettle on with practiced ease.

Behind him, there was a muttered, dramatic groan, then the sound of shoes being very aggressively collected and dumped by the door. Atsumu padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair still damp from his post-practice shower, and leaned against the counter like a cat waiting to be fed.

Sakusa ignored him.

Poured the water.

Set out two mugs.

“Chamomile?” he asked.

Atsumu blinked. “You’re offerin’ me grandma tea?”

The tea was finished slowly. Sleepily. With Atsumu leaning more and more of his weight into the kitchen counter like gravity was personally offended by his energy levels. Sakusa leaned against the counter sipping from his mug. The silence was nice. Sakusa stepped away to shower, leaving Atsumu to play on his phone for a bit.

When they finally made their way to the living room, it was with that same hushed familiarity — not quite a routine, but something that felt like it could be, if they let it.

Sakusa didn’t ask what Atsumu wanted to watch. He just scrolled briefly, quietly, then clicked into Spirited Away like it was the obvious choice.

Atsumu made a pleased little noise from where he dropped onto the couch, legs sprawled. “You’re a Studio Ghibli guy, huh?”

Sakusa sank down on the opposite end. “I’m a peace and quiet guy.”

The opening credits rolled in soft piano and watercolour, filling the room with light and lullaby. They didn’t speak again.

For a while, there was just the gentle hum of the TV and the creak of the couch every time one of them shifted slightly. They weren’t touching — not even close — but Sakusa was hyper-aware of the space between them. Of the occasional rustle when Atsumu adjusted his blanket, or the quiet way he breathed when he was fully relaxed.

It was… comfortable.

Atsumu didn’t fidget. Didn’t poke. Just sat there beside him, unusually still, eyes fixed on the screen like he was letting it settle something in his chest.

Sakusa watched the movie, but not really.

He watched the way Atsumu’s lashes caught the light. The way his mouth twitched at familiar lines. The way his shoulders rose and fell in the kind of rhythm that told Sakusa he felt safe here. That this moment — quiet and untouching and ordinary — was enough.

And it was.

It really, really was.

The movie lulled on, its pace gentle and dreamlike. Sakusa didn’t notice exactly when Atsumu started to drift, only that somewhere around the halfway point, the other man had gone quiet — properly quiet — head tipped slightly to the side, eyes fluttering between half-lidded and gone.

Sakusa didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loud. Just watched the flicker of the screen play across Atsumu’s face and told himself to stay still.

But eventually, Atsumu blinked awake with a soft noise, rubbing at his eyes like a kid pulled too early from sleep.

“Shit,” he mumbled, stretching like a cat. “Didn’t mean to knock out.”

Sakusa glanced at the clock, then back at him. “You didn’t miss much.”

Atsumu yawned. “I should probably head off anyway…”

He started to push up — slow, reluctant — and Sakusa opened his mouth before he even realised he was going to speak.

“You could…” He hesitated. A breath. A heartbeat. Then, softer: “Stay here. Tonight.”

Atsumu blinked down at him, caught off guard.

His brows lifted a little, not teasing — not smug — just… surprised. “Yeah?”

Sakusa didn’t look at him. Just nodded once, fingers curling a little tighter around his now-cold mug. “If you want.”

For a second, all Atsumu did was stare. Then he smiled. Soft. Sleepy. Fond in that way that made Sakusa’s throat tighten.

“Yeah,” he said again, voice low. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

They padded down the hall like it was routine, like it wasn’t new, like it wasn’t something Sakusa had never done with anyone before. He opened the bathroom cabinet and wordlessly pulled out a spare toothbrush — still in the wrapper, part of a multipack he never expected to use — and handed it over.

Atsumu took it with a small smile, turning it over in his fingers. “Very prepared of ya.”

Sakusa shrugged. “You’re not the first to forget theirs.”

He was lying. Atsumu absolutely was.

They brushed side by side, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, the sounds of running water and soft bristles filling the small space. Atsumu spat first, wiped his mouth, then leaned back against the counter like he was about to start something.

And he did.

“Hey, can ya do your skincare routine on me?”

Sakusa paused, halfway to rinsing.

“…What?”

Atsumu grinned. “I dunno, you’ve got good skin. ‘N I’m tired. Thought maybe I’d get the deluxe treatment.”

“You want me to… do your skincare for you?”

“Yeah.”

Sakusa stared. Atsumu didn’t waver.

“I’m not massaging your face.”

“Aw, c’mon, princess,” Atsumu teased, voice low and sing-song. “I’ll sit real still. Promise.”

Sakusa gave him a look. One that promised pain. Then sighed. “Sit down. Don’t talk.”

Atsumu beamed. “Yes, sir.”

Atsumu perched on the closed toilet lid like it was a throne, all sleepy grin and warm limbs, curls still slightly damp and flopping in every direction. He looked completely at home in Sakusa’s bathroom, even though it wasn’t his — like somehow, he belonged here anyway.

Sakusa didn’t comment on it.

Just tied his own hair back, washed his hands, and started setting out the products he used every night — cotton pads, toner, a serum, moisturiser. He could feel Atsumu watching him, wide-eyed and weirdly reverent.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” Atsumu whispered, like it was sacred.

“I am serious.”

“I know,” he said, grin twitching. “That’s what’s cute about it.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes and stepped forward, cotton pad in hand. “Close your eyes.”

Atsumu obeyed instantly, like he’d been waiting for that tone. His legs spread slightly for balance. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers twitching.

Sakusa dabbed the toner across his cheeks first — featherlight touches, soft and deliberate. Then his forehead, his jaw, the slope of his nose. Atsumu’s breathing slowed.

“This is nice,” he murmured, eyes still shut.

“Shh.”

Atsumu smiled and obeyed again.

The serum came next — a few drops, rubbed between Sakusa’s fingers, then pressed gently into warm skin. He smoothed it in carefully, tracing the curves of Atsumu’s face like he was drawing a map. His cheekbones. His temples. The edge of his lips.

Atsumu let out a breath — barely a sound, but it made Sakusa’s chest twist.

“You’re good at this,” Atsumu said, voice soft and hazy.

“Obviously.”

Atsumu cracked one eye open, just enough to catch the faintest smile at the corner of Sakusa’s mouth.

“Caught that.”

Sakusa ignored him and reached for the moisturiser.

This time, Atsumu’s eyes stayed open. Not staring — just watching. Curious. Soft. Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And Sakusa couldn’t believe how much he didn’t mind being looked at like that.

When he finished, he wiped his hands on a towel and stepped back. “Done.”

Atsumu blinked, then reached up and poked his own cheek. “Damn. I’m, like… radiant.”

“You’re exhausting,” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu stood, still grinning. But before he left the bathroom, he turned — leaned in — and pressed a kiss to Sakusa’s cheek.

“Thanks for takin’ care of me, Omi.”

Sakusa went still. Entirely still.

Then, very quietly, he murmured, “You’re welcome.”

Atsumu didn’t leave the bathroom.

Instead, he turned around, eyes shining with something mischievous. “Okay. My turn.”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “Your turn to… what?”

“To do yours,” Atsumu said, already stepping forward and grabbing the moisturiser like he had any idea what to do with it. “Sit.”

“I just did mine.”

“Don’t care. I’m practicin’. C’mon, Omi, lemme pamper ya.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’m literally glowing,” Atsumu said, gesturing wildly at his own face. “I’ve learned from the best.”

Sakusa sighed — long and dramatic — but sat down on the edge of the bathtub anyway, arms crossed, clearly preparing for disaster.

Atsumu scooped out way too much moisturiser.

“Too much,” Sakusa warned.

“Shhh. Trust the process.”

“The process is sloppy.”

“Yer about to be so hydrated, babe.”

Sakusa didn’t even have time to reply before Atsumu was squishing both palms to his cheeks, smearing moisturiser across his face with absolutely no finesse. It was clumsy, a little too fast, and a lot too gleeful.

“Stop laughing,” Sakusa said, trying not to smile as Atsumu snorted mid-rub.

“Ya look so serious, it’s killin’ me.”

“You’re massaging my eyeballs.”

“I’m makin’ ‘em soft!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

Sakusa didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Eventually, Atsumu slowed down. His hands softened, fingers skimming over Sakusa’s jaw with real care this time. He traced his thumbs beneath Sakusa’s eyes, over his temples, down his cheekbones with something gentler than before — something that made Sakusa blink up at him, all warm silence and steady breath.

“There,” Atsumu whispered, letting his hands linger. “Perfect.”

Sakusa stared at him.

“You’re an idiot,” he said softly.

“And you let me touch your face anyway.”

“…Unfortunately.”

But his voice was thick. Fond. And when Atsumu leaned in to press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose, Sakusa didn’t flinch or pull away.

He just sat there, eyes closing, heart full.

Sakusa flipped the bathroom light off and tugged his shirt straight with a little exhale. “Come on.”

Atsumu trailed after him, still barefoot, still a little giddy from the skincare adventure. He followed Sakusa down the hall, eyes sweeping over the clean lines and dark tones of the apartment — until they reached the bedroom.

Spacious. Minimalist. The bed, though—

Atsumu grinned. “Well, well. Movin’ up in the world.”

Sakusa glanced over his shoulder, confused. “What?”

“This bed,” Atsumu said, throwing himself onto it like he’d just come home from war. “Huge. After that shoebox hotel mattress, I feel like royalty.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” Atsumu mumbled into the duvet. “Already planned our entire cohabitation. Gonna start leavin’ my socks in your kitchen drawers.”

“That’s grounds for arrest.”

Atsumu just grinned wider and flopped onto his back as Sakusa switched off the lamp. Darkness settled over the room, broken only by the faint city glow spilling through the window. The mattress dipped as Sakusa slid in beside him, careful at first — like he wasn’t sure how close was okay.

Atsumu shifted.

Closed the space between them without a word, until their arms touched.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breath. Silence. The soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of a car outside.

Then—

“Hey,” Atsumu said quietly, voice softer now. “Thanks for lettin’ me stay.”

Sakusa turned his head on the pillow, eyes barely open. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know,” Atsumu said, thumb brushing gently against the back of Sakusa’s hand. “Still.”

Sakusa was quiet. Then, after a beat, he reached over and curled his fingers loosely around Atsumu’s.

“…You’re easy to be around,” he said, almost like it surprised him.

Atsumu’s chest tightened. “Even when I’m bein’ a gremlin?”

“Especially then.”

They both laughed — quiet and tired, but real.

And after that?

They didn’t need words.

Just breath, just closeness, just that quiet understanding that came with knowing you were wanted. Safe. Maybe even a little loved.

Sakusa woke to warmth.

Not just the kind that came from sunlight bleeding through the curtains, but the kind that came from a body beside him — soft breaths, tousled hair, a weight against his side that wasn’t his own.

Atsumu.

Sprawled out like he owned the bed, mouth slightly open, one arm flung across Sakusa’s chest as if he’d migrated there in the night. His curls were a mess. His face relaxed in a way Sakusa rarely got to see — peaceful, boyish, somehow both ridiculous and heart-achingly beautiful.

Sakusa didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe for a moment, just watched the slow rise and fall of Atsumu’s chest and felt something unfamiliar wedge itself behind his ribs.

It wasn’t panic. Not exactly.

It was… ease.

And that was what scared him.

Because it shouldn’t have been this easy. To let someone in. To roll over and find this chaos of a person tangled in his sheets and not feel suffocated or cornered — but instead feel safe. Anchored.

Sakusa’s gaze drifted down to the arm draped over his chest. The hand curled loosely near his collarbone. His own hand twitched, wanting to touch. Wanting to stay.

It’s just a person, he told himself. Just a man.

But his chest was tight.

Because it wasn’t even that it was just a man — it was this man. And that was different.

This man who made him feel grounded and exposed in the same breath. Who drove him insane and pulled him back from the edge without even trying. Who kissed him like he mattered — like he wasn’t just someone to tolerate, but someone to want.

And Sakusa wanted.

God, he wanted.

But with want came fear.

His mother’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of his mind — cold and clipped, asking if he’d scheduled dinner with Kana. Telling him to smile more. To behave. To grow up into the kind of man people respected.

Would she still respect him if she saw him now?

He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

Atsumu shifted beside him, murmured something incoherent and nuzzled in closer, warm breath against Sakusa’s neck.

Atsumu stirred slowly.

A sleepy hum, the kind he probably didn’t even realise he made, and then the familiar creak of bedsheets as he shifted, stretched, blinked blearily at the morning light.

Sakusa didn’t look at him.

He was still on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers — like if he stayed still long enough, the weight in his chest might disappear.

But it didn’t.

Beside him, Atsumu yawned. Then — silence. A pause. A breath. That quiet, knowing stillness that said he’d woken up fully and realised something wasn’t right.

“…Omi?”

Sakusa closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

A beat passed.

Sakusa hesitated — the truth swelling in his throat but catching before it made it out.

“…Yeah,” he said again. Quieter this time. Less sure.

And Atsumu, bless him, didn’t push right away. Just shifted closer, propped himself up on one elbow, and reached out to trail his fingers gently over Sakusa’s forearm.

It was a light touch. Careful.

But Sakusa still flinched.

Barely. Just a twitch. But it was enough.

Atsumu’s hand froze. “Right,” he said, pulling it back. His voice was flat now. Guarded. “Okay.”

Sakusa sat up too fast. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine,” Atsumu said, already slipping out of bed, grabbing the hoodie he’d left on the floor. “It’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever,” Sakusa said, turning to face him, guilt twisting sharp under his ribs. “I just—sometimes I wake up and it feels like my whole body’s forgotten how to be… normal.”

Atsumu didn’t say anything.

He just stood there, one arm half through a sleeve, brows drawn together in something caught between frustration and worry. He looked… tired. But not the kind sleep could fix.

“I don’t know which version of you I’m gonna get,” he said finally. Soft. Like it hurt to admit. “The one that lets me hold him like it’s nothin’… or the one that pulls away like I’m poison.”

The words landed like a punch.

Sakusa felt them in his teeth.

He opened his mouth — then closed it again. Because there wasn’t a good excuse. There wasn’t anything that would make it fair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “It’s not you. It’s me. I just… haven’t figured out how to turn it all off yet.”

Atsumu didn’t speak for a moment.

Then he sat back down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands.

“I’m not askin’ you to be perfect, Omi,” he said, not looking at him. “I just wanna know if I’m allowed to be here when it’s not easy.”

Sakusa’s chest ached.

He reached out, hesitant — then placed a hand on Atsumu’s back. Fingers barely touching. Trembling.

“You are,” he whispered. “I just… don’t always know how to let you.”

Atsumu didn’t answer right away.

He just sat there, still and quiet, like the wrong move might scare Sakusa off completely. Like he wasn’t sure if reaching out again would be welcomed — or punished.

The silence stretched.

And then — slowly, carefully — he moved.

Not all at once. Not in the bold, brash way Atsumu usually was. But like he was inching toward a skittish animal, one wrong breath away from bolting.

His hand shifted on the bed.

Paused.

Then crept closer.

Sakusa watched, breath held.

And when Atsumu’s fingers finally brushed his own, feather-light, Sakusa didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

He just… let him.

Let those fingers hook gently around his. Let the warmth bleed into his skin. Let the tension in his shoulders melt the tiniest bit at the quiet truth of the touch.

“I know I’m loud,” Atsumu said softly, like the volume might crack something between them. “N’ messy. N’ fuck, I talk too much — but I can be quiet too, y’know. If that’s what you need.”

Sakusa’s throat tightened.

His fingers curled around Atsumu’s, finally gripping back — not hard, not desperate. Just enough to say: I’m here. I’m trying.

Atsumu exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

And then — just like that — he leaned in.

Forehead resting lightly against Sakusa’s temple. No kiss. No pressure.

Just closeness.

Warmth.

Trust.

They stayed like that for a long time. No rush. No explanations. Just two boys sitting at the edge of something terrifying and beautiful, holding hands in the aftermath of a morning that could’ve gone so much worse.

Eventually, Atsumu whispered, “Can we make breakfast?”

And Sakusa — for once — didn’t say no.

The kitchen was bathed in soft morning light.

No music. No noise but the hum of the kettle and the occasional sizzle of eggs in the pan. Sakusa moved with quiet efficiency, sleeves rolled up, hair still sleep-mussed. Atsumu sat at the bench, chin propped on his hand, watching him like he couldn’t look away.

It was peaceful. Easy.

But something sat thick in the air — unspoken, waiting.

Sakusa stirred the eggs. 

“There was a boy,” he said, eyes fixed on his hands, “in middle school. His name was Yuji.”

Atsumu stayed quiet.

“He was gay. Everyone knew. He never hid it.” Sakusa swallowed. “He was my friend. Probably my only friend, at the time.”

A beat.

“My parents made me cut him off.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. Just barely.

“They said it would make people talk,” Sakusa went on, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. “Said it would ruin my image. That I’d be branded like him.”

He paused. Looked up — not at Atsumu, but at the space just past his shoulder.

“I didn’t argue. I just… stopped talking to him. I stopped sitting with him at lunch. Blocked his number. Ignored him in the hallways.” His knuckles went white around the pan handle. “He cried the last time he tried to talk to me.”

Atsumu’s chest ached. “Omi…”

Silence settled between them. Heavy. Full of years Sakusa had never spoken about.

“I still feel sick about it,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “He never did anything wrong.”

Atsumu reached for him. Slowly. Carefully. Like if he moved too fast, Sakusa might vanish.

Their fingers brushed.

Sakusa finally looked at him. Really looked.

“Motoya’s the only person I’ve ever told,” he said, and the weight of it felt enormous. “That I like boys.”

His breath shuddered.

“And now you.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched.

And suddenly the eggs didn’t matter. The toast didn’t matter. All he could see was Sakusa — standing there, vulnerable and haunted, still bracing for judgement that wasn’t coming.

“You didn’t deserve that,” Atsumu said softly. “Yuji didn’t either.”

“I know.”

“You’re not like them, Omi.”

“I try not to be,” Sakusa whispered. “But sometimes it’s hard to unlearn what you grew up hearing. Even when you know it’s wrong.”

Atsumu came around the counter. Didn’t touch him yet — just stood close. Steady.

“You’re doin’ fine, babe.”

Sakusa blinked at him.

“I mean it,” Atsumu said. “Yer not perfect. Neither am I. But you’re tryin’. And you told me. That’s… huge.”

Sakusa’s throat bobbed.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For not making me regret it.”

Atsumu smiled — small and real. “Never could.”

Then — with all the care in the world — he took the plate of eggs from Sakusa’s hands, set it down, and leaned in for a kiss.

Not hungry. Not heated.

Just warm.

And full of promise. 

They ate in silence before Atsumu led Sakusa to the couch, sitting next to eachother, basking in the vulnerability of the morning they’d had.

They didn’t move for a long time after that.

Just sat there — knees touching, hands loosely clasped, the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward or heavy anymore, just… real. A pause in the chaos. A breath.

Eventually, Atsumu leaned his head on Sakusa’s shoulder.

Sakusa let him.

The morning light was slanting through the curtains, catching in Atsumu’s hair, turning the strands into gold. His thumb traced gentle arcs along the back of Sakusa’s hand, slow and aimless, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. Like it was natural.

And maybe it was.

Sakusa’s chest still felt tight. But it wasn’t panic, not this time. Just the echo of something he hadn’t let himself feel in years — hope, maybe. Want. The terrifying ache of being seen and still chosen.

“I should probably get goin’ soon,” Atsumu murmured, voice muffled against his shoulder.

Sakusa didn’t answer right away. Just tightened his grip slightly, like he didn’t want to let go.

“You don’t have to,” he said, finally. Quiet. Honest.

Atsumu smiled, soft and sad. “I do. Got family lunch with Osamu and Suna before my physio session. I’m already pushin’ it.”

Sakusa made a soft sound — not quite a sigh, not quite a protest. Then he stood, still holding onto Atsumu’s hand, and pulled him gently to his feet.

They moved through the rest of the morning slowly. Quietly.

Tea reheated on the stove. Leftover toast shared in the kitchen. Atsumu perched on the counter like he always belonged there, bare feet swinging, cracking soft jokes while Sakusa rolled his eyes and tried not to smile.

And when it was time to leave — shoes on, keys in hand — Sakusa followed him to the door.

Atsumu turned, fingers looping through the strap of his bag.

“I’ll text you?” he said, a little uncertain now. “I don’t wanna crowd you or—”

“You’re not,” Sakusa said. Then, after a beat: “Text me.”

Atsumu’s smile broke through then. Bright and unfiltered.

He leaned in. Pressed a kiss to Sakusa’s cheek. And then — just before pulling away — let their foreheads touch for a moment longer than necessary.

“I really like you, y’know,” he whispered.

Sakusa’s heart stuttered.

“…I know,” he said quietly. “I’m trying.”

And Atsumu, somehow, understood.

The door clicked shut behind Atsumu.

Sakusa stood there for a moment, still barefoot, still half-dressed in soft cotton and the scent of someone else surrounding him. The house felt too quiet now. Not empty — just less.

He let out a slow breath, rubbed a hand over his face, then walked to the kitchen out of habit. The mugs from earlier were still on the bench. The tea had long gone cold.

He rinsed them absently. Stacked them in the sink. Then stared at the backsplash like it might offer him a step-by-step emotional recovery guide.

It didn’t.

Eventually, he grabbed his phone.

Scrolled through contacts.

Hovered — then hit call.

It rang twice.

“Kiyo? It’s 2pm on a tuesday. Who died.” Motoya groaned over the phone.

“No one.”

“Well, that’s anticlimactic.”

Sakusa sighed. “Tsumu stayed the night.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“Oh?” Motoya’s voice lifted with interest, smirking through the phone. “Did he sleep over or sleep over?”

“Motoya.”

“I’m just asking! It’s a valid—”

“This is why I don’t call you.”

“You literally do, like, once a week. And it’s always because you’re spiralling over a boy or a pimple.”

“Not a pimple.”

“Right, sorry. A ‘concerning skin irritation’.”

Sakusa pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we be serious for one second?”

“Fine, fine.” There was some rustling, the sound of Motoya flopping onto something soft. “So. You let him stay. That’s huge. How do you feel?”

“…Weird,” Sakusa admitted. “Good. Scared. Like I’m waiting for the part where I ruin it.”

“Kiyo.”

“I’m trying, okay? He’s patient. He’s… sweet. He asked me if he could do my skincare, Toya.”

“Oh, that’s it. You’re gone. That’s marriage material.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny. But also—yeah. I get it. You’re scared because this isn’t casual anymore. He matters.”

“…He does.”

There was a pause.

Then, softer, “And he knows about Yuji?”

Sakusa nodded even though Motoya couldn’t see. “Yeah. And you. And my parents.”

“Damn. That’s a trifecta. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is he saw your high school yearbook.”

“Don’t joke about that. It’s in a locked drawer for a reason.”

Motoya laughed. “Okay, okay. But for real — you’re doing good, Kiyo. Don’t overthink it. Let him in slowly. Doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”

“I know.”

“And hey,” he added, voice a little smug again, “if it was all or nothing last night, very proud of you—”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Tell Tsumu I say hi!”

Click.

The next morning, the sky was still grey when Sakusa pulled up outside the Miya house. Bleary. Cold. A soft drizzle freckled the windshield, barely visible in the pale dawn light.

He hadn’t expected anyone to be waiting.

But there Atsumu was — hoodie drawn tight, hands shoved into his pockets, curls damp and cheeks pink from the chill — already on the curb before Sakusa even rolled to a stop.

For a second, Sakusa just stared at him through the windshield.

There was something deeply unfair about how good he looked that early, all sleepy-eyed and smug like he knew what he was doing to him. And then Atsumu smiled — wide, crooked, boyish — and the cold fog on Sakusa’s windows suddenly felt like nothing.

He unlocked the door. Atsumu didn’t wait for a greeting. Just climbed in, kicked his feet up, and muttered, “Heater, please,” like he lived there.

Sakusa flipped it on with a sigh. “You didn’t have to wait outside. I said I’d text when I was close.”

“I know.” Atsumu rubbed his hands together. “Just wanted to see ya first thing.”

Sakusa didn’t answer right away. The warmth filled the car slowly. Outside, the sky was still undecided about whether it wanted to rain or not.

He glanced over at Atsumu — who was now rubbing sleep out of his eyes, hoodie slipping down just enough to reveal the skin of his throat. Loose and natural. Like he belonged there. Like it wasn’t a question anymore.

“You’re gonna get sick,” Sakusa murmured.

Atsumu smirked, teeth flashing. “Worth it.”

And Sakusa — against all odds, against every tightly held instinct — reached out, tugged the edge of Atsumu’s hoodie up to cover his neck again.

“Idiot.”

“I know,” Atsumu said softly. “Still worth it.”

Sakusa didn’t have a reply for that.

He just put the car in gear and tried not to smile too obviously at the way Atsumu leaned in a little closer once they were on the road.

They pulled into the parking lot just as the sky started to lighten — streaks of pale blue breaking through the morning haze.

The gym buzzed with early energy, lights already on, music faintly pulsing through the walls. But in the car, it was still quiet. Warm.

Atsumu unbuckled first. Turned toward Sakusa with that same crooked smile he always wore when he was about to be annoying — or affectionate. (Usually both.)

“Thanks for the lift,” he said, leaning in.

Sakusa raised an eyebrow, but didn’t move away.

So Atsumu took his shot — quick, barely there, just a soft press of lips to Sakusa’s cheek — and then he was already scrambling out of the car, grinning like a kid who got away with something.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Sakusa sat there for a beat longer, touching the spot where Atsumu had kissed him, the ghost of it still lingering like heat.

Then he got out too. Locked the car. And followed him inside.

The gym was already a zoo.

Hinata was hanging upside down from the pull-up bar — for reasons unclear. Bokuto was chasing Inunaki around with what looked like two protein shakes and zero coordination. Tomas was doing weighted squats in the corner, earbuds in, completely ignoring the rest of the team.

“GET AWAY FROM ME YOU RAT—”

“IT’S VANILLA-CARAMEL! JUST TRY IT—”

Sakusa stepped through the doors just as Inunaki leapt over a stretching mat to escape Bokuto. Hinata fell off the bar and landed in a dramatic heap. Meian didn’t even look up from his phone. 

“Morning,” he said.

Sakusa nodded. “Morning.”

From across the room, Atsumu caught his eye — still smiling, still giddy, like he was holding onto that little kiss like it was the best part of his day.

And maybe, Sakusa thought, it was.

They were mid-cooldown when it happened.

Sakusa was seated on a mat, towel draped around his neck, wiping sweat from his jaw when Atsumu flopped down next to him — not beside, not nearby, but practically on top of him, all long limbs and damp curls and zero self-preservation.

His head landed in Sakusa’s lap like it belonged there.

Sakusa looked down, unimpressed.

“You’re sweaty.”

“You like it,” Atsumu mumbled, clearly not moving. “M’legs don’t work anymore. You killed me. I’m dead.”

“You squatted twice and yelled once.”

“Exactly.”

Across the gym, Inunaki narrowed his eyes.

“Hold up.” He pointed. “What is this? Are you like… over your germaphobia or something?”

Meian sighed from where he was logging reps. “Inunaki.”

“What? I’m just saying!” Inunaki threw his hands up, face twisted in mock confusion. “Atsumu’s disgusting. I wouldn’t let him breathe near me, let alone drool on my trackies.”

“Hey—” Atsumu sat up, scandalised. “I do not drool!”

“You drooled on me last week.”

“I was napping!”

“You snore too.”

“Lies and slander!”

Sakusa rolled his eyes and stood, brushing Atsumu off his lap with the grace of a man deeply used to this circus. “You’re all children.”

Meian didn’t even look up. “And you’re enabling him.”

“Correction,” Sakusa muttered, grabbing his water bottle, “I’m tolerating him.”

Atsumu grinned up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “Ya love me.”

Sakusa didn’t answer — just turned away, but the smallest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he walked.

Inunaki caught it.

He gasped, scandalised. “Oh my god, he does!”

Hinata, somewhere under a pile of mats, shouted, “Knew it!”

Bokuto immediately started clapping. “MY SHIP—”

“This is not a ship—” Sakusa called over his shoulder, but no one was listening.

Not really.

Not with Atsumu still beaming like he’d won.

The chaos hadn’t even settled when Meian reached into his duffel and wordlessly handed Hinata a crumpled ten.

Hinata whooped and held it aloft like a championship trophy. “Pay up, losers!”

Bokuto groaned, digging through his shorts pocket. “I really thought he was ace for life…”

“You thought he was asexual, bro,” Inunaki snorted, snatching a note from his wallet and tossing it into Hinata’s waiting palm. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“I do now!” Bokuto protested, slapping a five down on the pile. “I learned! Respectfully!”

Sakusa stared at them all like they were actual parasites.

“What the fuck is happening.”

Meian didn’t even blink. “Betting pool. On whether Atsumu would break through your no-touch policy or not.”

“You what—”

“I said he would by Week 3,” Hinata said smugly. 

“And I said it would take a damn year,” Inunaki added, pointing dramatically at Sakusa. “Because that man once wiped down a volleyball with disinfectant wipes before serving it.”

“Still should’ve been disqualified,” Bokuto muttered.

Tomas just shrugged, “I don’t gamble”

Sakusa blinked. Twice.

Then turned to Atsumu, who was trying — and failing — to look innocent while sipping his protein shake like it wasn’t spiked with chaos.

“You knew about this.”

“I absolutely did not.” Atsumu grinned. “But I’m honoured to be the reason Hinata can now afford extra dumplings tonight.”

Hinata immediately started doing a little victory dance, complete with finger guns and a pelvic thrust that made Meian sigh deeply into his towel.

“Anyone wanna double down on ‘they’ll be holding hands in public by next week’?” Inunaki asked.

“Put me down for twenty,” Bokuto said, already elbow-deep in his gym bag.

Sakusa muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like I hate all of you, but didn’t move away when Atsumu bumped his shoulder against his — casual, subtle, unmistakably affectionate.

And no one missed the way he didn’t wipe it off.

The second they stepped out into the carpark, it was like walking into a goddamn circus.

“There they are!” Bokuto shouted, loud enough to make a flock of birds take off from the power lines.

“Aw look, they’re walking side by side,” Hinata cooed, clasping his hands to his chest like a Victorian maiden watching a romance bloom.

“We drove here together, you freaks,” Sakusa snapped, tugging his gym bag higher on his shoulder.

“Yeah, but did they leave together?” Inunaki asked, eyebrows waggling. “Or is that strictly a morning thing?”

Atsumu choked on his water bottle and nearly dropped it. “Oh my god,” he wheezed, “you guys need to get lives.”

“Don’t deflect, Miya,” Tomas said dryly, arms crossed.

Sakusa groaned and looked up at the sky like he was begging for divine intervention.

He did not get it.

Instead, Hinata jogged up next to them and threw an arm across both their shoulders — or tried to, anyway, considering Sakusa’s shoulders flinched like he’d been hit with a shock collar.

“You guys are so cute,” Hinata said, ignoring the death glare aimed his way. “What’s next? Matching rings? Couple TikToks? Can I be your best man?”

“We’re not getting married,” Sakusa snapped.

“Yet,” Bokuto added helpfully.

Atsumu looked like he was loving this, grinning like a bastard, but the flush in his ears gave him away.

Sakusa, however, was one second from spontaneous combustion.

“Everyone shut the fuck up,” he muttered, unlocking his car with a beep that sounded far too aggressive for a Prius. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Meian agreed, completely unbothered. “But we’re also right.”

Atsumu slid into the passenger seat still laughing, waving out the window as Sakusa reversed out like he was trying to flee a crime scene.

“Have a good date!” Bokuto shouted.

Hinata added, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Sakusa rolled the window up so fast.

The car was quiet for a while.

Atsumu didn’t mind it — not really — but he kept sneaking glances across the console. Sakusa had one hand on the wheel and the other curled on his thigh, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road like he was solving complex equations with every traffic light.

“I already texted ‘em,” Atsumu said gently. “Told the guys to keep it to themselves.”

Sakusa didn’t look at him, but his fingers twitched on the steering wheel.

“I mean it,” Atsumu added. “If yer uncomfortable, if you wanna keep this just between us for now, I get it. I’ll get ‘em to shut up properly. I’ll talk to Meian too. I don’t want you feelin’—” He hesitated. “Like everyone’s watchin’ us.”

Sakusa exhaled. It was soft, but shaky around the edges. His eyes stayed on the road, but his voice was quieter when he spoke.

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

Atsumu’s brow creased. “Then who?”

Sakusa took the next turn before answering. “I’ve just… never let anyone see me like this before. Not teammates. Not friends. Not anyone.” A beat passed. “It’s strange. Not bad. Just… new.”

Atsumu stayed quiet. Let him talk.

“I keep waiting for it to feel like a mistake,” Sakusa admitted, voice barely above the hum of the engine. “But it doesn’t. Not with you.”

That landed deep in Atsumu’s chest. He blinked hard, mouth opening — then closing — unsure what to say without making it too much.

So instead, he reached over.

Slowly, gently, he laced their fingers together where Sakusa’s hand rested on his thigh.

For a second, Sakusa didn’t move.

But then — just as the silence stretched — he gave the smallest squeeze back before resting his hand back on the gearstick.

That was enough.

They didn’t talk much on the drive.

Not because there was tension — but because there wasn’t. The kind of quiet that settled in the car was easy, familiar, like the hum of city traffic and the warmth of worn-in seats and shared silence. There was music playing low through the speakers — something instrumental, something calm — and neither of them reached to change it.

Sakusa’s hand stayed firmly on the gearstick, but his eyes flicked toward Atsumu at every red light. Just little glances. Just enough to check he was still there, still real, still the same messy-haired, sunshine-drenched boy who’d curled into him that morning like he belonged there.

Atsumu caught him more than once.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just smiled — slow and sleepy, the kind of smile that softened all the sharp lines in Sakusa’s chest — and let his hand nudge gently against Sakusa’s thigh before looking back out the window.

When they pulled up outside Atsumu’s place, Sakusa let the engine idle for a second too long.

The moment held.

The keys stayed in the ignition.

“You comin’ in?” Atsumu asked eventually, bag slung over one shoulder, curls sticking to his forehead from leftover sweat and the faint humidity clinging to the late morning air.

Sakusa hesitated.

It wasn’t nerves. Not really.

It was the knowledge that stepping inside meant stepping deeper — into Atsumu’s space, his orbit, his world.

Then: “Yeah.”

He cut the engine.

Atsumu’s apartment was exactly what Sakusa expected. A mess.

Not a disgusting mess — not quite — but clothes were draped over chairs, dishes sat in the sink, and a pair of gym socks had somehow migrated to the coffee table.

Sakusa opened his mouth — and promptly got pushed back out the door.

“Wait here,” Atsumu said, eyes wide, already kicking a shoe out of the way with a thud. “Like—five minutes. Tops.”

The door shut in Sakusa’s face before he could respond.

Then came the noise.

Thumps. Banging. A yelp that may or may not have been from tripping over something. Drawers slammed. Something shattered — then a very suspicious “it’s fine!” shouted through the door.

Sakusa pinched the bridge of his nose.

He counted to fifty. Then a hundred.

After five full minutes, the door creaked back open — Atsumu standing in the middle of the doorway, panting like he’d just run sprints. His curls were sticking up in wild directions, his t-shirt was inside out, and there was a suspicious streak of dust across his cheek.

But the apartment… was clean.

Not Sakusa-clean — not even close — but the socks were gone, the dishes stacked neatly in the sink, and at least three quarters of the visible floor was now walkable without risk of death.

“There,” Atsumu said proudly, waving him in. “Safe for human entry.”

Sakusa gave him a long, slow look. “You’re sweating.”

“Cardio,” Atsumu said, grinning.

Sakusa stepped inside — cautiously. His eyes scanned the space. It smelled like citrus spray and desperation.

“You shoved everything in your room, didn’t you.”

Atsumu waggled his brows. “Prove it.”

Sakusa stepped cautiously around a suspiciously bulging laundry basket now shoved against the wall and made his way to the kitchen. He flicked the kettle on like he owned the place.

Atsumu flopped down onto the couch again — this time with a dramatic sigh of earned exhaustion. “This is what I do for you, y’know. Manual labour. Blood, sweat, and tears.”

“Pretty sure I heard glass break,” Sakusa muttered, grabbing two mugs from the rack. “Was that the tears part?”

“It was decorative,” Atsumu called back. “Didn’t even like it.”

Sakusa didn’t answer — just poured the boiling water, tossed in two chamomile bags, and walked them over.

He paused in front of the couch.

Stared at it.

Tilted his head.

“…Is it safe to sit on?”

Atsumu snorted. “I cleaned it.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Atsumu held a hand over his heart like Sakusa had just wounded him. “That’s slander, and I’m considerin’ legal action.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes and lowered himself onto the far end — carefully. The cushions made a concerning noise.

Atsumu slid closer anyway, reaching for his tea with both hands and blowing on the steam. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic?” Sakusa shot back, one brow arching. “You shoved your entire mess into a single room and tried to pass it off as tidying.”

“Again, prove it.”

Sakusa didn’t bother. Just sipped his tea with all the superiority of a man who alphabetised his spice rack.

They sat in silence for a moment. Comfortable. The TV was off, the lights dim. Outside, the city kept moving — cars and voices and laughter drifting up through the windows.

Eventually, Atsumu leaned forward and grabbed the remote.

“Wanna watch somethin’?”

Sakusa shrugged. “Put on whatever.”

Atsumu hovered. “You sure?”

Sakusa nodded. “As long as it’s not something you’d call a ‘cinematic masterpiece’ and rate 2.3 stars on Letterboxd.”

“…Damn. Okay. Spirited Away it is.”

He queued it up, slid a little closer once the lights faded — but still didn’t touch. Just sat there, sipping tea, eyes flicking to Sakusa now and then like he couldn’t help himself.

And Sakusa let him.

They watched in silence for a while.

The glow of the TV flickered across the room in soft blues and greens, casting dancing shadows over the walls. Atsumu had long since slid his legs up onto the couch, socked feet tucked under his thighs, tea abandoned half-empty on the table.

Sakusa sat straighter. Still, always. But something about the quiet — about the movie, about the way Atsumu’s curls flopped into his eyes — made his shoulders loosen just a little.

And then, without really thinking, Sakusa shifted.

Not far.

Just a bit closer.

His knee brushed Atsumu’s.

Then stayed there.

Atsumu froze for a split second — like his whole body short-circuited. Then he turned, slow and wide-eyed, the grin that bloomed across his face nothing short of obscene.

“You touched me,” he whispered, delighted.

Sakusa didn’t look away from the screen. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You touched me,” Atsumu repeated, louder now, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Voluntarily.”

Sakusa sighed, but there was no bite to it. “Do you want me to take it back?”

“No. Never. It’s mine now.” Atsumu shifted too — just a little, just enough for their thighs to line up properly, side by side. He didn’t press, didn’t lean in further. Just grinned to himself like a kid who’d been handed a toy he’d been eyeing for months.

And Sakusa — against all odds — smiled, too.

Not wide. Not obvious.

But it was there.

Settling soft around the edges of his mouth, like the warmth of shared space and quiet understanding had cracked something open in his chest.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t flinch when Atsumu’s fingers brushed his on the couch cushion.

Didn’t stop watching the movie — but didn’t stop noticing Atsumu, either.

The movie flickered quietly in the background, colours dancing across the walls, its whimsical score wrapping around the room like mist — gentle, soothing, barely noticed. Neither of them was really watching anymore. The plot faded into nothing, a distant hum behind the quiet rhythm of their bodies gradually shifting closer, inch by inch, in the kind of slow, inevitable pull that didn’t need words or intent to exist.

Their hands kept brushing. First once. Then again. Pinkies grazing, knuckles barely touching, a silent game of gravity and restraint that neither of them acknowledged. Atsumu didn’t force it. Didn’t twine their fingers together or reach across the cushion to pull Sakusa in. He just stayed there — steady, solid, warm — like a space that could be leaned into, if wanted.

And Sakusa… wanted.

He didn’t admit it out loud. Didn’t shift dramatically or sigh with longing. But the weight in his shoulders dropped ever so slightly. His knee angled toward Atsumu instead of away. And slowly — without quite meaning to — his body tipped closer until his shoulder brushed Atsumu’s in the softest, most tentative press of contact.

It was barely anything.

But Atsumu felt it like a jolt.

He froze, not out of fear or awkwardness, but like he was scared any sudden movement would scare Sakusa off — like the boy curled up beside him was a bird with bruised wings, and the wrong breath could send him flying.

Then Sakusa let out a slow, exhausted breath — the kind that tugged up from the very bottom of his lungs, full of tension uncoiling — and his head dropped gently, quietly, until it landed against Atsumu’s shoulder.

A small, quiet thud.

A touch of warmth.

And just like that, he was there.

Atsumu didn’t dare move. His heart had stuttered, then jumped, then launched itself into some awkward, stuttering rhythm that made him forget how to sit still. But he didn’t want to ruin it. Didn’t want to startle him. Didn’t want to lose the weight of Sakusa’s cheek pressed to the fabric of his hoodie, or the way those soft lashes fluttered against his neck, or the barely-there hum of breath that tickled just beneath his jaw.

“Omi?” he whispered, barely audible, afraid even the sound might break the moment.

Sakusa didn’t answer.

His eyes were closed now. His breathing was slow, even, the kind of rhythm that only came when every part of his body had finally, finally let go.

Atsumu blinked, stunned at the sight of him like this — not cold, not distant, not bristling with walls — but soft. Vulnerable. Leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Atsumu… melted.

Completely.

His grin curled slow and lazy at the corners. His spine loosened. His chest warmed with a bloom of something that sat far too close to awe.

One hand hovered — uncertain, trembling slightly — before he let it settle gently on Sakusa’s knee, barely a touch, just enough to anchor them both.

Sakusa didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tense.

Didn’t pull away.

He just curled a little closer, his nose brushing against Atsumu’s collarbone, his whole body relaxing with a tiny, unconscious sigh that made something flutter wildly in Atsumu’s chest.

And Atsumu, holding still like the world might shatter if he moved, whispered to the quiet room, “Omi, is this okay?”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak again.

Didn’t want to be anywhere else.

It was strange, in that quiet, devastating kind of way — the way Sakusa drifted closer without meaning to, the way his body curved inwards like a tide drawn to shore, the way the space between them disappeared one inch at a time until it felt like there had never been any at all.

The couch was too small, the cushions uneven, the blanket bunched up beneath one of his knees — and yet, somehow, it was the most comfortable Sakusa had felt all week.

Maybe longer.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Didn’t make some half-hearted joke about it being cold or cramped or uncomfortable. He just leaned in slowly, gradually, head tilting down until his cheek pressed against the soft fabric of Atsumu’s hoodie, his breath warm and steady against the slope of his neck.

And then… he stayed.

No flinching. No recoil. No second-guessing the decision before it landed.

He just stayed.

Atsumu froze at first — not out of panic, but out of awe, like a boy holding a wild animal too precious to startle. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak, didn’t even finish the breath he’d been in the middle of taking. His eyes flicked down toward Sakusa’s face, half-obscured now by a curtain of dark curls, and for a moment — one single, fluttering second — everything else ceased to exist.

Then Sakusa moved again.

Just slightly.

Not away — closer.

He shifted with the smallest, sleepiest exhale, tucking himself tighter against Atsumu’s side and nuzzling faintly into the warm skin just beneath his jaw. Not on purpose, maybe. Not even fully awake. But it was deliberate enough that Atsumu felt it like a brand — sharp and soft and full of something sacred.

Sakusa’s fingers found the hem of Atsumu’s hoodie. Curled there for a beat. Then slid underneath, brushing lightly against the skin of his waist before moving back down to Atsumu’s wrist — and then, carefully, quietly, pulled his arm around himself like it was a blanket he’d been waiting too long to wear.

The message was clear, even without words.

Hold me.

And Atsumu did.

Immediately. Automatically. As if not holding him had never even been a possibility.

He tightened his grip without thinking, arm looping snug around Sakusa’s middle, fingers spreading against the flat of his stomach like he could anchor him there. His other hand rose, slow and reverent, to cradle the back of Sakusa’s head — brushing his curls aside so gently it barely registered as movement at all.

“You’re killin’ me here,” he whispered, voice rough, breaking, fond in the way only real things can be.

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

He just gave a small, contented sigh — not quite a purr, not quite a groan, but something warm and raw and real — and melted the rest of the way into Atsumu’s chest like his bones had given up the fight.

And Atsumu, for all his teasing, for all his noise and his energy and his tendency to fill silences that didn’t need filling — stayed quiet.

Because there was nothing to say.

Not when Sakusa was this soft in his arms.

Not when the man who’d once flinched at accidental shoulder brushes was now half-asleep against him, clutching his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

Not when Atsumu could feel his breath, warm and even, feathering against his neck in a rhythm that matched his own.

He held him tighter.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And when Sakusa shifted again — one last time, pressing a barely-there kiss to the curve of Atsumu’s collarbone before letting sleep take him entirely — Atsumu knew, with perfect clarity, that he would never let anyone else hold him like this again.

Not if he could help it.

Not when he’d been given this.

The first thing Sakusa registered was the warmth.

Not the kind that made you sweat or kicked you out of bed — the kind that crept into your bones and made them reluctant to move. The kind that lingered in the seams of your clothes, your skin, your thoughts. Heavy and still. Soft.

The second thing was the sound — quiet, steady, the faint thud of a heart beneath his cheek and the low hum of early morning birdsong leaking through the window. No traffic. No voices. Just the hush of a world not quite awake.

And the third —

Atsumu.

Sakusa didn’t need to look up to know where he was. He could feel it in every inch of himself — the awkward tilt of his body curled in a half-ball across the couch, the weight of a blanket tugged over his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of a chest beneath his own.

He was in Atsumu’s lap.

Actually in it.

One arm was slung limply around his shoulders, the other resting on the back of the couch, like it had started out protectively and given up somewhere around midnight. Atsumu had fallen asleep upright, mouth parted just enough to be criminal, head tilted back at a neck-wrecking angle.

And Sakusa?

He was still here.

Still draped across him, legs folded, cheek pressed into Atsumu’s chest, hands curled between them like a cat trying to conserve heat.

He hadn’t moved.

He hadn’t wanted to.

The panic should’ve come by now. The tension. The urge to slip out from under that arm, to put space between their bodies before the intimacy could sink in too deep.

But… it didn’t.

There was no panic.

Just a slow, blooming awareness that something in him had shifted — maybe last night, maybe weeks ago — and now, sitting here with his legs tangled in Atsumu’s, breathing in the faint scent of laundry detergent and sleep-warm skin, Sakusa felt something close to peace.

His lashes fluttered. He didn’t move. Just listened.

Atsumu was still sleeping.

His breath hitched sometimes, like he was dreaming something he didn’t want to admit to, but mostly it was calm — grounding. Sakusa let his eyes slip closed again, just for a moment. Let himself rest there, in that rare, suspended state between sleep and wakefulness, where everything felt muted and easy.

He could feel the beat of Atsumu’s heart. Steady. Familiar. There.

And slowly — tentatively — Sakusa’s hand found its way to Atsumu’s hoodie again, fingers curling in soft cotton like he was afraid to let go.

Because he wasn’t afraid of this.

Not anymore.

Sakusa didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

He just lay there, curled against Atsumu’s chest with a blanket pulled loosely over his shoulders, letting his breath sync with the rise and fall of the body beneath him.

He could feel the warmth of the apartment pressing gently against the windows. Morning light filtered through the curtains in streaks of gold and grey. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen sounded like a distant engine, grounding him in place. Somewhere outside, someone was walking a dog. A car door slammed. The world was stirring.

And yet — here, in this narrow stretch of couch wrapped in blankets and body heat — everything felt still.

Sakusa’s thumb shifted, almost unconsciously, brushing over a crease in the fabric of Atsumu’s hoodie. The hoodie he’d wanted to bury his face in since the first time Atsumu had worn it to training.

It was a stupid thought, but it made something in his chest ache anyway.

He looked up.

Atsumu’s head was tipped back at a crooked angle, mouth parted, hair sticking out in at least five directions. His lashes were dark against his cheekbones. His arm had gone limp around Sakusa’s shoulders sometime in the night but hadn’t moved since.

He looked… safe.

And Sakusa — somehow — felt it.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t overwhelming. Just that quiet, unmistakable sense of being somewhere he was allowed to be. Being wanted, even here, in his worst morning state and curled up like a barnacle on the most annoying man he’d ever met.

He let his head drop again. Burrowed closer. Nuzzled the edge of Atsumu’s collarbone and let out a breath that trembled just slightly.

And then—

A low hum rumbled beneath him. Followed by a shift. A yawn. A hand flexing sleepily at his back.

Then—

“Oh…” A gravelly voice, thick with sleep and something so much softer. “Mornin’, baby.”

Sakusa froze — not out of panic, but sheer, startled tenderness.

His heart thudded once, low and hard.

And then, before he could think about it too long, he mumbled back into the fabric of Atsumu’s shirt:

“Morning.”

Atsumu groaned.

Not dramatically. Not performatively. Just the kind of groan that came from a spine twisted sideways on a too-small couch for way too many hours.

“Fuck, I’m gonna be sore all day,” he muttered, voice scratchy and low. His free hand moved to rub the back of his neck, but he didn’t shift Sakusa an inch. If anything, he pulled him in tighter. “Ya better be grateful, y’know. Slept upright like a damn car seat so his highness could drape himself all over me.”

Sakusa didn’t lift his head. Just smirked into the warm fabric of Atsumu’s hoodie and said, perfectly dry, “Did I ask you to do that?”

“Oh, so now yer rude in the mornings,” Atsumu shot back, lips brushing Sakusa’s hair. “Unbelievable. I hold ya like a princess all night—”

“I’m not a princess.”

“Sure ya are.” Atsumu stretched his legs out and hissed a little at the pop in his knee. “All snuggled up n’ tucked in like royalty while I’m out here gettin’ early-onset scoliosis.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes — or tried to. It came out more like a fond blink.

“You could’ve moved me,” he said softly, almost shy. “I wouldn’t’ve minded.”

Atsumu huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, right. You woulda woke up, blinked those pretty eyes at me all confused n’ wrecked, and I’d’ve had to pretend I didn’t wanna kiss you stupid.”

Sakusa lifted his head at that — just a little — gaze sliding up to meet Atsumu’s with something warm and unreadable behind it.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured.

Atsumu grinned, sleep-mussed and smug. “And you’re lucky I like ya.”

Sakusa pressed a light kiss to Atsumu’s cheek — barely more than a brush of lips against warm skin — then slowly peeled himself out of the tangle of limbs and blanket. His body ached in that heavy, satisfied way that came from too much comfort and not enough proper sleep, but he didn’t mind. Not when the ache came with a weightless chest and the knowledge that he hadn’t panicked. Not once.

He padded down the hallway in his socks, rubbing at his eyes, silent as he made his way to the bathroom.

Atsumu appeared a moment later, still yawning, hair sticking up at the back like he’d been electrocuted. He didn’t say anything. Just shuffled past Sakusa, bent down, and opened the cupboard beneath the sink.

Sakusa blinked at him in the mirror.

“You don’t have to—”

Atsumu waved him off, pulling a toothbrush out of a spare pack and setting it carefully beside the sink like it was something delicate. He didn’t even meet Sakusa’s eyes when he said, “S’fine. Kinda figured this might happen eventually.”

Then he turned to rummage for his own brush, still bleary-eyed, already halfway into a stretch that popped his shoulder.

Sakusa stared at the toothbrush for a second longer than he meant to. At the way Atsumu hadn’t asked, hadn’t teased — just knew, somehow, that this mattered. That having a toothbrush here was a quiet milestone. A little thread in the fabric of something growing.

He reached for it slowly.

Atsumu caught his eye in the mirror. Smiled, gentle and lazy. “Yours now, y’know.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away, either.

Just started brushing, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And maybe it was starting to be.

The kitchen smelled like butter and toast.

Sakusa leaned against the bench, arms crossed, sleeves pushed halfway up a worn grey jumper that was definitely not his. His trackies were cinched low on his hips, hair still a little mussed from sleep, and socked feet curled slightly against the cold tiles.

Across the kitchen, Atsumu stood in front of the stove — also in trackies, also in a jumper two sizes too big — flipping eggs with the kind of concentration that made Sakusa’s lips twitch.

“You’re gonna break the yolks if you keep pressing like that,” Sakusa said dryly.

Atsumu didn’t look up. “I know what I’m doin’. These are delicate. It’s an art.”

“It’s a fried egg.”

“It’s love,” Atsumu corrected, glancing over with a grin. “Besides, I’m cookin’ for my boyfriend, so shut up.”

He paused then — hand still mid-air with the spatula, the grin faltering just slightly as his eyes flicked back to Sakusa.

“That’s okay, right?” he asked, voice softer now. “That’s… what we are, right?”

There was no pressure behind it. No demand. Just a careful question hanging in the morning air, half-wrapped in steam and the smell of toast, waiting.

Sakusa didn’t answer right away.

He blinked once. Let the word settle in his chest like it had yesterday. Let it echo around a space he wasn’t used to letting anyone see.

And then — finally — he gave a single nod.

Atsumu’s shoulders eased.

He turned back to the stove like nothing had happened, spatula clicking gently against the pan. “Cool,” he mumbled, like his heart wasn’t suddenly beating out of rhythm. “Just makin’ sure.”

Sakusa’s smiled gently. The word settled warm in his chest — not shocking, not sharp. Just… there. Familiar.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched as Atsumu shifted, still barefoot, still humming a broken version of whatever song had been in his head since yesterday. There was a sizzle as he nudged the toast down and poked at the pan again.

The apartment was warm. Quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty.

Sakusa found himself stepping closer without thinking.

“Yer hoverin’,” Atsumu said, without turning. “That’s illegal in this kitchen.”

“I’m observing.”

“Yer judgin’.”

Sakusa hummed, then reached past him to turn the burner down slightly. “I’m helping.”

Atsumu swatted at him with the spatula — missed on purpose — and grinned wider. “You can help by sittin’ yer fine ass down and gettin’ the plates.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes and obeyed, if only to hide the way his mouth was twitching into a smile.

The plates clinked gently against the wooden table as Sakusa set them down, one in front of each chair, and Atsumu followed with the pan, sliding eggs and toast onto each with practiced ease. He poured the coffee last — dark and a little too strong — and dropped two sugars into Sakusa’s without needing to ask.

They sat.

Atsumu’s foot nudged Sakusa’s under the table as he took his first bite. “I’m just sayin’, these are gourmet level.”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “You burnt the toast.”

“Charred for flavour,” Atsumu said, absolutely shameless. “That’s culinary strategy.”

Sakusa huffed a laugh, low and reluctant — but real. The coffee was hot. The apartment was still warm. There was music playing faintly from Atsumu’s phone, something upbeat and tinny that neither of them really noticed.

They ate in that kind of easy silence that only shows up after a night like theirs — the kind where every breath feels like it matters a little more.

Halfway through his second bite, Atsumu glanced up. “Hey… we’ve got practice at eleven, yeah?”

Sakusa nodded, chewing.

Atsumu continued, tone light, casual. “Can we go together? Go to yours on the way there? Just—grab your stuff n’ all?”

Sakusa blinked once. His instinct — the one that flinched at shared rides and assumptions and too much closeness too fast — flickered.

But it didn’t flare.

Not this time.

“Yeah,” he said simply, slicing into the egg with the edge of his toast. “That’s fine.”

Atsumu grinned again, wide and golden and easy. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

“Cool,” he said, nudging Sakusa’s foot again. “We’ll take yer car. You can judge my playlist the whole way.”

“I was going to anyway.”

“I know,” Atsumu said, eyes crinkling. “That’s why I like ya.”

Sakusa looked down at his plate to hide his smile. Not because he needed to — but just because he could.

The bass rattled the dashboard.

Something shrill and chaotic — high-pitched autotune layered over a beat that could only be described as aggressive — blared from the car speakers as Atsumu parked with one hand on the wheel and the other drumming enthusiastically against the door.

Sakusa winced.

“This isn’t music,” he said flatly.

Atsumu grinned like a menace. “It’s art.”

“It’s a war crime.”

“You’re just uncultured.”

Sakusa reached forward and cut the ignition. Silence dropped like a curtain, blessed and immediate.

“Rude,” Atsumu muttered, already popping his door open. “I was gonna play that for warmups.”

“Don’t.”

They stepped out together, gym bags slung over shoulders, the sun already too bright for Sakusa’s liking. His hair was damp from his shower. His hoodie smelled faintly like Atsumu’s detergent. And as they rounded the corner of the facility, he could already hear shouting coming from inside.

“Please tell me that’s not—”

“Bet it is,” Atsumu said cheerfully.

The second they walked into the gym, it was chaos.

Bokuto was climbing the support beam.

Hinata was filming it.

Inunaki was trying — and failing — to tape a dodgeball to the ceiling fan.

Meian was staring at all of it like he regretted every decision that had brought him to this moment.

Sakusa stopped in the doorway.

“I hate it here,” he said.

Atsumu beamed and elbowed him gently. “Nah, ya love us.”

“No,” Sakusa said, stepping neatly out of the way as Bokuto dropped down from the beam with a whoop. “No, I don’t.”

“Morning, lovebirds!” Inunaki called, flipping the roll of tape in one hand.

Atsumu shot him a wink. “Morning, gremlin!”

Meian sighed. “You’re late.”

“We’re on time,” Sakusa said.

“You’re on Atsumu time,” Meian muttered. “That’s different.”

Hinata waved from the corner, still holding his phone. “What were you guys doing, anyway?”

Atsumu opened his mouth — and Sakusa jabbed him in the ribs.

“Breakfast,” he said, deadpan. “Nothing else.”

Atsumu made a wounded noise. “Ya didn’t even let me make a joke.”

“That was the point.”

Hinata giggled. “You guys are so weird.”

“We’re normal,” Sakusa muttered, stretching his arms overhead.

Bokuto jogged past, draping an arm over Atsumu. “You’re whatever the hell this is,” he said, squinting. “Like… weirdly domestic but also lowkey terrifying?”

“Sounds like love,” Atsumu sang.

“Sounds like I need coffee,” Meian groaned.

Sakusa sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

And despite the noise — the shouting and the warmups and the absolutely heinous playlist Atsumu had tried to inflict on him — he felt… okay.

Comfortable.

Settled.

Like he wasn’t pretending anymore.

Practice ran late.

Not wildly so — just enough to throw Sakusa’s routine off by ten unbearable minutes.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Meian had wanted to review rotations. Bokuto had tripped over a crate of foam rollers. Inunaki had disappeared for a full ten minutes to find “his special knee brace” and returned with a slice of pizza instead. Normal chaos. Standard MSBY bullshit.

But still.

The locker room was loud when Sakusa got in. Too loud.

Sweat clung to his skin in a way that made him itch. His towel wasn’t where he left it. Someone — probably Bokuto — had knocked his sanitizer off the bench, and it had cracked open on the tiles. A slow, lemon-scented puddle spread out around his feet.

It was fine.

He could deal with it.

He told himself that as he forced his breath to stay even, as he bent to pick up the bottle, fingers slick from water and heat and everything feeling just slightly wrong.

Then someone behind him — didn’t even matter who — laughed too loud. A wet slap echoed as someone flicked a towel. And that was it.

Sakusa froze.

Jaw clenched.

Chest tight.

It wasn’t bad yet, but it was close. The room spun just slightly out of sync. The pressure behind his eyes prickled like a headache not fully formed. His breath hitched in his throat.

And then —

A hand, gentle and warm, touched the small of his back.

“You alright, baby?”

Atsumu’s voice — low, careful, calm.

Sakusa blinked hard.

“I’m—” He sucked in a breath. “Fine.”

“No you’re not,” Atsumu said softly, stepping in front of him, shielding him slightly from the noise without making a big deal of it. “Let’s do your stuff, yeah? Come on. I’ll help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I know,” Atsumu murmured, fingers brushing his wrist. “Just wanna be here.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Didn’t shake him off, either.

He let himself be guided toward the benches near the back, quieter and away from the echo of shouting and showers and Bokuto’s off-key humming. Atsumu nudged him down to sit, tugging out his own earphones and offering one wordlessly.

Sakusa blinked.

Then — after a second’s pause — took one.

Music slipped in. Some soft lo-fi beat with a bassline that buzzed just enough to anchor him.

Next to him, Atsumu crouched to grab some paper towels from his gym bag — already wiping up the puddle of sanitizer with dramatic grumbling. “Swear t’god, Bokuto’s got the grace of a fuckin’ hippo.”

The absurdity of it — Atsumu in socks, muttering at the floor, cleaning lemon-scented goo like it was his sacred duty — broke through the fog.

Sakusa let out a breath.

His hands steadied. His pulse evened out.

And when Atsumu glanced up with a crooked little smile — eyes crinkling — Sakusa found himself returning it, just faintly, just enough.

Later, when the chaos had died down and the rest of the team had filtered out, Sakusa stood at the sinks, combing his hair with slow, methodical strokes, earphone still in,.

Atsumu leaned against the wall behind him, sipping from a protein shake like it was a milk tea.

“You okay now?” he asked.

Sakusa nodded once.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Atsumu didn’t press. Just nodded back and smiled into his straw. “Cool. Just makin’ sure.”

And Sakusa didn’t say it, not out loud — but he was grateful.

For the quiet presence. For the way Atsumu knew exactly when to speak and exactly when to stay close without pushing. For the way it didn’t feel like something wrong had happened.

Just something real. Something handled.

They’d just slipped into the car when Sakusa’s phone buzzed.

He sighed, already knowing who it was. The name [Toya baby] lit up the dash display a second later — and before he could stop it, the Bluetooth connected.

“Don’t—” Sakusa started, but it was too late.

The call answered itself.

“Kiyoomiiiiiii!” Motoya’s voice blasted through the speakers like a war cry. “Tell me everything. Did ya let him defile you again or was it a wholesome night in?”

Atsumu choked on absolutely nothing.

Sakusa slapped the volume down with one hand and hissed, “Motoya. You’re on speaker.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “Oh. Hi, Atsumu.”

“Hey,” Atsumu croaked, face redder than a traffic light. He was practically sinking into the passenger seat, hoodie pulled over his head like a shield. “Uh. I didn’t—defile him.”

“Not yet, you didn’t,” Motoya muttered.

“Motoya.”

“What? I’m just saying—!”

“Why did you call,” Sakusa deadpanned, reversing out of the parking spot with the calculated calm of a man ignoring the fire in his passenger seat.

“Right, right, yeah — sorry — I was gonna see if you wanted to come for dinner Friday. My friend Kaito’s in town and he won’t stop asking about ya.”

“I’m not interested in dating your friends Toya.”

“Not that kind of asking, jeez. He wants to beat you in chess again.”

“He never beat me in chess.”

“Exactly why he’s still mad.”

Sakusa sighed again — longer this time — and Atsumu, still hiding under his hoodie, let out a muffled laugh.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Motoya asked.

“Fine,” Sakusa muttered. “I’ll come.”

“Bring lover boy too!”

Atsumu lit up and peeked out of the hoodie just enough to beam at Sakusa — who, despite himself, didn’t look away.

“We’ll see,” he said. “I’ll text you.”

“Love youuuu,” Motoya sing-songed.

Sakusa hung up without replying.

For a second, the car was silent except for the hum of traffic and the low thud of Atsumu’s heart still trying to recover.

Then—

“You let him save his call contact as Toya baby?” Atsumu grinned.

Sakusa didn’t answer.

But the faint, defeated flush at the top of his ears said enough.

The week dragged.

Not in a bad way — just long. Full. Between morning gym sessions, drills that left Atsumu aching, and video reviews that had Sakusa scribbling notes like they were sacred texts, the days blurred into each other. They still found pockets of time — quick coffee stops, shared lunches, quiet nights when Sakusa would knock once and let himself into Atsumu’s apartment like it was routine — but by the time Friday rolled around, they were both stretched thin.

Practice ran late. Bokuto had too much energy, Meian kept drilling rotations, and no one — no one — could figure out what the hell Inunaki was trying to mime during a miscommunication drill.

Sakusa left the court like he always did: focused, quiet, towel around his neck, water bottle tucked under one arm.

But this time, he didn’t even make it halfway to his car before he heard the jog of familiar footsteps behind him.

“Oi.” Atsumu’s voice — warm, bright, a little breathless. “Dinner tonight, remember? Want me to drive?”

Sakusa paused, keys halfway out of his pocket. “I said I’d go. I didn’t say I wanted to.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead. “Well, you did say you’d go. Which means you’re stuck with me, babe. So — my car or yours?”

Sakusa glanced at him. Then at the soft red wash of sunset bleeding into the lot. Then, finally, back at Atsumu’s hopeful, flushed face.

“…Yours,” he muttered. “You’ll get there faster.”

Atsumu grinned like he’d just won a prize. “Knew you couldn’t resist my drivin’.”

“I said faster. Not better.”

“I am better.”

“You missed a red light yesterday.”

“It was pink.”

“That’s not a colour traffic lights turn.”

“You’re just jealous.”

Sakusa let out a long-suffering sigh and opened the his door to drive them home. “I’m regretting this already.”

But he wasn’t.

Not really.

Atsumu pulled up to Sakusa’s place five minutes early.

Not because he was nervous — definitely not — but because traffic, and parking, and okay maybe a little bit because he wanted to sit there for a second and mentally prepare. Dinner with Motoya wasn’t scary. Sakusa’s presence wasn’t scary. But the combination?

Mildly terrifying.

So when the front door finally opened, and Sakusa stepped out — hair freshly washed, black button-up tucked into clean slacks, collar slightly askew like he’d rushed to get ready but somehow still looked criminally good — Atsumu’s brain short-circuited for a second.

He leaned halfway out the driver’s side window before he could stop himself.

“Hot damn,” he called, grinning like a menace. “Who dressed ya, Vogue?”

Sakusa’s steps slowed.

He arched a brow, locking the front door with one hand and giving Atsumu a look that landed somewhere between unimpressed and faintly amused. “You’ve seen me in this shirt before.”

“Yeah, well,” Atsumu said, eyes trailing down without shame, “never seen ya in it walkin’ toward me.”

That earned him the smallest twitch of a smile — not a real one, not yet, but close enough to make Atsumu’s chest flutter like he was sixteen again and meeting a crush outside school.

Sakusa opened the door without comment and slid into the passenger seat. “You’re wearing cologne.”

Atsumu clicked his seatbelt in. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m takin’ my boyfriend to dinner.”

Sakusa’s eyes flicked over to him. Just briefly. But something softened in his expression.

“Is it too much?” Atsumu asked, suddenly unsure. “The cologne, I mean.”

“No,” Sakusa said, voice quieter now. “It’s nice.”

Then, after a beat:

“So’s the shirt.”

Atsumu practically beamed. “Knew ya liked this one.”

When they pulled up to Motoya’s place, the porch light was already on — warm and glowing against the slow-falling dusk — and the curtain by the front window twitched way too fast to be casual.

Atsumu squinted as he parked. “Is that—?”

“Don’t,” Sakusa muttered, rubbing his temple like he already regretted everything.

Too late.

Because just as Sakusa stepped out of the car, Motoya pressed his face to the glass like an excited golden retriever and mouthed: I see you flirtingggg.

Atsumu cackled. Cackled.

“Oh my god,” Sakusa hissed, grabbing his sleeve and yanking him toward the door. “Get inside. Now.”

“Babe,” Atsumu grinned, barely moving his feet, “he saw the look you gave me. You’re so down bad.”

“I will leave you here.”

“You’d miss me before I hit the curb.”

The door swung open before Sakusa could respond, and Motoya leaned against the frame, smug as ever. “Look at you two. Don’t you just reek of freshly established coupledom.”

Atsumu snorted.

Sakusa deadpanned, “You’re lucky I came at all.”

“Oh, I know,” Motoya said, ushering them inside like a proud dad. “But come on, I’m delightful. Plus, Kaito brought wine.”

“I’m driving,” Sakusa reminded him, stepping out of his shoes and subtly nudging Atsumu to do the same.

“Good. More for me.”

The house smelled like garlic and soy sauce, and something citrusy. Familiar and loud and lived-in — not as clean as Sakusa’s, not as chaotic as Atsumu’s. Somewhere in the middle.

Atsumu bumped their shoulders as they walked in. “I like your friends,” he whispered.

“You haven’t met Kaito yet.”

“Challenge accepted.”

Dinner was already spread across the table when they stepped into the dining room. Stir fry, rice, dumplings, some weird kale salad Motoya insisted on trying to make once a month — all of it fragrant and steaming, like Motoya had been timing it to perfection.

And there, sitting at the table in a button-up that was just a little too crisp, was Kaito.

He stood when he saw them. “Kiyoomi,” he said with a smile so pleasant it could’ve been pulled from a brochure. “It’s good to see you again.”

Atsumu blinked. The guy looked like someone’s cool older cousin who helped old ladies carry their groceries and donated blood regularly.

Sakusa stared at him for a second too long. “Kaito.”

“You must be Atsumu,” Kaito added, turning toward him with a warm smile and holding out his hand. “I’ve heard so much.”

“Only the good stuff, I hope,” Atsumu grinned, shaking it.

“Depends who you ask,” Motoya mumbled, already reaching for a dumpling.

They sat.

And for the next half-hour, Kaito was delightful.

He asked about training schedules — not in a nosy way, just curious. He talked about his job teaching high school science with enough self-deprecating charm that even Sakusa gave a reluctant snort at one of his stories. He laughed at Atsumu’s dumb jokes. He offered to serve seconds. He even wiped the soy sauce off the table when Motoya spilled it.

He was, in every possible way, a perfect guest.

And Sakusa was visibly seething.

Not dramatically. Just little things. The occasional twitch of his jaw. The deep, pointed inhale when Kaito complimented Atsumu’s laugh. The way he nearly crushed his chopsticks when Motoya said, “Remember when you used to laugh like that, Kiyoomi?”

Atsumu leaned over during dessert and whispered, “Babe. He’s so nice. What is your problem?”

Sakusa didn’t answer right away. Just blinked slowly like he was trying to process being betrayed by the laws of the universe. Then, quietly: “He used to wear socks with sandals and beat me in Uno like it was a personal vendetta.”

Atsumu stared at him. “Uno?”

“I have my reasons.”

Atsumu snorted.

After dessert, just when Sakusa thought the worst had passed, Motoya clapped his hands and said, far too gleefully, “Game time!”

“No,” Sakusa said flatly.

“Yes,” Motoya grinned. “C’mon, it’s tradition. Don’t you wanna relive the trauma, Kiyoomi?”

“I don’t.”

But it was too late. Motoya was already dragging the coffee table into the middle of the lounge and pulling out a battered old cards box that had probably started more fights than it had ever resolved.

Kaito lit up. “Oh man, I love this game. Atsumu, you’re on my team.”

“Oh—sure!” Atsumu said, flashing him a grin.

Sakusa’s hand tightened around his mug.

Motoya raised his brows and said nothing.

Atsumu flopped down on the couch next to Kaito, their knees brushing, and Kaito leaned in a little as they set up the board, explaining the rules like Atsumu hadn’t played this exact game with Sakusa two weeks ago.

Sakusa sat opposite them, silent, watching the way Atsumu nodded along, the way he laughed when Kaito made a dumb pun, the way he grinned with all his teeth when Kaito high-fived him for getting a trivia question right.

It wasn’t even that anything was happening — it was just—

It was Kaito.

Motoya slid into the spot beside Sakusa with a bowl of popcorn and leaned close. “You’re brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“You’re brooding and jealous.”

“I’m not—” Sakusa cut himself off. Gritted his teeth. “I’m not jealous. He’s just… loud.”

“Mmhmm,” Motoya said, popping a kernel in his mouth. “Kaito’s really touchy, huh?”

Sakusa glared at him. Motoya beamed.

Across the table, Kaito bumped Atsumu’s shoulder with his own. “You’re weirdly good at this.”

Atsumu shrugged. “Got fast hands.”

Sakusa’s jaw clicked.

Motoya, now physically vibrating with joy, stage-whispered, “You’re gonna pop a vein, bro.”

“I will drive us into a ditch.”

Atsumu, blissfully unaware, tossed a card down with a dramatic flourish. “Boom, that’s a full set! We win!”

Kaito whooped. Motoya groaned. Sakusa stared at the table like it had personally betrayed him.

Then, as they started packing up, Atsumu looked over at Sakusa — just for a second — and caught the tightness in his eyes. His smile faltered. “Hey,” he said quietly, nudging his foot under the table. “You good?”

Sakusa blinked. Looked at him. And something in his shoulders softened just a little. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Just… tired.”

Motoya gave him a look. The kind that said uh-huh. Sure.

They said their goodbyes with casual waves and half-laughed “thanks for dinner”s, Motoya already halfway through teasing Kaito about his overly competitive streak. But Sakusa’s hand found Atsumu’s wrist before they’d even made it to the car.

A gentle tug. Not rough. Not rushed.

Just intentional.

Atsumu blinked as he turned — “What’s up, Omi?” — but didn’t get any further because Sakusa was already stepping in close, the porch light catching on his lashes, his expression unreadable in that way that meant he was feeling too much and trying to hide it all at once.

And then he kissed him.

No warning. No preamble.

Just hands on either side of Atsumu’s jaw and lips slotting against his like Sakusa had been waiting all night to do it — like the idea of not kissing him now, right now, was unbearable.

Atsumu made a small, startled sound in the back of his throat before melting into it, hands landing on Sakusa’s hips. He smiled against his mouth. “Took ya long enough.”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the kiss said it all — slow and lingering and greedy in that quiet way that made Atsumu’s knees feel stupid. Possessive, but not harsh. Like Sakusa wasn’t trying to mark him.

Just… hold onto him.

When they finally broke apart, Atsumu was flushed, breathless, and grinning like a kid who’d just gotten away with something.

“Jealous much?” he teased, a little smug.

Sakusa rolled his eyes and turned to unlock the car.

“So jealous,” Atsumu whispered behind him, climbing in with a grin that wouldn’t quit.

The moment the door shut, Sakusa reached across the console and laced their fingers together without a word.

Atsumu went quiet — not shocked, not scared. Just… still. Like he knew exactly what the moment meant.

The engine rumbled to life.

And the car pulled out into the street with Sakusa’s hand still holding his.

The car ride home was quiet — but not awkward quiet. Good quiet. The kind that buzzed under the skin and made every passing streetlamp glow a little warmer than usual. Atsumu had his free hand out the window, catching wind like a kid, while their other hands stayed clasped between them on the console. Sakusa’s thumb moved slowly, absentmindedly, over the edge of Atsumu’s knuckle.

Every time Atsumu looked over, Sakusa was already watching.

He didn’t say anything.

Just drove.

The city gave way to the suburbs, and the night settled into something softer, calmer. But beneath that softness, something was brewing — coiling under Sakusa’s skin like a thread pulled too tight.

He parked the car, unbuckled his seatbelt, and stepped out first — unusually fast.

Atsumu followed with a stretch and a yawn. “Ya gonna tell me what that was about back there, or—”

He didn’t finish.

Because the second they reached the front door, Sakusa turned, gripped him by the front of his hoodie, and slammed him back against it — hard enough to steal Atsumu’s breath, but not his grin.

“Omi—” he started, but Sakusa cut him off with a kiss that didn’t ask.

It took.

Messy. Deep. Hungry.

Atsumu gasped into it, fingers tangling in Sakusa’s shirt like instinct. His head hit the door again with a soft thud, and Sakusa crowded him there, body flush to his, all tension and restraint unraveling in one long pull.

“You’re mine,” Sakusa muttered against his mouth, breath hot, voice low.

Atsumu was practically glowing. “Fuck yeah I am.”

Sakusa kissed him again.

Harder.

This time, Atsumu moaned into it, hips canting forward like his body had stopped listening to reason. He barely even noticed when Sakusa’s hand slipped down, unhooked the keys from his belt loop, and unlocked the door behind them without breaking the kiss.

They stumbled inside like they were on fire.

Like they couldn’t wait one more second.

The door slammed shut behind them with a dull thud — Sakusa barely kicked his shoes off before Atsumu dragged him in by the collar, breath ragged, mouth already chasing another kiss like he was starving for it.

They crashed into the hallway wall, teeth knocking, hands roaming — desperate and clumsy and hot enough to burn the air between them.

“You always get like this after board games?” Atsumu panted against his mouth, lips swollen, eyes alight with mischief.

Sakusa’s hand curled tight in the fabric at his waist. “I don’t like sharing.”

Atsumu grinned — all teeth, sharp and bright. “You jealous little freak.”

“Shut up,” Sakusa muttered — then shoved him again, gentler this time, but still with that edge, like he wasn’t quite in control.

They kissed harder. Slower. Like they were trying to make up for every second Sakusa had spent sitting still at dinner, jaw clenched, watching Kaito laugh at every one of Atsumu’s stupid jokes.

Atsumu melted against him, pliant and eager, fingers sneaking under Sakusa’s shirt like he’d forgotten whose apartment they were even in.

Sakusa caught his wrist.

Not to stop him — just to feel him.

“I’m gonna put your socks in alphabetical order if you don’t do something,” Atsumu warned, smiling into his neck now. “Don’t test me, Omi.”

Sakusa snorted, breathless. “You don’t know the alphabet.”

Atsumu gasped. “You bitch.”

Sakusa finally pulled back just enough to look at him — flushed, panting, shirt askew, hair a wreck.

God, he looked perfect.

“Bedroom,” Sakusa said simply.

And Atsumu?

Atsumu bolted like a fucking dog.

Sakusa followed, slow and steady — lips twitching with the kind of grin that hadn’t touched his face in years.

By the time Sakusa made it to the bedroom, Atsumu was already standing at the foot of the bed like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Chest heaving. Eyes bright. Hoodie gone.

Sakusa shut the door behind him — slow, deliberate — and the click echoed like a warning.

Atsumu’s breath hitched.

Sakusa didn’t say anything. Just stalked forward — measured steps, eyes locked on him like he was prey, like the kiss by the door had only lit the fuse.

He didn’t stop until they were chest to chest.

Atsumu swallowed. “You’re bein’ real quiet, Omi.”

Sakusa raised a brow. “Would you prefer a lecture?”

“Kinda prefer when you’re—” A sharp inhale as Sakusa’s hand slid up his side, under his shirt, cold fingers against warm skin. “—fuckin’ me up like this, actually.”

That earned him a look. Dark. Hungry.

“You think it’s funny?” Sakusa murmured, voice low, dangerous.

Atsumu’s grin faltered, breath catching again. “No.”

“You let him touch you.”

“It was a board game—”

“He was looking at you.”

Atsumu’s mouth parted — half to argue, half to breathe — but Sakusa’s fingers slid to his jaw and tilted, forcing him to meet that gaze head-on.

“I don’t like people touching what’s mine.”

Atsumu shuddered.

Then — barely above a whisper — “Then show me.”

And just like that, Sakusa kissed him again.

Harder.

Possessive. Claiming. One hand tangled in Atsumu’s curls, the other braced at his waist like he could carve him into memory with the press of fingers alone.

Atsumu gasped into his mouth — moaned when Sakusa bit at his bottom lip, then soothed it with a slow drag of tongue.

✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°

Clothes came off in messy, uncoordinated pulls — frantic hands dragging fabric up and over, mouths breaking only to pant or curse, eyes locked even as they stumbled across the room.
They didn’t make it to the bed so much as crash into it — all knees and teeth and breathless heat, a blur of skin and noise and not enough.
Atsumu landed first, back hitting the sheets, already flushed, already gasping, already looking up like he’d been waiting for this — for him.
And Sakusa —
Sakusa hovered above him like something strung too tight. His chest was heaving. His hands trembled where they pressed into the mattress on either side of Atsumu’s head.
He’d never felt like this.
Like his blood was lava. Like everything he wanted was laid out beneath him — golden and open and panting his name.

He leaned in, slow but shaking, and pressed a kiss to the side of Atsumu’s throat.
Not soft. Not sweet.
Claiming.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice barely more than breath.

Atsumu arched beneath him, legs shifting, breath catching. “Yeah—fuck, yeah. Yours, Omi.”

Sakusa pulled back, just far enough to meet his eyes — and the truth cracked out of him before he could think better of it.
“And I’m yours,” he said, voice low. Raw. “You know that, right?”

Then Sakusa kissed him again.
Slower this time.
Deeper.

Still fire, still raw need scraping at the back of his throat — but now it was laced with something heavier. Something thick and consuming that tugged at the edges of his control.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim.
Not loud. Not brutal. But complete.

Because no one else got to see Atsumu like this.

No one else got to feel him trembling beneath them, lips parted, fingers unsure of where to land first because he wanted everywhere all at once.
No one else got to taste the whimper he let out into Sakusa’s mouth, or the way his hands roamed — desperate and reverent — over his back and shoulders and down, like he needed to memorize every inch.

And Sakusa let him.
Let himself be touched. Let himself want.
Let himself be wanted.

Atsumu whimpered into the kiss — all open mouth and trembling fingers, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first. His hands skimmed Sakusa’s back, clutched at his shoulders, then slid lower like he needed to map out every inch, needed something to ground him.

“You good?” Sakusa murmured, lips brushing the edge of Atsumu’s jaw.

Atsumu nodded — frantic. “So good. So fuckin’ good.”

He smiled as he kissed his way down to Atsumu’s throat, letting his lips drag there, then lower, then lower still, slow and steady and deliberate, until Atsumu was gasping and shifting under him, hips twitching like he couldn’t stand not being filled.

When Sakusa bit just beneath his collarbone, sharp enough to leave heat — Atsumu arched.
Like he’d been branded.
Like Sakusa’s mouth was the only thing holding him together.

“Sensitive,” Sakusa muttered against his skin, tongue smoothing over the bite like a silent apology — though he didn’t really mean it.
He liked the way Atsumu shivered.
Liked the way he clenched the sheets like restraint.
Liked knowing he was the one doing this, not just to Atsumu, but for him.

“Y-you’re gonna kill me,” Atsumu gasped, voice cracking open, all breath and heat and helplessness.

Sakusa just smiled, low and dark, his mouth already trailing lower.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, lips brushing the dip of Atsumu’s sternum. “You’re way too useful.”

The laugh Atsumu let out was wrecked, strangled, punched out of him and it broke into a moan the second Sakusa’s mouth found his chest.

He licked a stripe across one nipple, slow, deliberate — then circled it again with the flat of his tongue, letting his breath skate hot across the skin before dragging his mouth lower, lower, ever lower.
His hands followed the path his lips made — pressing, exploring, mapping the rise of muscle over ribs, the twitch in Atsumu’s stomach when Sakusa’s teeth grazed the edge of his hip.

It wasn’t rushed.
Wasn’t messy.

It was focused.

Sakusa moved like he was learning a language he’d always wanted to speak but had never been brave enough to try.
And Atsumu—
Atsumu gave in to it completely.

He arched into every touch. Let every moan break free. Let his hands fist the sheets and his legs fall open without hesitation, his breath coming fast and high as Sakusa kissed a line down the center of his stomach — slow and reverent — until he was nestled between his thighs like he’d always belonged there.

“Omi—”

That was all he got out.

Because then Sakusa’s mouth was on him — open, wet, devouring — and Atsumu sobbed.

A real, unguarded, broken sound that tore from his chest like it had no intention of being pretty.
His hips bucked once, sharp and uncontrolled, then trembled and froze — overwhelmed by the heat, the suction, the press of Sakusa’s tongue flattening and curling against him.

Sakusa held him steady — one arm slung tight across his hips to keep him grounded, the other wrapped around his thigh, anchoring him there like he knew exactly what Atsumu needed.
Gentle. Firm.
Unrelenting.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t pause to ask if it was okay.
He knew.

And he wanted.

He worked with his mouth and hands in tandem — fingers firm where they needed to be, mouth hot and wet and relentless.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t drag it out like a performance.
He just gave. Over and over. With focus. With purpose. With something that felt dangerously close to devotion.

And somewhere in the middle of it —
As Atsumu writhed and whimpered and clutched the sheets like a lifeline —
Sakusa realized something strange.

He wasn’t nervous.
Not anymore.

There was no second-guessing.
No panic clawing at his ribs.
No thoughts of what if I mess this up? what if I’m not enough? what if he doesn’t want me like this?

There was only this.
Only Atsumu — spread open, shaking, gasping like Sakusa’s mouth was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
Only the heat and the taste and the impossible rightness of being here, doing this, and feeling like he’d never wanted anything more.

The thought hit him like a jolt — this quiet, stunned how is this me?

And then Atsumu moaned.

A desperate, guttural sound that cracked straight through him.
Sakusa’s eyes snapped back into focus. His grip tightened. His tongue dragged slow and heavy along the underside of Atsumu’s cock and—

“Please—fuck, Omi, I can’t—”

“You can,” Sakusa murmured, voice low and hoarse, barely audible over the slick sounds between them and the frantic hitch of Atsumu’s breath. “You will.”

And he did.

Atsumu came with a cry that shattered the quiet — loud and gasping and so raw it made Sakusa ache.
He didn’t stop. Not until he’d coaxed every last tremor out of him. Not until he’d kissed his thighs and wiped his mouth and tasted him like it meant something.

And then — only then — he crawled up his body and kissed him.

Slow.
Starving.
Letting Atsumu taste himself, letting him moan into his mouth again, softer now, ruined and pliant and his.

“You okay?” Sakusa whispered, lips barely brushing his.

Atsumu nodded, dazed — eyes soft, mouth kiss-bruised.
“I think I love you.”

Sakusa froze.

His breath hitched.
Eyes wide.
Chest locked around something too big, too sudden, too much.

And Atsumu — poor, blissed-out idiot — didn’t even seem to notice.
“I'm fine,” he added a second later, like that hadn’t just dropped between them like a match into dry grass.

Sakusa blinked, but the moment didn’t pass.
It sat there between them, buzzing and bright and true.

By the time his brain caught up, Atsumu was already flat on his back again — legs tangled in the sheets, skin still flushed from the heat of Sakusa’s mouth, breath coming fast and shallow.
His lips were swollen. His chest heaving.
And behind all the haze in his eyes, there was still hunger.
Like he still hadn’t had enough.
Like he might never get enough.

“Didn’t even make it to round two,” Sakusa muttered, voice low and uneven, hand braced beside Atsumu’s head like he needed something to keep him upright.

Atsumu laughed — breathless and smug and totally gone.
“Yer actin’ like that’s a problem.”

He reached up with both hands, dragged them slowly down Sakusa’s back — not grabbing, not greedy, just claiming — and then one slipped between them again, fingers skimming lower.

“Wanna make you feel so good, baby,” he whispered, eyes fluttering half-shut, lashes brushing his cheeks as his fingers dipped further. “Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ week.”

Sakusa swore under his breath — low and sharp — hips twitching like the contact burned.
“Then get on with it,” he rasped.

Atsumu didn’t have to be told twice.

He slid down the bed in one slow, fluid motion — eyes locked on Sakusa like he was already imagining the way he’d break him apart — and settled between his thighs, fingers curling tight around his hips to anchor him in place.

And then his mouth was on him.

Hot. Wet. Starving.

Sakusa shuddered — a full-body tremor that dragged a gasp out of his chest so sharp it almost hurt.
“Fuck—” His voice cracked around the word, one hand flying to Atsumu’s hair, the other twisting in the sheets like it might keep him grounded. “Atsumu—”

Atsumu moaned in response — moaned, deep and wrecked, like he was the one being touched — and the sound vibrated around Sakusa’s cock in a way that made his spine arch off the mattress.

There was nothing tentative in the way Atsumu moved.
No teasing. No restraint.

Just hunger. Possessive and greedy and filthy — like he was trying to ruin Sakusa with his mouth alone.

His hands slid down Sakusa’s thighs, holding him open, holding him still, and the way his tongue worked — slow and slick and maddening — had Sakusa seeing stars.

It was too much. Too good. Too fast.
And Sakusa — new as he was, shaking as he was — couldn’t take it.

His head dropped back, chest heaving, hips jerking uncontrollably. He was close. Too close.

“Stop,” he gasped, voice raw, breath hitched as he tugged lightly at Atsumu’s hair. “Fuck. Stop—”

Atsumu pulled back immediately — eyes wide, lips red and slick and unfair. His chest rose and fell in shallow pants. “Did I—?”

“No,” Sakusa said, too fast, too breathless, voice thick with heat.

He reached down, cupped Atsumu’s jaw with shaking fingers, thumb dragging slow across his swollen bottom lip.

“I want to,” he murmured, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “I want to be the one to fuck you.”

Atsumu blinked — stunned — then let out a sound so filthy, so wrecked, Sakusa felt it in his bones.

“Oh my fucking god,” he moaned, breath catching. “Yes. Yes, baby — fuckin’ please.”

And then Sakusa was on him again — crashing their mouths together, swallowing every gasp, every curse, every broken sound Atsumu gave him like it might steady the wild thrum in his chest.

The kiss wasn’t soft.
It was messy. Desperate. Claiming.
But underneath all that heat, there was something trembling — something fragile.

Because now it was real.
Now it wasn’t just want.

Now it was Atsumu.

And Sakusa didn’t know if he was ready.
Didn’t know if he could do this right.

His hands roamed anyway — eager, unfocused — thumbs pressing into flushed skin like he was trying to memorize it all before it disappeared. He dragged his palms down Atsumu’s chest, across his ribs, mapping the motion of breath and bone with shaking fingers.

Atsumu wrapped around him like instinct — like his body already knew how to hold Sakusa when his mind started spinning.
Legs parted. Hands scrambling. A soft, wordless plea written in the arch of his spine and the reach of his fingers.

“Get on the bed,” Sakusa murmured — voice low and frayed as he nudged Atsumu higher up the mattress.

He was already on it. Already laid out beneath him.
But that wasn’t the point.

Atsumu shifted back anyway — obedient, open, so fucking present — until his shoulders hit the pillows and his thighs fell wide again.
His chest was flushed. His hair a mess. Strands clung to his temples, damp with sweat.

And his eyes—
His eyes were still soft.

Still full of that dazed hunger, like he wanted this. Like he wanted Sakusa.
Even like this.
Even unsure.

And then he smiled.

Lazy. Crooked. Knowing.

Like he already had Sakusa figured out — every stutter in his breath, every quake in his hands — and wasn’t the least bit sorry for it.

“You got lube n’ condoms already?” Atsumu asked, still breathless, still wrecked, voice catching between words. “Kinda forward, don’t ya think?”

Sakusa rolled his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his lips gave him away. “They were in the drawer before you got here.”

Atsumu raised a brow, gaze flicking to the nightstand. “So ya just always ready to be defiled, huh?”

“You’re the one who brought up defiling.”

“Yeah, but I thought I was jokin’.”

Sakusa didn’t laugh.

Because suddenly his heart was pounding again, not from lust, but from something heavier — tighter — a kind of pressure blooming behind his ribs.

He just leaned in and kissed him again — slow, deep, until Atsumu melted into it with a soft, shameless moan. When they broke apart, Atsumu dragged his hands down Sakusa’s sides and exhaled shakily. “You’re gonna be so fuckin’ good at this,” he whispered. “I can tell already.”

And Sakusa’s heart nearly stopped.

He swallowed. Hard.
“And if I’m not?”

Atsumu didn’t flinch.
Didn’t hesitate.

He just reached for the drawer, popped the cap on the lube with one hand, and kept his eyes locked on Sakusa’s like he dared him to look away.

“Then I’ll talk ya through it.”

He pressed the bottle into Sakusa’s palm — warm, slick — and leaned back against the pillows like he’d done this a thousand times.
Like he knew exactly how this was going to go, and had already decided it was going to be perfect.

His knees fell open.
His voice dropped to a husky, wicked whisper.

“Gotta open me up first, baby. Think yer up for it?”

Sakusa’s fingers clenched tighter around the bottle, breath coming fast — not from arousal, not entirely — but from the weight of it. The moment. The knowing. The terrifying, blinding want to get it right.

Then slowly, carefully, he moved.

He knelt between Atsumu’s thighs, palms sweating, heart pounding, and kissed the inside of his leg — first one, then the other. Just to ground himself. Just to feel him.

Atsumu let out a soft gasp and tilted his hips forward in offering, legs falling open without hesitation.

“Go on,” he whispered, voice thick. “S’just me. You can do it, baby. Make me feel good”

Sakusa fumbled the cap open. Poured the lube onto his fingers — more than he probably needed — and warmed it between shaking hands.

Then he looked up.

Atsumu’s eyes were half-lidded, golden and glassy, mouth open around a breathless smile. “Start slow,” he said, voice low but sure. “Touch me — yeah — right there.”

Sakusa’s hand slid between his thighs, and the second his fingers found that spot, Atsumu whined.
High. Desperate. Real.

“Fuck—Omi—yeah,” he gasped, hips twitching. “That’s it.”

Sakusa bit the inside of his cheek to keep from losing it.

His fingers pressed forward, careful, tentative — and Atsumu choked on a moan, legs tensing and falling wider.

“Shit—yes—just like that. Go slow, baby. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good—”

Sakusa’s breath caught. He pushed in a little deeper, curling gently, and felt the way Atsumu’s body clenched and trembled under his hand.

The sound Atsumu let out made his head spin.
“Yeah—fuck—Omi, yer killin’ me—”

Sakusa swallowed hard, eyes fixed on where his fingers were buried, and then up at Atsumu’s face — flushed, wrecked, beautiful.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.

“You won’t,” Atsumu moaned, voice cracking. “You’re bein’ so good—fuck—add another. M’ready. I promise.”

And Sakusa did.

Slower this time. Steadier. His other hand moved to Atsumu’s thigh, rubbing slow circles there — not to tease, just to soothe. To keep him grounded.

Atsumu whimpered, head tipping back. “Holy shit—oh my god—Kiyoomi. Want you so bad, fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long—””

The sound of his name like that — breathless and grateful — did something to him.
Something deep.
Something permanent.

“You okay?” Sakusa asked, voice rough.

“So fuckin’ okay,” Atsumu slurred, hips shifting into the stretch. “Touch me there again—yeah—right fuckin’ there—”

And Sakusa obeyed.

Every time.
Without question.
Like his entire body had been rewired to follow that voice.

The stretch made Atsumu whimper again — soft and high and caught somewhere between need and surprise — but he didn’t pull away. He breathed through it instead, chest rising in stutters, hips tilting forward with an instinctive urgency that made Sakusa’s head spin. He was chasing it — every flick of Sakusa’s fingers, every slow curl and careful press — like they were the only things tethering him to the bed, to the moment, to him.

And then — between gasps, eyes blown wide and skin flushed with heat — Atsumu whispered, “Okay.” His voice was thick, wrecked, raw around the edges. “I’m good. I’m ready.”

Sakusa didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He just stared. Stared down at the way Atsumu looked stretched out beneath him, legs spread, hair a mess across the pillows, lips parted around the breath he hadn’t managed to catch. Stared at the way he looked open — not just physically, but in every way that mattered — like he was offering something sacred, something only Sakusa was allowed to have.

And Sakusa didn’t know how to hold that. Didn’t know how to carry it.

So when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet — soft enough to crack. “You sure?”

Atsumu grinned. It was lopsided, breathless, dizzy with affection, like he couldn’t believe Sakusa was still asking. “Kiyoomi,” he said, still panting. “If you don’t fuck me in the next sixty seconds, I might actually die.”

The sound Sakusa made in response wasn’t pretty — a low, unfiltered groan punched straight from his chest as he grabbed for the condom with hands that didn’t feel like they belonged to him.

He rolled it on with trembling fingers, trying to stay calm, trying not to fall apart too soon, but the way Atsumu looked at him — soft and ruined and so clearly ready to be taken — made it nearly impossible to keep his composure.

“C’mere,” Atsumu murmured, dragging Sakusa down into another kiss, his arms looped around his neck like he didn’t plan to let go. “Let me feel you.”

Their bodies slotted together like they’d done it a thousand times — like this wasn’t the first time, but something inevitable, something that had always been waiting to happen.

Sakusa hovered above him, one hand braced beside his head, the other sliding down to guide himself into place. He could feel the heat of him, the slick pressure, the way Atsumu’s thighs tensed and parted in invitation — and still, he paused. Just for a second.

Just long enough for his breath to stutter and his chest to tighten.

Just long enough for Atsumu to see the panic bloom behind his eyes.

And of course, Atsumu saw it. He always did.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, gentle but sure, fingers threading through Sakusa’s curls with all the care in the world. “I got you. Just go slow.”

And Sakusa did.

The first push in made them both gasp — sharp, unfiltered sounds ripped from their chests like neither of them had been prepared for how intimate it would be, how much it would feel like crossing a line they could never come back from.

Atsumu’s hips arched immediately, involuntary and desperate, while Sakusa’s hand — the one gripping his thigh — trembled so hard it nearly slipped.

“F-fuck,” Atsumu groaned, eyes fluttering shut, lashes brushing flushed cheeks. “Omi…”

Sakusa leaned down without thinking, pressing kisses along the line of his jaw, down his neck, across the space between his collarbones — anywhere he could reach, anywhere his mouth could land — because it was the only thing keeping him steady, the only way he could keep moving without collapsing under the weight of what he was feeling.

He eased in inch by inch, slow and reverent, his breath catching with every shift, every pull of tight heat around him. He could feel Atsumu trembling, could hear the soft, broken moans in his ear — and then the voice, low and wrecked and so fucking gentle:

“You’re doing so good,” Atsumu whispered. “Fuck, just like that. Just like that, baby.”

And somehow, those words were enough to keep Sakusa grounded.
Enough to keep him breathing.

Because when he was finally all the way in — fully seated, hips pressed flush, chest tight against Atsumu’s — the air left his lungs like it had been stolen.

It was too much. Too good.
Too hot, too tight, too perfect.

For a second, he didn’t move at all.

Just stayed there — buried inside Atsumu, every muscle locked — trying to hold on to this moment like it might vanish if he blinked.

“You okay?” Atsumu murmured, voice breathless but steady, fingers curling against Sakusa’s back like he already knew the answer.

Sakusa nodded once, sharp and small, jaw tight with restraint. “Yeah,” he rasped. “You?”

Atsumu grinned — lazy and wrecked and utterly beautiful. “Better than okay.”

Then he rolled his hips, slow and deliberate. “Move, baby.”

Sakusa did.

The first thrust was careful. Gentle. Measured in a way that felt like worship — not just desire, but something sacred, something bigger than them both.

It was enough to punch a moan from Atsumu’s throat, raw and needy and so damn honest it made Sakusa shudder.

“Shit, Omi — yes. Just like that—”

Sakusa found a rhythm — slow and deep, hips rolling with more control than he thought he had left — and Atsumu matched him effortlessly, legs wrapping around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders like he was anchoring them both.

It wasn’t rough — not at first.

Every movement was deliberate, every thrust slow and reverent, like Sakusa was still afraid to break something between them, like he didn’t quite trust the moment wouldn’t shatter if he pushed too hard or moved too fast. It was careful. Loving. Drenched in the kind of intimacy that made Atsumu cling harder, press closer, breathe out broken praise with every stroke.

But it didn’t stay that way.

Because the longer they moved together — skin slick with sweat, lips brushing between gasps, hands scrambling for something to hold — the harder it became to keep it soft. The heat between them grew, thick and cloying, and with it came a desperation that neither of them could contain.

Sakusa’s rhythm started to shift — deeper, harder, faster — hips snapping forward with a need he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling, breath tearing out of his chest in uneven pants as his control began to unravel.

Atsumu met every thrust with his own, thighs shaking, nails digging into Sakusa’s shoulders, his voice reduced to a litany of wrecked, pleading noises — half-moan, half-prayer — urging him on with every broken whisper of more, don’t stop, fuck, just like that.

Their bodies moved like they’d been built for this — for the sweat between them, for the way their skin stuck and slid, for the frantic sound of flesh meeting flesh and the sharp, helpless cries it dragged from both of their throats.

It was heat and friction and the dizzying rush of too much too fast, of finally, of yes, this, please, now, and when Sakusa buried his face in the crook of Atsumu’s neck — mouth open, breath ragged — it was the only way he could keep himself from falling apart entirely.

What had started as worship had become want.
And what had started as control had turned into need.

Desperate. Raw. Consuming.

And neither of them wanted to be saved from it.

Sakusa leaned down to kiss him — deep and messy, mouths sliding together with no space for air, only need, only heat — and Atsumu took it like he was starving, whining into the kiss like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the bed.

And even then, he couldn’t hold it in.

“Fuck,” Atsumu gasped, breaking away just enough to pant against Sakusa’s cheek, lips brushing skin with every breathless word. “I’m close—Omi—please, touch me—need it—”

Sakusa didn’t hesitate.

His hand slipped between them, fingers curling around Atsumu’s cock, stroking in time with the rhythm he’d built into both of them — hard and steady now, driven by instinct and the sound of Atsumu falling apart beneath him.

The reaction was immediate.

Atsumu arched like he’d been hit with lightning, head thrown back, body bowing off the bed as a cry ripped from his throat — not pretty, not controlled, just pure feeling, pure release, like it was being dragged from somewhere deep and tender inside him.

Sakusa groaned — couldn’t help it — his hips stuttering as the sound hit him like a punch to the gut.

“God,” he breathed, broken and reverent. “Atsumu—”

“Gonna come—fuck—please—” Atsumu’s voice cracked on every word, his hands clutching Sakusa’s shoulders like he might fall to pieces if he let go. “Please—Omi—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

Sakusa leaned in closer, wrapped his arms around him tighter, and whispered against his mouth like it was a promise.
“Let go. I’ve got you.”

And Atsumu did.

His orgasm hit hard — a full-body tremor that stole the air from his lungs, had him gasping and twitching and spilling hot between them, thighs trembling violently where they locked around Sakusa’s waist.

Sakusa barely held it together.

The sight of him like that — flushed and wrecked and so fucking beautiful — burned itself into Sakusa’s mind in perfect clarity, and when he finally gave in, when his own orgasm hit like a wave breaking against the shore, he buried himself as deep as he could go and let the sound tear out of him.

It wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t planned.

It was raw.
It was honest.
It was everything.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Just breath.
Just warmth.
Just the heavy press of their bodies, still locked together, trembling in the aftermath of something that felt almost too big to name.

Sakusa slumped forward, forehead resting against Atsumu’s collarbone, and felt the weight of it settle in his bones — like he’d just survived something sacred. Something that would never leave him.

Atsumu’s hands found his back, stroked lazily in soft, grounding sweeps, and his legs stayed wrapped around Sakusa like he didn’t plan to let him go.

“You good?” he murmured, voice hoarse and lazy and ruined.

Sakusa exhaled — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob, just sound. “Yeah,” he whispered, eyes closed. “You?”

“Fuckin’ phenomenal,” Atsumu said with a grin he couldn’t see but could feel.

They didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

Just stayed there, sticky and spent and tangled in each other, until the sweat dried on their skin and the air cooled around them.

Eventually, Sakusa lifted his head, eyes finding Atsumu’s face in the low light — flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, golden lashes fanned out on soft skin — and whatever he was going to say fell short.

“You’re…” he tried, voice thick.

“I know,” Atsumu said, grinning up at him like he already had the answer. “Amazing.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.
Didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°

They stayed there for a while — skin sticking to skin, breaths slowing in tandem, bodies tangled like they were afraid to pull apart and wake from it. The sheets were damp beneath them. The room was thick with heat and the fading scent of sweat and sex and skin.

Sakusa pressed a slow kiss to Atsumu’s shoulder. Then another, just beneath his ear. Atsumu hummed, all boneless and sated, legs still curled around him like he didn’t want him to go anywhere. He tilted his face toward the next kiss, smiling lazily when their noses brushed.

“Y’know I ain’t movin’,” he mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion and satisfaction. “Not unless you carry me.”

Sakusa snorted against his neck. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hot, though,” Atsumu added, eyes still closed, clearly already half-asleep again. “Admit it.”

“You’re sweaty.”

“You liked me sweaty.”

Sakusa didn’t argue. He just kissed him again — soft and unhurried — then nudged his thigh gently aside as he rolled out of bed. The moment his feet hit the floor, Atsumu groaned like something had been stolen from him.

“Where you goin’?” he whined.

“To stop us from sticking to the sheets for the rest of the night.”

Atsumu cracked one eye open. “Shower?”

“Obviously.”

There was no invitation.
Didn’t need to be.

Atsumu stretched like a cat — long and slow — then stumbled after him on unsteady legs, muttering something about not being responsible for any injuries sustained along the way.

Sakusa just rolled his eyes and caught his hand without looking.

The water was warm. Not scalding — Sakusa didn’t like scalding — but enough to fog the mirror and lull their overworked muscles into a kind of gentle hum. Atsumu stood under the stream with his eyes closed, swaying just slightly, like he might fall asleep right there.

Sakusa rolled his eyes and tugged him back by the waist. “You’ll drown like that.”

Atsumu hummed. “Worth it.”

He didn’t resist, though — just let Sakusa shift him around so he could rinse the shampoo from his curls. Sakusa’s fingers were careful, methodical, massaging gently as he worked the lather through. Atsumu made a sound that could only be described as a purr.

“Yer spoilin’ me.”

Sakusa rinsed the suds without answering.

They traded places after that, moving in sync like they’d done it before — like this wasn’t the first time they’d shared something so intimate and unspoken. Sakusa handed him the body wash without being asked. Atsumu scrubbed his back without a word. Neither of them rushed.

Once they were dry — towels wrapped low on their hips, skin still flushed from the heat — Sakusa handed Atsumu a folded bundle of clothes.

Trackies. A hoodie. Socks that didn’t match, but were warm.

“You just had these ready?” Atsumu teased, pulling on the jumper. “You plannin’ for sleepovers now?”

Sakusa didn’t rise to the bait. “I like clean clothes.”

Atsumu grinned and tugged the hoodie over his head. “You like me, too.”

“Don’t push it.”

They changed the sheets together, quiet and easy. Atsumu cracked a window, Sakusa smoothed the corners. They threw the old ones in a laundry basket, and when Sakusa came back into the room, Atsumu was already in bed — curled up on his side, hair damp and pillow-soft.

Sakusa slid in behind him, the mattress dipping under his weight. He hesitated for a second — then wrapped an arm around Atsumu’s waist, pulling him close.

Atsumu sighed like it was the best thing that had happened all day.

“You good?” he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Sakusa nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Atsumu turned in his arms — not enough to ruin the hold, just enough to see him.

He leaned in.

Pressed a kiss to Sakusa’s mouth. Then another. And another. Slow, sleepy, open-mouthed little kisses that made Sakusa melt like butter on toast.

“Night, baby,” Atsumu mumbled into his mouth.

Sakusa pressed their foreheads together, eyes slipping shut.

“Night.”

The sheets rustled. The heater clicked softly in the next room.

And for the first time in a long, long time — Sakusa slept like he had nothing to fear.

The morning crept in soft and gold.

Atsumu stirred first — as always — stretching like a cat under the sheets and blinking blearily at the sliver of light cutting across the bed. He turned his head. Sakusa was still asleep, curled toward him, face half-hidden in the pillow.

He looked… peaceful.

Which was why Atsumu didn’t say anything. Not at first.

Just watched.

Let himself have that moment — that quiet, holy shit this is real kind of moment — before gently untangling himself and rolling out of bed with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Fifteen minutes later, Sakusa found him in the kitchen, hair wild, jumper halfway on, and one sock missing.

“You look feral,” Sakusa said flatly.

“I feel feral,” Atsumu yawned, tossing a set of car keys from one hand to the other. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Coffee.”

Sakusa blinked. “I have coffee here.”

“Yeah, but post-dickin’ coffee hits different,” Atsumu said, like that explained everything. “You know, a reward for bein’ a very good boy.”

Sakusa stared at him.

Atsumu grinned. “A very good boy.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”

“Then lend me a hoodie, princess.”

Sakusa exhaled like he was being punished. “I swear to god.”

They ended up in the car five minutes later, Sakusa’s oversized hoodie swallowed Atsumu whole, and his bare legs stuck out from a pair of misaligned trackpants that didn’t belong to him either.

At the drive-thru, Atsumu did the ordering. Naturally.

“One large oat latte, no sugar, extra hot,” he rattled off, then turned with a grin, “and one dirty chai for my boyfriend. The dirtiest ya got.”

The barista blinked. Then laughed. Sakusa looked like he wanted to die.

When the tray came through the window, Atsumu accepted it with both hands and whispered, “thanks for enabling my crimes.”

Sakusa took his cup without a word.

But later — when they were parked by the beach, coffees in hand and wind slipping through the cracked windows — he glanced over at Atsumu, hoodie strings tangled and cheeks pink from the cold, and said quietly:

“…Thanks for the coffee.”

Atsumu beamed. “Anytime, baby.”

The grocery run had started simple.

Atsumu had complained about the lack of food in Sakusa’s house. Cue some offhanded vampire joke.

Easy fix. Get coffee. Get breakfast supplies. Maybe some cleaning stuff. That was it.

But somewhere between the fruit aisle and the frozen section, Atsumu had convinced Sakusa to split up and race to get everything they needed — because “teamwork, baby! make it a game!” — and now Sakusa was standing in front of the rice shelf, judging the hell out of Atsumu’s shopping choices.

“You got the wrong soy sauce,” he said, holding up the bottle like it had personally offended him.

Atsumu squinted at it. “It’s literally soy sauce.”

“It’s low sodium.”

“And?”

“It tastes different.”

Atsumu groaned, dramatically lifting a hand to his forehead. “Can ya hear yerself right now?”

Sakusa didn’t dignify that with a response. He swapped the bottle out and kept walking.

Atsumu trailed after him like a very annoying duckling. “Can I get the cocoa puffs?”

“No.”

“The rainbow ones?”

“Absolutely not.”

Atsumu huffed. “Yer no fun.”

“I’m not here to be fun. I’m here to survive.”

That’s when they turned the corner.

And walked straight into Bokuto and Akaashi.

“Omi!” Bokuto shouted, like they weren’t three feet apart. “And Atsumu?!”

Sakusa sighed. Atsumu straightened up, suddenly extremely aware of the giant hoodie he was wearing. “Hey, Bo.”

Bokuto’s cart was full of chaos. Four types of protein bars. Bananas. A watermelon. Two different types of milk. He was holding a box of cookies in each hand, visibly torn between them.

“Which one should I get?” he asked.

“Why not both?” Atsumu grinned.

“YES!” Bokuto declared, tossing both into the cart like a man possessed. “I knew I could count on you!”

Akaashi, quiet beside him, offered a smile that was much more subdued — and much more knowing.

“Morning,” he said, nodding politely. His eyes flicked between them. “Looks like you two are… enjoying the morning off.”

Sakusa’s expression didn’t change. Atsumu cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” he said. “Tryin’ to stock up before we starve to death. He won’t let me buy anything good.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes.

Bokuto was already distracted, now bouncing slightly in place. “Post-game drinks tonight? We have to go. We win, we celebrate. We lose, we still drink.”

“Sounds healthy,” Akaashi said dryly.

Atsumu laughed. “Maybe. We’ll see how Omi’s feelin’ after the match.”

Bokuto was already pointing toward the frozen pizza aisle like it was holy ground. “I’ll text you!”

And then he was gone, cart wheeling ahead with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

Akaashi followed with a nod — but just before turning, he glanced at Sakusa again. Not judging. Just watching.

“I like the matching jumpers,” he said.

And then he was gone, too.

Atsumu turned to Sakusa, half-flushed. “They noticed.”

“They didn’t say anything.”

“They noticed.”

Sakusa didn’t reply.

But as they moved into the checkout line, he let his hand brush Atsumu’s. Didn’t pull away.

The stadium was already humming with energy by the time they arrived — low thuds of music from the speakers, the rumble of an early crowd, the scent of sweat and freshly waxed floors thick in the air.

They walked in side by side, both dressed in their warmup gear, duffel bags slung over shoulders, chatter from the rest of the team echoing ahead of them.

But by the time they reached the locker room, the air between them shifted — just slightly.

Atsumu knew the drill.

“Gonna unpack,” he said, voice low, tapping Sakusa’s hip with two fingers before turning toward his usual spot on the other side of the room.

Sakusa gave a single nod. Already zoning in.

His locker was pristine. Lined up the way he left it — folded towels, unopened bottles, his uniform hanging straight with no creases.

He moved through the motions without rushing. Shoes off. Shirt swapped. He laid everything out carefully: socks, kneepads, jersey. Water bottle to the left. Towel draped over the bench. Each item a piece of the puzzle, a ritual that grounded him.

Behind him, the rest of the team joked and bickered. Someone was blasting music too loud, and Bokuto had already started a push-up competition with Tomas. But it was all distant. Blurred.

Only when Sakusa turned to close his bag did he notice Atsumu again — across the room, laughing at something Hinata had said, hands mid-gesture, hair bouncing as he unpacked his own things.

For a second — just one — Sakusa let himself watch.

The sound faded. The locker room fell away.

And all he could see was him.

Atsumu caught his eye. His smile didn’t falter.

He didn’t say anything. Just held Sakusa’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary — a silent promise. You’ve got this. I’m right here.

Then he turned back to his locker like nothing had happened.

And Sakusa breathed. Steadier, sharper.

The match hadn’t even started yet.

But already, he felt like he’d won something.

The team walked through the tunnel together — shoulder to shoulder, each step echoing through concrete and adrenaline. Lights blazed at the end of the corridor, the court opening up ahead like a stage. Cheers rolled in waves from the stands. Familiar. Loud. Alive.

Sakusa moved in step with Atsumu, hands flexing at his sides.

The second his foot hit the polished floor, his head snapped up — just like it always did.

Scan the court. The sideline. The first few rows.

His breath caught.

Third row, centre section. Two seats in from the aisle.

His mother. Poised. Perfect posture. A soft cream coat folded over her lap. His father beside her, arms crossed, eyes already locked on the court.

Sakusa stopped mid-step.

Atsumu glanced back immediately. “Omi?”

Sakusa blinked. The moment snapped.

“I’m fine,” he said — and kept walking.

They went through the motions. Jogged across the court. Swapped high fives. Huddled briefly near the net. But his mind wasn’t in it — not fully. Every movement felt off, a half-second behind where he should be. His vision drifted upward more than once.

Warmup balls thudded against the floor. Coaches called instructions. Hinata shouted something and Bokuto whooped in response. But Sakusa just stood, hands on hips, eyes flicking to the third row again.

Atsumu appeared beside him. Quiet. Subtle.

He didn’t touch him — just leaned close enough that only Sakusa could hear.

“You okay?”

Sakusa didn’t look at him. “They’re here.”

Atsumu paused. Then followed his gaze — spotted them almost instantly.

A beat passed.

Then Atsumu murmured, calm and low: “Okay. S’okay. Just focus on the game, baby.”

Sakusa’s breath was tight in his chest.

“We’re just teammates right now,” Atsumu added, voice steady. “Nothin’ else matters. Not them. Not any of it. Just me n’ you on court. That’s all.”

Sakusa turned. Met his eyes.

And the world quieted.

Not completely — not like it used to. But just enough.

He gave the barest of nods.

Atsumu didn’t say anything else — just bumped their shoulders lightly before jogging off to set up for the next drill.

And Sakusa — exhaling slow — followed.

They were seated at the far end of the bench, side by side, waiting for warmups to finish and the match to start. The stadium lights buzzed faintly above them, the crowd a low murmur of anticipation — like the city was holding its breath.

Sakusa was hunched forward, forearms resting on his thighs, towel looped around his neck. He hadn’t looked at the third row again. Not once. Not since Atsumu had spoken.

Still — the tension lingered in his spine. Like it was bracing for something.

Atsumu nudged him, just enough to get his attention.

Sakusa glanced sideways.

“You good?” Atsumu asked, keeping his voice low. Private. “You can be honest.”

Sakusa didn’t answer right away.

Then, quieter: “Getting there.”

Atsumu nodded once. “I meant what I said. We’re just teammates tonight. I won’t touch ya. Won’t even look at ya like I wanna kiss ya stupid.”

Sakusa huffed — the closest he got to a laugh.

“But if we win,” Atsumu added, tone shifting ever so slightly — light, teasing, playful — “I’m callin’ first dibs on a locker room makeout. That’s non-negotiable.”

Sakusa turned his head. Finally looked at him.

Atsumu was grinning, sure, but not like a clown. It was softer — like he was giving Sakusa something to hold onto. A reason to push through the next few hours.

Sakusa’s mouth twitched. He didn’t say anything.

But his knee pressed lightly against Atsumu’s.

And that was answer enough.

Meian’s whistle blew from across the court.

“Let’s go!” Bokuto shouted, practically vibrating.

Atsumu stood first, bumping Sakusa’s shoulder again — this time deliberately. “Game time, baby.”

Sakusa stood too.

And when he walked onto the court, he wasn’t alone in his head anymore.

The final set was neck and neck.

Twenty-two to twenty-one — Raijins’ lead.

The tension was thick enough to bite through. Sweat-slicked skin, aching legs, the roar of the home crowd threatening to split the rafters.

And Atsumu?

Atsumu was in his element.

“You gonna cry, Suna?” he goaded across the net, just loud enough for the middle blocker to hear as they rotated into position. “Yer spiking’s so predictable, even Bokuto figured it out.”

Suna didn’t flinch. Barely blinked. “You’re talkin’ a lot for someone one point down.”

Atsumu grinned — sharp and unrepentant. “Yeah? Well, I’m still prettier.”

Across the net, Motoya barked a laugh. Not loud — but clear. Directed.

Sakusa’s eyes flicked to him on instinct.

Motoya just grinned wider, adjusted his elbow pad like it was the most natural thing in the world, and mouthed, behave.

Sakusa rolled his eyes.

Then the whistle blew — and everything snapped into place.

Atsumu was locked in. Faster than lightning. Each set smooth and calculated, hands moving like second nature. He baited the block, faked a dump, sent a perfect back set to Bokuto who slammed it down crosscourt — twenty-two all.

The crowd roared.

On the Raijins’ side, Suna shook his head. Motoya just shot Sakusa a look like: You’re really gonna kiss that guy later?

Sakusa pretended not to see it. Pretended not to feel that little flicker of heat bloom in his chest.

They rotated again. Another serve. Another rally.

Then: match point. MSBY up by one.

Atsumu crouched low behind the line, waiting to serve, tongue caught between his teeth. He looked calm — but Sakusa could see the twitch in his jaw, the twitch in his fingers.

He was dying to look over. Check. Reach.

But he didn’t.

Just tossed the ball, snapped through the serve — and sent it sailing clean over the net, barely skimming the tape.

The Raijins scrambled. Motoya got a hand under it. Popped it up, straight to Suna

And Sakusa was already there.

Block solid. Eyes sharp.

He didn’t even blink when the ball hit his arms and dropped to the court.

Game.

MSBY erupted.

And Sakusa?

Sakusa turned to find Atsumu already halfway across the court — sprinting straight for him, eyes bright, grin feral.

“You fuckin’ weapon,” Atsumu shouted, launching himself forward — only to pull up short at the last second, gaze flicking instinctively toward the third row.

Sakusa didn’t look.

He just reached out — hand curling around Atsumu’s wrist — and pulled him in as the rest of the team crowded them in a hug.

No kiss. No theatrics.

Just that touch.

Grounding.

Real.

His.

The locker room was bedlam.

Bokuto had somehow found a water bottle to shake like champagne and was currently soaking everything in a ten-foot radius. Hinata was hanging off his back, yelling something about his assist count. Tomas had his shirt off and was flexing to the mirror while Inunaki heckled him from a bench with a towel over his head like a gremlin king.

And through it all — Sakusa sat at his locker, unbothered.

He peeled off his kneepads with slow precision. Wiped down each finger with a sanitising wipe. Laid his towel over the bench with the same clinical care he always did.

Only… this time?

There was a twitch to the corner of his mouth. Barely there. The kind of smile someone had to be watching for to catch.

Someone like Atsumu — who was across the room, still holding a towel around his waist and trying to fend off Hinata’s attempts to interview him with a deodorant can.

Their eyes met briefly over the chaos.

Atsumu winked.

Sakusa looked away, but the smile stuck — a little more honest now.

“Oi, Omi,” Bokuto called, dragging a jersey over his head as he passed. “You absolutely crushed it, man.”

“Thank you,” Sakusa said, tone dry — but not sharp.

Inunaki whistled from the corner. “That almost sounded like enthusiasm.”

“Don’t push it,” Sakusa said — but his hands were steady, his routine unbroken, and his posture loose in a way that wasn’t typical.

He glanced up again, just once.

Atsumu was watching.

This time, Sakusa didn’t look away.

Chapter Text

They left the stadium side by side, the air outside sharp with night chill and the hum of leftover adrenaline still buzzing under their skin. Atsumu was practically vibrating, one hand slapping Sakusa’s shoulder every few steps as he recounted a particularly nasty feint he’d pulled on Suna.

“—and then he actually bit his tongue,” Atsumu laughed, eyes scrunched, teeth flashing. “Swear I heard it. Heard it, Omi, like—”

He stopped short.

So did Sakusa.

Because standing just ahead of them — tucked to the side of the main path where the last of the crowd was thinning — were two people Sakusa knew better than he wanted to.

His mother, immaculate in a pressed coat and leather gloves. His father, tall and stiff-backed, hands folded in front of him like a headmaster waiting for a student to arrive late.

“Congratulations,” his mother said, voice clipped but not unkind. “That was an impressive final set.”

His father nodded. “You held the back court well. Your positioning’s improved.”

Sakusa blinked. “Thank you.”

It was automatic.

Beside him, Atsumu stood tall. Quiet. And then — like he felt the shift in temperature as acutely as Sakusa did — he smiled tightly and took a small step back.

“I’m gonna give you guys a minute,” he said, already beginning to move. “Gotta grab somethin’ from inside anyway.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just offered Sakusa a quick glance — unreadable, but gentle — and turned on his heel, shoulders set.

Sakusa’s stomach twisted.

His parents didn’t watch Atsumu go.

Didn’t even seem to register him as anything but background noise.

Sakusa stood still.

He hadn’t moved since Atsumu walked away. Not even a twitch.

His mother gave a faint smile, tilting her head like she was examining him under soft museum lighting. “Kana said you two weren’t seeing each other anymore.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny.

His mother’s smile tightened — just at the corners. “A shame. She said you’d been distracted. That perhaps you were too focused on work to prioritise something serious.”

“She’s not wrong,” Sakusa said calmly.

His father’s eyebrows drew together, but he said nothing. Always letting her take the lead.

“Well,” she sighed, folding her gloves in her hands. “We’re disappointed, of course. But not surprised. She wasn’t quite right for you anyway.” Another pause, deliberate. “There’s someone else I’d like you to meet. A family friend’s daughter. Lovely girl. Very kind.”

“I’m not interested.”

The refusal landed gently — barely a ripple in the air — but his mother’s expression faltered for a beat.

Then: “You can’t keep delaying this forever, Kiyoomi. You’re twenty-five. You need to settle down eventually.”

“I will.”

“When?”

He didn’t answer.

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly — not with malice, but with that crisp, icy edge she’d perfected over years of quiet control. “You don’t want to wake up one day and realise you missed your chance at a proper life.”

Sakusa’s jaw tensed.

But still — still — he said nothing.

Sakusa didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He could feel it though — the way the words tightened around his ribs, buried themselves deep in the softest parts of him. A proper life. As if what he had — what he was building — was something else. Something shameful. Something temporary.

His mother took his silence as permission to continue.

“We’re not rushing you, darling,” she said, folding her hands together like she was praying. “But there are expectations. You understand that, don’t you?”

And then—

“Hey Auntie!”

Motoya’s voice rang out like a goddamn siren. Bright, bold, impossible to ignore.

Sakusa turned toward it like someone coming up for air.

Motoya was striding across the car park, still in his Raijin tracksuit, cheeks pink from exertion and eyes twinkling with mischief, not malice — never malice.

His mother turned, visibly startled, and pasted on a smile so polished it might’ve cracked under pressure. “Motoya. How nice to see you.”

“You too,” Motoya grinned, unfazed, sliding an arm around Sakusa’s shoulders like he’d done it a thousand times before. “God, Kiyo killed it out there tonight, huh? Honestly, the whole stadium was cheering.”

He clapped Sakusa on the back hard enough to jolt him forward a step, then turned back to his parents like he hadn’t just inserted himself into a slow-burning interrogation.

“Was just grabbing him for media stuff,” he added casually. “We’re doing a behind-the-scenes feature for the team’s socials — and they specifically asked for the fan favourite. So, y’know. Gotta give the people what they want.”

Sakusa’s mother blinked. “Oh?”

“Yup!” Motoya chirped, already steering Sakusa away by the shoulders. “We’ll let you know when it airs, ‘kay? Always so lovely seeing you both.”

And with that, he whisked Sakusa away, all but dragging him around the corner of the building and out of sight.

They didn’t stop until the concrete swallowed the sound of his mother’s heels.

Then Motoya let go — gently this time — and turned to him with a crooked grin. “You good?”

Sakusa exhaled slowly. “I am now.”

They didn’t rush. The concrete path was cool under their sneakers, the hum of stadium lights fading behind them as the quiet of the night settled in. Sakusa’s breath evened out with each step, tension bleeding slowly from his shoulders.

Motoya didn’t say anything at first. Just walked beside him, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, gaze flicking up to the sky like he was checking for rain.

Eventually:

“You wanna talk about it?”

Sakusa kept walking. “Not really.”

“Cool. You wanna not talk about it while I complain about how Suna spiked directly at my face three times?”

That earned a faint huff. Almost a laugh. “He does that when he’s cranky.”

“Yeah? Well, he’s been cranky for three damn seasons,” Motoya muttered. “My face deserves hazard pay.”

Silence again. This time, easier.

They rounded the corner toward the back entrance. Sakusa slowed slightly.

Then — quiet, almost too quiet:

“She said I need to settle down. That I owe them a proper life.”

Motoya’s jaw tightened, just a flicker. He didn’t stop walking, didn’t push — just nudged Sakusa lightly with his elbow.

“And what,” he said, voice low but even, “you think you don’t count as proper?”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Motoya looked over. “Because I hate to break it to you, Kiyo, but what I saw tonight? That shit was real. You were glowing. I almost threw up.”

That did make Sakusa laugh — a soft, surprised sound.

“And if they can’t see that?” Motoya added, holding the door open for him. “That’s not on you.”

Sakusa paused in the doorway, eyes catching on the hallway ahead — the muffled noise of teammates and staff, the lingering echo of the game still alive in the air.

He looked back at Motoya.

“Thanks,” he said. Quiet. Honest.

Motoya just clapped him on the shoulder again. “Always, man. Now go find your boyfriend before he starts a food fight in the locker room or something.”

They weren’t hard to find.

Just around the corner from the locker room exit, tucked into one of the side lounges where players could wait for family and friends, Atsumu sat slouched sideways on a padded bench like he owned the place — legs spread, hair still slightly damp, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. Osamu was beside him, arms crossed and pretending not to listen as Atsumu retold something with too much flair. Suna lounged opposite them, head tilted back against the wall, wearing the same unimpressed expression he always did — but his eyes were sharp, tracking every word.

Sakusa stopped just before the archway, taking them in.

Atsumu’s hands moved when he talked — gesturing wildly, like the dramatics would help his point land better. His knee bounced, and his voice carried just enough that Sakusa could catch the end of his sentence:

“—and then he kissed me like I was dinner, dessert and a fuckin’ protein shake—”

Osamu groaned. “I didn’t need to hear that.”

“I was dessert,” Atsumu insisted, grinning. “And yer just jealous, ‘Samu—”

“You’re disgusting,” Suna muttered, not looking up.

“I’m in love,” Atsumu corrected, smug as anything.

Sakusa cleared his throat.

Three heads snapped toward him.

Atsumu’s whole face lit up. “Omi!”

He scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly tripped over his gym bag. Suna raised an eyebrow. Osamu rolled his eyes. Sakusa stepped forward anyway.

“You ready to go?” he asked, voice quieter than usual — not unsure, just… private.

“Yeah,” Atsumu said, already grabbing his things. “You talk to Motoya?”

Sakusa nodded.

Atsumu’s grin softened a little. “You okay?”

“I am now.”

It wasn’t for anyone else. But Atsumu heard it. Understood.

And when Sakusa reached for the gym bag he’d left on the floor earlier, Atsumu grabbed it before he could. “I got it.”

Sakusa let him.

Suna smirked. “You two are disgusting.”

“Good,” Atsumu called over his shoulder. “Choke on it.”

Osamu waved them off. “Don’t forget we’re all carpooling tomorrow, lover boy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Sakusa didn’t say anything — just walked beside him, quiet again. But not in a bad way.

The night still held a weight, but it was lighter now. Bearable. Shared.

Sakusa stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and curling at the ends from the steam. The house was warm — not just from the hot water but from the familiar hum of the heater and the faint sound of music coming from the bedroom where Atsumu was sprawled out across the bed, half-dressed and fully relaxed.

He looked up when Sakusa walked in.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Atsumu grinned, propping himself up on one elbow. “You smell like citrus.”

“I always smell like citrus,” Sakusa said flatly, reaching for the moisturiser on the dresser.

“And yet it still gets me every time.”

Sakusa gave him a side-eye, but it lacked heat. His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

Atsumu rolled onto his back, arms flopped over his head. “So. You ready for tonight?”

Sakusa paused mid-routine. “We’re actually going?”

“You promised,” Atsumu sing-songed. “And I wanna show off my boyfriend.”

Sakusa didn’t answer, but the faint pink climbing his neck betrayed him. He tugged on a clean long-sleeved black shirt instead — casual enough, but still nice — and combed his fingers through his hair.

“They’re all gonna be there, y’know,” Atsumu added. “Raijins too. Even Osamu’s comin’. Said Suna’s draggin’ him out.”

Sakusa glanced at him, towel now draped over the chair. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Kinda thought you’d want a break from the chaos.”

Atsumu shrugged, still lounging like a cat who knew he was loved. “You’re comin’. That’s all the break I need.”

Sakusa blinked. Then, slowly, he shook his head and grabbed his cologne from the drawer.

“What?” Atsumu teased.

“Nothing,” he said, deadpan. “Just re-evaluating my standards.”

“Oh, rude—”

“Get dressed.”

“I am dressed!”

“You’re wearing one sock.”

“Yeah, but I look good.”

Sakusa bit back another smile — and this time, it slipped through.

Atsumu was standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fussing with the cuffs of a crisp black button-up, the top two buttons undone like it was a fashion statement and a threat at the same time. His hair was still damp from his shower, pushed back just enough to show the slope of his jaw. The gold chain he always wore glinted against his collarbone as he moved.

Sakusa stepped into the room mid-rolling up his sleeves — toothbrush in one hand, a hoodie tossed over his shoulder — and froze like he’d walked in on something sacrilegious.

Because, really. What the fuck.

Atsumu caught the look in the mirror and smirked, tugging the second sleeve up just a little slower this time.

“Yer gonna burn a hole through me if ya keep starin’ like that,” he drawled.

Sakusa didn’t answer at first. Just stared a second longer, eyes tracking every movement like it was choreographed for him. When he finally spoke, his voice was suspiciously flat. “You’re wearing that out?”

Atsumu turned around fully, hands landing on his hips like he’d just been personally challenged. “What’s wrong with this?”

Sakusa blinked. “You’re not wearing a shirt. That’s a suggestion of a shirt.”

Atsumu grinned wider and stepped closer. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” Sakusa said, even as his eyes dropped again to the open collar. “For everyone else.”

“Ohhh,” Atsumu said, mock-sweet. “But you don’t mind lookin’, huh?”

There was a beat.

Then Sakusa — ever composed, ever proper — ran a hand through his still-damp curls and muttered, “I’m allowed to look.”

Atsumu raised an eyebrow. “You sure ya don’t wanna just skip drinks n’ let me climb ya now?”

Sakusa looked like he was considering it.

Seriously.

But then he blinked, exhaled through his nose, and turned toward the drawer like he hadn’t just had a full-blown moment of weakness. “We’re going to be late.”

Atsumu snorted. “Unfair advantage. Yer hot when yer flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“Yer so flustered.”

They were halfway out the door, keys in hand, shoes on, hair still slightly damp from the showers they’d both barely recovered from. Atsumu was already checking his phone, muttering something about who better not be late this time, when Sakusa paused — hand on the door handle, eyes flicking sideways.

“Atsumu,” he said quietly.

Atsumu glanced up. “Yeah?”

There was a beat.

And then, almost out of nowhere — like it slipped out before he could catch it:

“Love you.”

Atsumu stilled.

Fully.

Phone forgotten, breath catching, lips parting just slightly. His eyes widened for half a second — like he hadn’t expected to hear it just yet, or maybe at all tonight — and then he crossed the space between them in two quick steps, grabbing Sakusa by the collar and pulling him into a kiss so deep it knocked the air out of both of them.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t soft either.

It was reverent — heated — full of all the words he couldn’t get out fast enough.

When he finally pulled back, their foreheads pressed together, he was grinning like a sinner at confession.

“Oh, Omi,” he whispered, voice thick with heat, “if we weren’t halfway out the fuckin’ door, I’d fuck your brains out right now.”

Sakusa swallowed hard, hands curled in Atsumu’s jacket. “We can be late.”

Atsumu groaned. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Too late.”

Another kiss — quick this time, breathless — and then Atsumu spun toward the door, practically dragging Sakusa down the hall with him.

“Post-game drinks,” he muttered. “Then I’m takin’ ya home, and you better not fall asleep on me this time.”

Sakusa just smiled. Quiet. Wrecked. In love.

And followed him into the night.

They walked in ten minutes late.

Not enough to be dramatic — but just enough for Bokuto to throw his arms in the air the moment he spotted them.

“Look who finally decided to show up!” he boomed, voice echoing even over the music and clatter of glasses. “They were probably making out again.”

Motoya didn’t even look up from his drink. “Ten bucks says they were more than making out.”

Sakusa made a face like he regretted every life choice that had led him to this exact moment. Atsumu just beamed, grabbed two empty stools, and slid into the booth like he owned the place.

“Oh, we were so makin’ out,” he said, throwing an arm behind Sakusa’s chair as Sakusa reluctantly took the seat beside him. “And Omi told me he loves me.”

The entire table went still for a second — before Osamu let out a low whistle.

“No way,” he said.

Motoya leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Deadass?”

Suna just raised a brow. “Huh. Thought it’d take another month.”

Sakusa, whose face was rapidly approaching critical levels of red, muttered something about needing a drink and stole Atsumu’s beer to avoid responding.

Atsumu laughed and bumped their shoulders. “He’s shy. It’s cute.”

“You’re insufferable,” Sakusa muttered — but didn’t move away.

Osamu passed him a fresh beer wordlessly. Motoya grinned across the table, toasting the pair of them.

“To love confessions and terrible timing.”

“And to Atsumu,” Suna added, completely deadpan, “for finally getting laid.”

Atsumu choked on his sip.

Sakusa didn’t give the beer back.

They were halfway through a round of shared nachos and communal chaos when Motoya leaned back in his chair, fiddling with the condensation on his glass like he was only half-listening.

Then, out of nowhere:

“Hey, Kiyo — any birthday plans for next week?”

It was casual. Offhand. Almost innocent.

Atsumu blinked. “…What?”

Motoya glanced up. “Your birthday, right? It’s next week?”

Atsumu choked so hard on his drink he nearly sent it up his nose. “Your what?”

Sakusa didn’t look up from his plate. “Motoya.”

“Oh shit,” Motoya said, eyes going wide with realisation. “Was that a secret?”

“You knew it was a secret.”

“I forgot it was a secret!”

Atsumu was still coughing, eyes bouncing between them like he was watching a car crash in real time. “How the hell did I not know about this?”

Suna didn’t even look up. “Because you’re a bad boyfriend.”

“Excuse me—”

Osamu shrugged, not even pretending to defend him. “I mean… facts are facts.”

Sakusa finally sighed, setting his drink down with a quiet thunk. “I avoid my birthday. I always have.”

His voice wasn’t harsh. Just tired. Familiar. Like it was a ritual — brushing it off before it could touch anything tender.

Atsumu turned to him, eyes a little wide, voice dropping. “You should’ve told me, baby. I wouldn’t’ve made a big deal.”

Sakusa glanced at him, something soft flickering just beneath the surface. “Exactly why I didn’t.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“Okay, but can I make a little deal?” Motoya piped up. “Like, small. Tiny. No balloons.”

Sakusa shot him a look.

Motoya held his hands up. “Fine. No balloons. Just cupcakes.”

“Motoya.”

“Okay, damn. No cupcakes either.”

Across the table, Bokuto beamed. “I love birthdays!”

And in the middle of it all, beneath the noise and teasing and glittering restaurant lights, Atsumu brushed Sakusa’s knee under the table. A quiet question.

Sakusa didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

Just tapped his fingers once, lightly, against Atsumu’s leg.

Yeah.

It was okay.

Hinata returned to the table like he’d just won a war. “Okay. I got extra fries. And the server gave me a free aioli.”

“You’re a menace,” Inunaki muttered, stealing one anyway.

“You’re jealous,” Hinata shot back.

Bokuto, already halfway through his beer, slammed it down like a battle cry. “WE SHOULD DO A TEAM BIRTHDAY THING.”

Sakusa blinked. “We should not.”

“Oh my god,” Atsumu whispered, catching on half a second too late. “No, no, no—”

“WE COULD DO KARAOKE,” Bokuto declared, flinging an arm across Hinata’s shoulders.

Inunaki deadpanned, “You’re tone-deaf.”

“And fearless,” Bokuto countered, pointing at him like that proved something.

Atsumu buried his face in his hands. “I’m losin’ control of this dinner.”

“You never had control,” Suna murmured without looking up from his phone.

Osamu leaned across the table. “How d’you feel about surprise parties, Omi?”

“No.”

“What about—”

“No.”

“Okay but like—”

“No.”

Motoya, full of mischief and a suspiciously innocent grin, leaned into Atsumu’s space. “What if you threw it?”

Atsumu looked up, horrified. “Are you tryin’ to get me murdered?”

Sakusa sighed for the third time in five minutes and muttered, “It’s not a real birthday dinner unless someone cries.”

Bokuto threw both hands in the air. “I’LL CRY RIGHT NOW.”

A beat.

“I’ll do it,” he added dramatically, eyes already watering. “FOR THE BIRTHDAY.”

Hinata gently patted his back. “We know, buddy. We know.”

Somehow, in the middle of it all — with a piece of onion ring flying across the table and Inunaki threatening to put Suna’s phone in his water — Atsumu leaned over to Sakusa and muttered, “Ya hate this?”

Sakusa looked at him, then across the table at his disaster of a team, then back at him.

And he shook his head.

“Not tonight.”

“Hinata,” Meian said slowly, dangerously, as a paper straw wrapper bounced off his plate. “What did I just say about launching projectiles at the table?”

Hinata blinked up at him, wide-eyed and unrepentant. “That I have really good aim?”

Tomas groaned into his drink. “I swear to god.”

Across from them, Inunaki was trying to build a tower out of ketchup packets, and Bokuto was providing enthusiastic commentary like it was the Olympics.

“That’s it! He’s going for the fifth layer! Can he do it, folks?”

“Shut up,” Inunaki hissed, hands shaking. “You’re gonna jinx it—”

Crack.

“NOOOOOO!” Bokuto howled, collapsing into Hinata’s lap like he’d just watched his dog die.

“Someone sedate him,” Meian muttered.

Tomas lifted his glass. “Cheers to that.”

Atsumu was curled into Sakusa’s side on the booth bench, quietly losing it. “We are not a serious team.”

“We’re a hazard,” Sakusa said flatly.

“You love it.”

“No comment.”

Motoya had somehow acquired a crayon and was now drawing something on the back of a placemat. “Okay but hear me out,” he said, waving it in front of Tomas’s face. “What if next charity event, you guys do a nude calendar. I’ve already got concept sketches.”

Tomas didn’t look up. “If I ignore that, will it go away?”

Motoya grinned wider. “No.”

Suna, finally resurfacing from his phone, slid over a photo he’d taken earlier: Bokuto weeping dramatically into his mozzarella sticks. “This one’s going straight on twitter.”

“You post that and I block you,” Bokuto whined.

“Do it,” Suna said. “Peace and quiet for once.”

At the end of the table, Meian rubbed at his temples. “I’m too old for this.”

“You’re thirty-two,” Tomas muttered.

“Exactly.”

Sakusa sipped his drink. “Is it too late to transfer teams?”

Atsumu nudged his thigh under the table. “Nah, ya love us.”

Sakusa didn’t answer — but when Bokuto tried to toss a chip at Inunaki and missed horrendously, hitting a server instead, and the whole table collectively gasped like children caught red-handed, he did laugh under his breath.

Barely.

But Atsumu caught it.

It happened just as the plates were being cleared.

The waitress — sweet, young, clearly regretting every life choice that led her to waiting on this table — reached for the last glass, and Inunaki, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, leaned back in his chair and said, “So, uh… you come here often?”

Atsumu choked. Suna made a sound like a dying animal.

The waitress blinked. “I… work here.”

“Oh, right, yeah—cool, cool,” Inunaki said, doubling down like a man with no survival instinct. “Well, if you ever wanna not work here sometime…”

Meian stood.

Actually stood. Slowly. Like a kaiju rising from the depths.

“Inunaki,” he said, voice low and deceptively calm. “Out.”

Inunaki looked confused. “What? I was bein’ friendly!”

Tomas didn’t even look up. “You were being something.”

Bokuto was snorting into his sleeve. “He really said ‘you wanna not work here sometime.’ Bro.”

“I want to die,” Hinata whispered, face buried in his arms.

Meian rubbed his hands down his face and pointed toward the door. “All of you. Let’s go. Now.”

“But—”

“If you make me say it twice, I’m scheduling suicides-laps tomorrow.”

The team scrambled. Atsumu practically vaulted over the booth, dragging Sakusa by the wrist. Hinata had Bokuto in a headlock. Motoya stuffed a handful of mints into his jacket pocket, fearful of a captain that wasn’t even his. Inunaki was still trying to defend his honour as Meian physically turned him toward the exit.

“We left a good tip, right?” Suna asked, completely deadpan as he strolled out past Tomas.

Tomas gave the waitress a pained smile. “We’ll double it.”

And then, like a pack of rowdy teenage delinquents being ejected from a family restaurant, the group disappeared into the night.

Thursday morning gym sessions were normally quiet.

Normally.

But today?

Sakusa stepped into the weight room and immediately regretted it.

Bokuto blew a party horn.

Not just a regular one — a sparkly, glitter-laced horn that unfurled with a high-pitched shriek and left confetti in its wake.

“HAPPY ALMOST BIRTHDAY, OMI-BOY!!”

Sakusa froze mid-step.

“I hate you,” he said flatly.

Bokuto beamed. “He speaks! It’s the birthday boy!”

“Inunaki,” Sakusa called without looking. “If you gave him that horn, I’m breaking your leg.”

“I didn’t give him the horn,” Inunaki said innocently from behind the squat rack. “I gave him the hat.”

He pointed.

Sakusa turned.

Hinata was in the corner, desperately trying to secure a sparkly gold “BIRTHDAY BITCH” headband to the top of a weighted medicine ball.

“It won’t stay on,” Hinata muttered.

“I will kill all of you,” Sakusa said calmly.

Tomas, already mid deadlift, just grunted and said, “Can’t kill your teammates. League rule.”

“Bet.”

“Okay okay, let’s settle,” Meian said, appearing with a clipboard and the weariness of a man who’d already had enough. “No hats. No horns. No confetti. I said low-key.”

“You said no party,” Inunaki pointed out. “You didn’t say we couldn’t be annoying.”

“I said they could be annoying,” Atsumu added helpfully, stepping out from behind Sakusa like a smug little shadow with a towel slung over his neck and his hair still wet from a too-early shower. “You only turn twenty-five once, babe.”

“I’m turning twenty-four.”

“Right. That’s what I said.”

Sakusa shot him a look that promised retribution. Atsumu winked.

“Don’t worry,” he added with a grin. “No one’s throwing ya a party.”

“Liar,” Meian muttered.

“I heard nothin’,” Atsumu said, way too quickly.

Sakusa sighed and dragged a hand down his face as Bokuto started chanting “Birthday Boy” under his breath like a ritual summoning.

He hadn’t even stretched yet.

Today, Atsumu was on one.

“Here ya go, princess,” he said, practically skipping over with Sakusa’s protein shake already mixed — exactly how he liked it: vanilla, splash of almond milk, not a single clump of powder — and held it out with both hands like he was presenting a sacrificial offering to royalty.

Sakusa stared at it.

Then stared at him.

“I’m capable of making my own.”

“I know,” Atsumu grinned, eyes crinkling like he’d won something. “But ya shouldn’t have to. Not this week.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Yet.”

Sakusa took the shake — only because not taking it would be more embarrassing — and pointedly turned away. He sipped once. It was perfect. He hated that it was perfect.

“Don’t smile at me like that,” he muttered without looking.

“I’m not,” Atsumu chirped, absolutely smiling.

Across the room, Bokuto dropped his barbell with a grunt and yelled, “TRUE LOVE!!”

“Focus,” Meian barked, slapping his clipboard against his thigh. “We’re splitting into circuits in two minutes. Anyone not warmed up is doing hill sprints after.”

“Even the birthday boy?” Inunaki called out with faux innocence.

“Especially the birthday boy,” Meian replied, without missing a beat.

Sakusa sighed and sat down to stretch.

Which was, of course, a mistake.

Because thirty seconds later, Atsumu was at his side, stretching with him, obnoxiously close. Every time Sakusa reached for his toes, Atsumu let out a soft little moan.

“Stop that,” Sakusa muttered.

“What?” Atsumu blinked. “I’m just warmin’ up. Feelin’ the stretch.”

He let out another exaggerated whimper, louder this time, throwing his head back like he was in a low-budget romance film.

Across the room, Tomas made a choking sound. Bokuto was cackling. Hinata looked like he didn’t know where to put his eyes.

“Someone kill me,” Sakusa said to no one in particular.

“Oh come on,” Atsumu laughed, nudging his thigh. “Ya gotta admit, it’s fun when yer the centre of attention.”

“I hate attention.”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

Sakusa gave him a deadpan stare. Atsumu just wiggled his eyebrows.

“Circuits, now,” Meian barked, and the team scattered like cockroaches.

Atsumu stuck close, of course. Hovered beside Sakusa at every station, somehow always stretching just a little too far into his space, or whispering dramatic encouragements in his ear like, “Ya got this, ya brooding tower of muscle.”

And the worst part?

The actual worst?

Sakusa didn’t hate it.

Not even a little.

The workout had ended, the circuits were done, and Sakusa had sweat through his shirt, endured three separate protein-related innuendos, and somehow completed a full session without strangling anyone.

But the second they hit the locker room?

The gremlins returned.

Atsumu trailed him like a shadow. A loud, talkative, physically affectionate shadow.

“—and I’m just sayin’, if ya ever did wanna try that new glute machine, I’d totally spot ya. Like, real close. Full contact. For stability purposes.”

“You touch me in the gym again and I’ll knock out your front teeth,” Sakusa muttered, peeling his sweat-damp shirt over his head and throwing it into his bag.

“That’s so romantic,” Atsumu sighed, flopping dramatically onto the bench beside him. “Threaten me more, birthday boy.”

“It’s not—”

“Yet,” Atsumu sang, kicking off his sneakers and wiggling his toes like he lived there.

Across the room, Hinata was laughing so hard he couldn’t get his hoodie on. Bokuto was flexing in the mirror and loudly asking if anyone could feel the vibes today. Tomas had headphones in and looked deeply regretful about all of his life choices.

Inunaki wandered past, raising an eyebrow. “How’s your back, Omi?”

Sakusa didn’t look up. “Fine.”

“Oh,” Inunaki said sweetly. “So it wasn’t from being railed into oblivion last night?”

Atsumu howled with laughter. Hinata collapsed. Bokuto shrieked, “RAILED???”

Sakusa exhaled through his nose. Slowly.

“Okay,” Meian said, suddenly appearing in the doorway like the angel of death. “All of you — out. Now. Go. Get. Out.”

“But—”

“No buts, Miya,” Meian growled. “Not even yours. Out.”

There was a scramble of bags and wet towels, and then the stampede began. Hinata tripped over a shoe. Bokuto took someone’s protein bar hostage. Inunaki tried to flirt with Tomas and got a towel to the face for his efforts.

Only Sakusa stayed calm, finishing up with methodical ease, until it was just him, Atsumu, and a very tired, very done Meian at the door.

Meian rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Miya.”

“Yes, cap?”

“If I hear the word ‘princess’ in this locker room one more time, I will assign you toilet scrubbing duty for a month.”

Atsumu opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then grinned. “Got it, Cap.”

“Out.”

Atsumu jumped to his feet, still barefoot, and followed Sakusa out with a little skip in his step — whispering, “My bad, your highness,” as they slipped through the doors.

Sakusa rolled his eyes.

But he was smiling.

He stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the door like it had personally offended him. Beside him, Osamu was plating up the third dish he’d brought over — a miso-glazed salmon that actually smelled perfect — and Motoya was sipping a soda like he hadn’t just let the wolves in.

Because the second Atsumu and Meianhad arrived — trailing Hinata, Bokuto, Tomas, and Inunaki like some kind of deranged conga line — order went out the window.

“Holy shit,” Bokuto breathed, stepping into the apartment like it was Versailles. “Omi. This is so tidy. Like, serial killer tidy.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Sakusa muttered, shutting the fridge with unnecessary force.

Hinata was already opening cupboards. “What’s this? Are these matching containers? Did you label your spices?”

“In Korean,” Inunaki added, squinting. “What the hell does this say?”

“It says don’t touch it,” Sakusa snapped.

“Aw,” Atsumu said, sliding up beside him and bumping their shoulders together. “He’s gettin’ all shy. Look at our little househusband.”

“I will kill you where you stand.”

“Oh noooo,” Hinata cooed, holding up a spoon. “He’s blushing. That’s so domestic.”

Suna, from the couch: “Ten bucks says someone breaks a glass within the hour.”

“Make it twenty,” Meian muttered, cracking open another can.

And Osamu?

Osamu just smirked, handed Sakusa a bowl, and said, “Ya brought this on yourself.”

Dinner did happen. Eventually. After Bokuto tried to reorganise the cutlery drawer “for better flow,” and Hinata attempted to open the wine with a fork, and Atsumu nearly set a napkin on fire trying to light a candle.

Sakusa, to his credit, didn’t throw anyone out.

Even when Motoya kept calling him “the birthday prince.”

Even when Inunaki loudly asked if they were gonna do speeches.

Even when Osamu leaned over and whispered, “Happy birthday, Omi. Yer place is real nice. Shame you invited them.”

Sakusa just exhaled. Stared down the table. Watched Atsumu — already halfway through his second plate, talking animatedly with Hinata and Tomas — and let his shoulders ease just slightly.

It was chaos.

But it was his chaos.

And maybe that was okay.

Dessert was a war zone.

Sakusa had planned for this — had bought the cake himself, even triple-checked the box for damage. A quiet, elegant matcha chiffon from that little place in Shimokitazawa. Sophisticated. Not too sweet. Not too big.

But then Bokuto offered to bring it out.

And everything fell apart.

“No sudden movements,” Meian said flatly, watching Bokuto approach the table like a drunk tightrope walker with a live bomb. The man had the box cradled in both hands like it was a child — a child he had absolutely no experience with.

Hinata was already standing, clapping. “Cake! Cake! Cake!”

“Don’t encourage him,” Meian muttered, sipping from a glass of what was definitely just water but looked like it should’ve been whiskey.

“Do you want me to take it?” Sakusa asked tightly, rising from his seat with the energy of a man seeing his entire evening flash before his eyes.

“I got it,” Bokuto beamed — right before tripping on his own foot.

There was a collective inhale.

The box tilted.

The cake wobbled.

Time slowed.

But somehow — somehow — Bokuto managed to right himself. He spun once, wildly, and slammed the box onto the table like he’d just landed a vault in the Olympic finals.

“Nailed it!”

“Jesus Christ,” Sakusa breathed, pressing a hand to his chest.

Atsumu was howling. Face red, body curled halfway over the table, practically wheezing from laughter. “Oh my god, I thought ya were gonna crush it—!”

“I would never hurt a cake,” Bokuto said solemnly, opening the lid with all the ceremony of a man proposing marriage. “Look at her. She’s beautiful.”

“She?” Sakusa asked, disassociating.

“I’m naming her Matcha-Marie,” Bokuto said.

Meian slouched back in his seat like a man defeated by fate. “I have captained this team for six years. I’ve faced down crowds of twenty thousand. And yet this… this is my greatest test.”

Suna, snapping a photo of Meian’s suffering: “New lockscreen.”

“Oh my god,” Motoya whispered, eyes glinting, “do you think we can get the cake to do a team speech?”

Sakusa sat down, slowly. Deliberately.

Looked at the cake.

Then at the animals he called friends.

Then at Atsumu — still grinning, still pink in the cheeks, still wiping tears of laughter from the corner of his eyes.

And for a split second, Sakusa smiled too.

God help him.

Eventually, Sakusa managed to herd them all out.

It took three separate attempts and Bokuto trying to hug the cake goodbye — “She’s a queen, Kiyoomi! Take care of her!” — but eventually the door clicked shut and the apartment fell into something almost resembling peace.

“Thanks for dinner,” Meian had said on the way out, sounding equal parts exhausted and genuine. “Sorry for—well, all of that.”

Sakusa had nodded. “It’s fine.”

“Liar,” Atsumu had coughed under his breath.

Motoya, Suna, and Osamu had been the last to leave. Suna paused in the doorway just long enough to smirk and say, “Hey, next time you two do that thing with the honey and the whipped cream—”

“Suna.”

“—save me a piece of cake, damn. You guys are animals.”

Motoya doubled over laughing. Osamu shook his head, muttering something about never eating from their fridge again. Then the door finally, blessedly, clicked shut.

Sakusa stood there for a second, back pressed to the wood. He didn’t say anything.

Just… breathed.

Behind him, Atsumu was already stacking plates. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

“Ya love us.”

Sakusa pushed off the door and walked toward the kitchen. “That’s debatable.”

But there was a tug at the corner of his mouth — soft, reluctant. Like a laugh he hadn’t quite earned yet.

They worked in silence after that. Not the strained kind, not anymore — just quiet. Comfortable. A shared rhythm in the clink of cutlery and the scrape of chairs and the hum of the dishwasher.

At some point, Atsumu passed him a glass and their fingers brushed.

Sakusa didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even pull away.

Atsumu noticed. But he didn’t say anything — just bumped Sakusa’s hip with his own, a silent little nudge, and kept drying.

Eventually, when the last fork was in the drawer and the table wiped clean, Sakusa leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The apartment smelled like matcha and soy sauce and candle smoke. He should’ve felt exhausted.

Instead, he felt… settled.

“I hate them,” he said plainly.

Atsumu snorted. “Sure ya do.”

Sakusa didn’t reply. Just looked at him — hair a mess, sleeves rolled up, grinning face— and let himself feel it.

This quiet.

This chaos.

This strange, unexpected home.

Atsumu tossed the tea towel over his shoulder like he worked there, leaned back against the opposite counter with that loose, lazy slouch that always drove Sakusa insane — all soft angles and smug eyes, like he hadn’t just hosted a full-blown circus in Sakusa’s apartment.

Sakusa was still watching him when Atsumu looked up.

“What?” Atsumu grinned. “Worried I’m gonna bring out dessert round two?”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, quiet and deliberate, until there was barely a breath of space between them. Atsumu blinked — once, twice — but didn’t move.

Sakusa’s eyes flicked down.

A smudge of icing still lingered at the corner of Atsumu’s mouth. He reached up, thumb brushing gently across Atsumu’s lower lip — slow enough to feel the way Atsumu stilled, all that bravado curling in on itself for just a second.

And then Sakusa leaned in. Pressed his mouth to Atsumu’s, soft and certain, like the words he never said. He tasted cake — matcha and buttercream and something stupidly sweet — and Atsumu’s lips curved into a smile right against his own.

“You’re kissin’ me like I’m dessert,” Atsumu murmured when they pulled apart, voice rough around the edges.

Sakusa hummed. “You started it.”

Atsumu’s grin widened. “So that means I get to finish it?”

Sakusa rolled his eyes — but didn’t pull away. Didn’t even pretend to be annoyed when Atsumu kissed him again, slower this time, warm and unhurried, like the kind of kiss that came after the mess, after the noise, after the dishes and cake and chaos.

The kind of kiss that tasted like home.

When they finally parted, Atsumu rested his forehead lightly against Sakusa’s. “Happy early birthday, princess.”

Sakusa didn’t say anything.

But his fingers curled at Atsumu’s hips, holding him there — and maybe that was answer enough.

They ended up on the couch, as always — limbs tangled, bodies heavy with the kind of post-host fatigue that only came after feeding twelve grown men and stopping Bokuto from setting anything on fire.

The apartment was quiet now. Dim. Warm.

Sakusa had one leg tossed lazily over Atsumu’s, his head resting on Atsumu’s chest like it had always belonged there. Atsumu, for once, wasn’t speaking. Just running his fingers through Sakusa’s curls in slow, absentminded passes — and Sakusa was dangerously close to falling asleep right there when he felt a gentle nudge to his shoulder.

“Hey,” Atsumu murmured. “Got somethin’ for ya.”

Sakusa blinked up at him, slow and skeptical.

“It’s not a prank,” Atsumu added quickly, already digging into his duffle bag.

“It better not be,” Sakusa mumbled.

“Trust me,” Atsumu said, then pulled out a small bundle wrapped in brown paper and a bow that looked suspiciously like it had been tied by Bokuto. “Here.”

Sakusa sat up — reluctantly — and took it. Unwrapped it slowly.

Inside?

A plush shark.

A goofy-looking, ridiculously soft, slightly lopsided blue shark with little embroidered eyes and an open mouth. Sakusa stared at it.

Atsumu coughed. “I know you get cold sometimes. And you hate most people. So I figured — now you can cuddle a shark instead of yellin’ at the team.”

Sakusa looked up at him. “You think this is funny.”

“No,” Atsumu said earnestly. “I think it’s adorable.”

Sakusa didn’t answer — but he didn’t throw it, either. Just set it in his lap like it deserved to be there.

“Okay, part two,” Atsumu grinned, reaching back into the bag. “Figured I’d get you somethin’ practical too.”

Out came a pouch. Inside: a pack of antibacterial wipes, a few individually wrapped masks (black, of course), a sleek hand sanitizer spray, and a travel-sized surface cleaner.

Sakusa raised an eyebrow. “You made me a hygiene kit.”

“Hell yeah I did. Look at it, it’s sexy.”

“It’s… thorough.”

Atsumu preened like that was the greatest compliment he’d ever received.

“And this,” he added, quieter now, pulling one last thing from the bottom of the bag. A small, flat box — the kind that made Sakusa’s heart stutter, just a little. “Last one.”

Sakusa opened it slowly.

Inside: a thin silver bracelet, minimalist and elegant, with a tiny shark tooth charm — barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

Atsumu scratched the back of his neck. “Figured somethin’ you could wear. Just so, y’know… I’m kinda always with ya. Even when I’m not.”

Sakusa didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just looked at him — really looked — like he was trying to figure out how someone like Atsumu could possibly exist in the same world as him, and choose him anyway.

“I love it,” he said eventually. Soft, honest. “Thank you.”

Atsumu’s smile turned a little crooked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sakusa reached out, threading their fingers together.

They ended up in bed again — not like that this time, though Atsumu wouldn’t have complained — just wrapped around each other, clean and quiet, bodies loose with comfort. The lights were low, the sheets were fresh, and the plush shark had been ceremoniously installed between them like an honorary third party.

Atsumu had one leg hooked over Sakusa’s hips, his chin resting on Sakusa’s chest, still slightly damp from the shower. Sakusa was propped up against the headboard, hoodie sleeves pulled down to his knuckles, fingers absently tracing slow lines across Atsumu’s back.

The shark was tucked against his side, squeezed between their bodies like it had always belonged there.

“You gotta name it,” Atsumu said eventually, voice sleep-rough and fond. “Can’t just have a nameless shark watchin’ us sleep every night. That’s creepy.”

Sakusa looked down at him, one brow raised. “You’re the one who bought it.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who sleeps with it now.”

“I’ve had it for ten minutes.”

“Exactly. You’re already codependent.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes — but his arm curled tighter around the plush. “Fine,” he said slowly. “What about… Ni-san.”

Atsumu blinked up at him. “Like… second son?”

“Like two-for-one,” Sakusa deadpanned. “You got me a boyfriend and a bed buddy.”

Atsumu groaned, grinning, and buried his face in Sakusa’s chest. “That’s so fuckin’ dumb.”

“You asked.”

“I was hopin’ for something cooler. Like… Deathbite. Or Megalodon Junior.”

Sakusa said nothing. Just kept stroking his fingers down Atsumu’s spine, gentle, steady, quiet.

After a moment, Atsumu shifted — slow and careful, like he didn’t want to disturb the softness of it all — and reached one arm over the edge of the bed. He fumbled blindly for a second, fingers brushing the nightstand, then came back holding the small silver bracelet he’d given Sakusa earlier.

“Wanna wear it?” he asked, voice low, thumb brushing over the engraved edge. “I can put it on for ya.”

Sakusa nodded — barely — and lifted his wrist without a word.

Atsumu took it delicately, looping the chain with practiced ease, fingers sure even in the dim light. He clasped it shut, then smoothed his hand over Sakusa’s, just once, thumb catching on the bones of his knuckles.

“There,” Atsumu said softly. “Perfect.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just shifted to press a kiss to his temple — quiet, grateful — and kept his hand where it was, like he didn’t want the moment to end.

Atsumu peeked up again, eyes a little softer now. “You’re really happy, huh?”

Sakusa hesitated — not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he did. And it was terrifying, the way it settled so easily in his chest. The way it stayed.

He ran his hand through Atsumu’s curls, let the silence stretch for a beat longer, then — like it was nothing, like it was everything —

“I love you.”

Atsumu blinked. Froze.

Then grinned — slow, disbelieving. “Yeah?”

Sakusa nodded once. “Yeah.”

Atsumu didn’t cry. Not really.

Just smiled so wide it crinkled his whole face, and pulled Sakusa down into a kiss that tasted like toothpaste and warmth and every good thing Sakusa hadn’t let himself want — until now.

“Love you too,” he whispered against his lips. “You fuckin’ idiot.”

Sakusa only kissed him harder.

Ni-san the shark fell off the bed at some point.

But neither of them noticed.

Sakusa woke to the soft press of lips against his shoulder — then his neck — then his cheek. Warm breath followed, and a low murmur, sleep-slurred and stupidly sweet:

“Happy birthday, beautiful.”

He cracked one eye open. Atsumu was half on top of him, all messy curls and bare skin under an oversized shirt that definitely wasn’t his. The blanket was half-kicked off, Ni-san the shark was face-down on the floor, and the sun was barely filtering in through the blinds — soft, gold, lazy.

Atsumu grinned. “Told ya I’d be the first one to say it.”

Sakusa hummed. “What time is it?”

“Too early.” A kiss to his jaw. “But I couldn’t wait.”

Another kiss — this time to the corner of his mouth — and Sakusa finally let both eyes open, blinking up at him with a slow, fond sort of clarity.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

Sakusa didn’t argue. Instead, he reached up and pulled him down properly, burying his face in the crook of Atsumu’s neck, arms winding around his waist like he wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon.

“Happy birthday,” Atsumu whispered again, softer this time. Like it meant something more than just the words. Like it was a promise.

And maybe it was.

They didn’t move for a while.

Sakusa just lay there, face tucked into the curve of Atsumu’s neck, hands drifting slow down his back, until Atsumu finally flopped onto his back with a groan like he’d been mortally wounded.

“I can’t believe I gotta get up,” he complained, one arm thrown over his face. “No respect. None. It’s my boyfriend’s birthday, and I gotta go chop onions or flip rice or—whatever the hell ‘helping’ means to Samu today.”

Sakusa, still pressed up against his side, let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You agreed to it.”

“I didn’t know it’d be on today!” Atsumu rolled his head dramatically to the side, eyes half-lidded and pouty. “Coulda said no, y’know. Coulda been like, ‘nah, I got a beautiful man at home who deserves to be spooned ‘til noon.’ But no. I said, ‘sure, what time?’ like a fool.”

“You are a fool,” Sakusa agreed mildly, reaching over to push Atsumus hair off his forehead. “But you’re mine.”

Atsumu melted instantly, grinning like an idiot. “Damn right I am.”

He sighed again — louder this time — then reached down and pulled Sakusa closer, draping a leg over his hips like that would anchor him in bed permanently. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“Five more,” Atsumu pleaded. “Just five. For the birthday boy.”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just leaned in and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw — slow, indulgent, grateful.

Atsumu might’ve groaned again. Might’ve whispered something like “gonna get fired for this” or “he better not make me do dishes” — but he didn’t move.

Eventually, Sakusa had enough.

He let Atsumu cling for exactly thirty more seconds, then braced a hand against his chest and shoved.

Atsumu flailed like a man thrown off a cliff, landing half-off the mattress with a gasp. “Babe—!”

“Get up,” Sakusa said, voice rough with sleep but firm. “If you’re abandoning me, the least you can do is make breakfast first.”

Atsumu blinked at him from the floor. Then grinned, bright and unbothered, already hauling himself upright. “You want it on a tray, princess?”

“I want it edible,” Sakusa replied, dragging the blankets back around himself with pointed finality.

Atsumu saluted. “Comin’ right up.”

He padded out in nothing but boxers and an old hoodie, hair a mess, voice still scratchy from sleep — but he moved with purpose, like he belonged in Sakusa’s kitchen. Like it was normal to rummage through cabinets and hum old pop songs while he fried eggs and sliced fruit.

Sakusa lay there, listening to the clatter and sizzle and off-key mumbling from the other room, eyes half-lidded, the faintest smile on his lips.

It was his birthday.

And this — this quiet, chaotic comfort — was somehow exactly what he’d always wanted.

Sakusa emerged a few minutes later, dressed in trackies and one of Atsumu’s oversized hoodies, rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking entirely too good for someone who’d just rolled out of bed.

Atsumu was plating eggs like he was on MasterChef, tongue poking out in concentration. He looked up and beamed. “Oi! I was gonna bring it in to ya!”

Sakusa blinked at him. Then at the plate. Then at the crumb-dusted bench.

His nose wrinkled. “You were going to bring toast into my bed?”

Atsumu paused. “…Yeah?”

“Disgusting.”

“Babe—”

“There would be crumbs.”

Atsumu barked a laugh and held up the plate in offering. “So dramatic. Sit down, I’ll even butter your toast for ya.”

Sakusa slid into the chair like royalty, tugging his sleeves down over his hands and eyeing the cutlery arrangement like he was mentally grading it.

“You know,” Atsumu said, sliding the plate in front of him with a wink, “most people say thank you.”

Sakusa took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “I’ll thank you when I don’t collapse of food poisoning.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes — but he was grinning as he poured the tea.

It was shaping up to be a pretty perfect birthday morning. Crumbs and all.

They didn’t rush the morning.

Sakusa ate slowly, picking apart his toast with surgical precision while Atsumu flitted around the kitchen like a golden retriever in socks — making more tea, cleaning up as he went, humming under his breath and occasionally pressing a kiss to Sakusa’s cheek just because he could.

“Y’know,” Atsumu said, arms sliding around Sakusa’s shoulders from behind as he finished eating, “you’re kinda lucky I’m the full package. Looks and breakfast.”

Sakusa let his head tilt back against Atsumu’s chest. “You made me tea and toast.”

“I cooked. ”

Sakusa huffed — but his fingers came up to rest lightly over Atsumu’s on his collarbone, holding them in place. “You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” Atsumu leaned down, lips brushing just behind his ear, “ya keep me around.”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

He just let his eyes slip shut for a moment, listening to the clatter of the world outside the windows — birds, traffic, faint echoes of life — and the softer, closer sounds of home. The quiet drip of the tap. The whisper of Atsumu breathing.

Eventually, Atsumu pulled back, pressing a kiss to Sakusa’s temple on the way.

“I gotta go help ‘Samu set up for the lunch rush,” he said, voice a little more reluctant now. “He gets all huffy if I’m late.”

Sakusa made a vaguely displeased noise in his throat.

“I’ll be back before practice,” Atsumu promised, stepping around to clear the dishes. “Promise. With a birthday treat. Or two.”

Sakusa raised a brow. “Like a pastry?”

Atsumu winked. “Sure. Let’s say that.”

He leaned in for one last kiss — warm and easy, lingering — then grabbed his keys, threw Sakusa one more grin, and disappeared out the door in a whirl of sneakers and cologne and hoodie strings.

The door clicked shut behind Atsumu.

And just like that — the warmth changed.

It didn’t vanish, not completely. But it shifted. Turned quieter. More echo than presence, like laughter in an empty room or steam fading from a teacup.

Sakusa sat for a moment longer, fingers toying with the bracelet on his wrist, the silver catching the light just so — and for once, he didn’t feel like hiding from the feeling that bloomed in his chest.

He wasn’t expecting anyone.

The knock at the door came sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet of the apartment. Sakusa glanced at the time — too early for post deliveries, too late for teammates. Atsumu had already left for Osamu’s shop an hour ago. And no one else ever showed up without texting first.

Still towel-drying his hands from the sink, he padded over and pulled the door open.

His heart dropped.

“Mother. Father.”

His mother stepped forward before he could process it fully, arms already open, lips pursed into a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Happy birthday, Kiyoomi.”

His father hovered behind her, not quite smiling, not quite frowning — just there, like always.

“Can we come in?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped aside.

She breezed in like she owned the place, her heels clicking against the floorboards, eyes scanning the apartment with the precision of someone inspecting a hotel room for dust. Sakusa followed a step behind, already feeling ten years younger and three inches shorter under her gaze.

The couch cushions were a little crooked. The coffee table still had a half-drunk glass of water on it. One of Atsumu’s sweatshirts was folded over the back of a chair — grey and oversized and very much not Sakusa’s.

His mother’s eyes landed on it. Paused. Moved on.

“I see you’ve redecorated,” she said, sliding into a dining chair like she hadn’t just trespassed into his sanctuary. “It’s nice. A little more… relaxed than your last place.”

Sakusa said nothing. Just flicked on the kettle, already regretting the mug selection he’d laid out — one with a cartoon shark, one with a chipped rim. He rearranged them anyway, lining them up as if the order mattered. As if it would buy him control.

“You didn’t mention anything about plans,” she added after a beat, crossing one leg over the other.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said.

Her mouth pinched into a smile. “Well, it’s your birthday, darling. We wanted to surprise you.”

He wanted to say don’t. Wanted to say next time, text. Wanted to say I had plans already — because he had. He and Atsumu were going to have a late lunch after practice, just the two of them, maybe stop by the aquarium if it wasn’t too crowded.

But instead, he nodded. Polite. Muted. Distant. All the things they’d trained into him.

His father still hadn’t said a word. Just stood near the wall like a polite shadow, nodding when Sakusa handed him tea. His mother didn’t touch hers — just kept surveying the room, noting things. Judging them. Judging him.

“Are you seeing anyone?” she asked finally, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Sakusa didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. “No.”

“Not even Kana? I thought the two of you liked nice together, maybe you could rekindle that.”

“No.”

“She was lovely. Very presentable.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t say was boring or she told me volleyball was a childish career or she wrinkled her nose at Motoya and said he seemed ‘too much’.

Didn’t say I couldn’t have brought her here and felt like myself.

Didn’t say I’ve found someone who makes this place feel like a home.

Instead, he sat down across from them, spine perfectly straight, hands folded neatly in his lap.

His mother clicked her tongue. “Well, I do hope you’re not being too picky. You’re not getting any younger, Kiyoomi. Eventually people stop asking questions and just start assuming.”

Sakusa’s mouth tightened.

The kettle clicked off behind him.

Steam filled the silence.

And still, he didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Because the tension had already crept in like fog — slow and choking and impossible to swat away.

The knock came mid-conversation — if you could call the tight-lipped exchanges across the table conversation. Sakusa was halfway through answering a question about his latest match when the sharp tap-tap-tap at the door cut through the air.

He stood a little too quickly.

“Expecting someone?” his mother asked, tilting her head.

“No,” Sakusa said, already moving.

He opened the door.

And there, standing with an apologetic smile and a clipboard, was a florist’s delivery guy holding the biggest, most obnoxiously cheerful bouquet Sakusa had ever seen. Sunflowers, peonies, tiny white sprigs of baby’s breath — it looked like someone had tried to trap sunshine in a vase and nearly succeeded.

“Delivery for Sakusa?” the man asked.

Sakusa froze for half a second.

Took the flowers.

Muttered a thank you.

Shut the door.

And for some godforsaken reason — maybe nerves, maybe habit, maybe because Atsumu had been teasing him all week about needing more colour in his apartment — he set the bouquet down on the kitchen bench and didn’t think twice.

Until his mother’s voice cut in, sharp and too pleased.

“Oh, how lovely. Who sent these?”

He turned.

Too slow.

She already had the card in her hand.

A tiny white envelope tucked between the petals, now pinched between her fingers like evidence in a trial. He crossed the room in two long strides, but she was quicker, sliding the card free and reading it with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

And then — her face shifted.

A crack in the mask.

Her eyes skimmed the words again. Slower, this time.

Sakusa didn’t have to ask what it said.

He already knew.

Because Atsumu had told him. Had read it aloud while ordering the flowers, voice teasing and soft, like he didn’t know he was threading needles under Sakusa’s skin.

“Happy Birthday, beautiful. I hope today’s as good to you as you are to me. Come home to me soon — I’ll make you a cake you’ll actually eat. Love you. - Atsumu”

He’d laughed. Blushed. Let Atsumu press a kiss to the corner of his mouth while promising it’d be vanilla with lemon icing — and not too sweet, just how Sakusa liked it.

Now, that sweetness was acid.

His mother’s hand dropped to her side. Her mouth was a tight, white line.

“This is from a man,” she said.

Not a question.

Not surprised.

Not horrified, either — not yet. Just cold. Calculating. A blade waiting to be drawn.

Sakusa stood still.

Then nodded. Once. Deliberate.

“Yes.”

“You are throwing away everything we’ve tried to give you—”

Sakusa’s eyes narrowed. “What have you given me?”

“Opportunity. Discipline. A name.”

“And I’m the disappointment?” he asked, voice quieter now. Lower. “You gave me fear. Shame. You made me feel like I was wrong for existing. For being careful. For being different. For being.”

His mother let out a cold, disbelieving breath. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Kiyoomi. You’re not special for having a phase. You’re not some tragic queer icon just because you’re playing house with some pretty boy who’ll leave the second it gets hard.”

Sakusa flinched.

Not visibly — not enough to give her satisfaction — but inside, it scraped. Harsh and deep.

“I’m not in a phase.”

His mother stiffened. “We did what we had to. We protected you from… influences.”

His stomach dropped. He already knew what was coming.

“I knew that boy was no good,” she continued, eyes sharp, voice curled with disdain. “That Yuji. Always clinging to you. Whispering things. Putting these ideas in your head. I should’ve cut him off sooner.”

“You made me cut him off.”

“Because it was for the best.”

“For who?” Sakusa’s voice cracked. “For you?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.”

“I lost my best friend because of you.”

She didn’t blink. “And look what he turned you into.”

That landed like a slap.

Sakusa stood still, chest heaving slightly, like the air in the room had thinned. “He didn’t turn me into anything.”

His father finally spoke. “Enough.”

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Sakusa kept going. “You act like I was corrupted. Like I wasn’t already—like I didn’t already know. I wasn’t confused, I was scared. Scared of what you’d do. What you’d say. And I was right.”

His mother scoffed. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re being cruel.”

His father’s voice sharpened. “She’s being honest.”

“No,” Sakusa said, voice like frost. “She’s being a bigot.”

His father finally spoke. “Enough.”

Sakusa looked up. A flash of relief — short-lived.

Because his father wasn’t defending him.

He was looking at Sakusa now. Stern. Distant. Disappointed in a way that felt older than this moment — like it had been festering quietly for years.

“You don’t speak to your mother that way.”

Sakusa stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“She’s upset.”

“So am I.”

“You’re being disrespectful.”

“I’m being honest.”

His father’s jaw locked. “Then perhaps you should rethink how you carry yourself, if honesty looks so much like rebellion.”

That hit harder than he expected.

Silence.

Dense and hot.

His mother’s face twisted in disgust.

“You think this boy is going to save you? That he’s going to fix whatever it is in you that made you—”

“I said stop.”

But she didn’t.

And everything that followed burned just the same — his father’s distant disappointment, the disbelief, the condescension — all of it piling up until it was heavier than the air he was breathing.

Sakusa’s fists clenched. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed the burn at the back of his throat.

“I’m not ashamed,” he said, softer this time. “Not anymore.”

His mother scoffed. “You should be.”

Silence fell like a weight.

His father didn’t correct her. Just sighed like he was the one being burdened — like it was Sakusa’s queerness, his happiness, his love, that was making their lives difficult.

“This was supposed to be a birthday visit,” he muttered.

Sakusa looked down at the vase. The card laying, forgotten on the bench.

Then he looked back up. Cold. Hollow.

“Happy birthday to me.”

His mother adjusted the strap of her handbag with a sharp tug, like the very sight of him had soiled it. “I’ll pray you come to your senses, Kiyoomi.”

There was no anger in her voice now. Just disappointment — that pointed, weaponised kind, so familiar it made his stomach churn. She said it like it was a kindness. Like it was a last gift.

Then she turned on her heel and let herself out without waiting for a reply.

The door clicked shut behind her.

His father didn’t follow immediately. Stood there a moment longer, gaze unreadable, one hand curled loosely at his side like he wanted to say something — anything — and couldn’t find the words.

Sakusa didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Eventually, his father just nodded once. Tight. Formal. And walked out.

The door clicked shut.

Not slammed. Not loud. Just a soft snick of finality, like the last word in a conversation he hadn’t wanted to have.

Sakusa didn’t move.

The apartment was still warm. The sun still spilled across the countertop. The vase sat where it had been left, glass clean, petals bright. The card was gone.

And suddenly, it all felt wrong.

The scent of matcha icing clung to his memory like a bruise. The soft swell of Atsumu’s laughter echoed in the walls — in the corners, in the quiet — and for a second, it almost drowned out his mother’s voice.

Almost.

Sakusa’s breath caught. He blinked hard. Then again.

No tears. Not yet.

But his fingers shook when he reached out — slowly, carefully — to turn the vase. Like maybe if he angled it differently, it wouldn’t feel so tainted. Like maybe he could rewind time. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Pretend he’d gotten to smile when the flowers arrived. Pretend he hadn’t frozen like a fucking child the moment she read his truth out loud.

But the vase stayed still.

And his chest started to ache.

He pressed both palms to the bench. Stared down at the marble. It blurred. Cleared. Blurred again.

His knees gave out before the tears did.

He slid to the floor, back against the cabinets, heart thudding like it was trying to break free from the cage his parents had spent years building.

And then he broke.

Not loudly. Not like the movies. No guttural sobs or thrown fists. Just silent shaking, hands in his hair, teeth clenched hard enough to hurt. Tears he hadn’t meant to cry running hot down his cheeks.

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

Only that it was long enough for the warmth to fade from the bench above him.

Long enough for shame to crawl up his spine like an old, familiar ghost.

Long enough to wish, with everything he had, that Atsumu was there.

That he could press his face into Atsumu’s chest and hear you’re okay whispered into his hair. That he could be held.

That he could be loved — loudly. Proudly.

Even when it hurt.

Especially now.

Eventually, the tears dried. Not because he felt better — just because his body gave up. Because his chest couldn’t keep heaving, and his throat couldn’t keep closing, and his lungs couldn’t keep fighting to stay small enough not to be noticed.

He stood.

Slowly. Stiffly. Like it hurt.

The air was cold against his skin. His clothes felt tight — too much, too heavy, too his — and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

He stripped in the hallway. Shirt over his head. Socks kicked off. Pants left in a heap outside the bathroom door. Couldn’t stand to feel anything on him anymore. Couldn’t stand the thought of them seeing him like this. Couldn’t stand himself.

The water was too hot.

It scalded where it hit his back — steam rising fast, fogging the mirror, the tiles, his thoughts — and he stepped under it anyway. Let it hit him. Let it burn.

He scrubbed like he could erase it.

Nails dragging red lines across his chest. Loofah so rough it felt like punishment. Shampoo too sharp, too floral, too wrong.

His breath started to hitch again.

Then faster. And faster.

And faster.

Until he was gasping — shallow, panicked, high in his throat — like he’d been punched in the gut and left underwater.

His knees hit the base of the tub.

Hard.

His hands gripped the edge like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. Like if he let go, he’d dissolve — wash down the drain and disappear like he was never here at all.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t fucking breathe.

The tile blurred. Steam curled against his skin like smoke. His heart pounded in his ears, loud and frantic, and for one awful second, he thought maybe he was going to die like this — alone, naked, crying on his knees in the shower on his fucking birthday.

And no one would know.

Because he hadn’t told anyone. Because he hadn’t wanted to ruin it.

Because they’d ruined him first.

He managed to pull himself out of the shower eventually — barely.

Wrapped a towel around his waist, but didn’t dry off properly. Couldn’t. His hands were shaking too hard. Everything felt too loud. Too bright. Too real.

The hallway looked different now.

Like it didn’t belong to him. Like the walls were too clean, too sharp-edged. Like the vase on the bench still held ghosts in its petals.

He moved past it.

Avoided looking.

Collapsed onto the bed without even pulling on clothes. Just lay there — towel damp beneath him, hair soaking into the pillow, heart still thudding like it hadn’t figured out he was safe.

He wasn’t.

Not really.

He grabbed his phone.

Thumb hovered over Atsumu’s name — over the only name he wanted to see, the only voice he wanted to hear — but he couldn’t press it. Couldn’t call. Couldn’t be that selfish.

Not when Atsumu had already done everything right. Not when he was the one falling apart.

Instead, he scrolled to the team chat.

Coach Foster had sent a reminder that morning. 

Practice at 3. Team drills. Bring hydration. No slackers.

Sakusa opened a new message.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

not feeling great. not coming in today.

No punctuation. No capitalisation. Detached. Forgettable. Just enough to pass.

He sent it.

Foster’s reply came back two minutes later.

okay. get better.

Short. Standard.

But Sakusa still winced.

Still locked his phone and shoved it under his pillow like it had bitten him.

He lay there for a long time after that. Not moving. Not thinking. Just breathing in and out, like maybe, if he stayed still enough, everything might stop hurting.

It didn’t.

Not yet.

The minutes crawled.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink much, either. Just lay on his side, towel barely clinging to his hips, sheets growing damp beneath him, chest tight like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

The clock on the nightstand flipped digits. 3:02. 3:07. 3:13.

His body should’ve been moving. Should’ve been warm, active, useful.

Instead, he was still.

Empty.

Then—

His phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. A third time, spaced minutes apart.

He didn’t reach for it.

But it kept going. Not intrusive — not harsh — just persistent. Familiar. Like a knock at the front door you want to answer, but can’t bring yourself to stand up for.

Eventually, he peeked.

Atsumu.

The first was from earlier.

all done helpin’ ‘samu — free now, ya want coffee or somethin’?

Then—

got a few texts from the guys, hope they didn’t wake ya up lol

Then, a beat later:

omi?

Another.

baby you okay?

Another. Ten minutes old now.

i’m comin’ over if you don’t answer in 10

Sakusa’s fingers twitched.

He read them again.

Then curled tighter into himself, burying half his face into the pillow, like that would make the ache in his chest shrink down into something manageable.

He wasn’t ready.

He didn’t want to be alone.

He couldn’t make himself speak.

So he did nothing.

Let the last message sit unanswered.

Waited for whatever would come next.

The pounding started around 3:27.

Not polite knocking. Not patient.

Just urgent. Fist against wood like the sound alone could shake something loose inside.

Sakusa didn’t flinch at first.

Didn’t move.

Then—again.

“Ay—Omi? Omi, open the fuckin’ door—”

Atsumu.

Shit.

He sat up too fast. His head spun. The towel around his waist barely stayed put.

He stumbled out of the bedroom, through the silent kitchen, past the vase still sitting on the counter like it hadn’t been at the centre of his undoing an hour earlier. The card was gone. He didn’t know where he’d put it.

The knocking didn’t stop.

“I’m serious, I’m gonna kick it in—”

He opened the door.

And blinked against the sudden flood of light.

Atsumu stood there, chest heaving, still in his MSBY training gear, hair shoved back by a sweatband that had seen better days. His cheeks were flushed, nose pink from the cold, and his eyes—

His eyes locked onto Sakusa’s.

Towel. Damp hair. Red eyes.

“Oh, baby.”

That was all he said.

His voice dropped out of the teasing register it so often lived in and went soft. Rough.

Sakusa didn’t know what he was expecting — a joke, maybe. A lecture. A scolding for missing practice.

Instead—

Atsumu stepped forward and cupped his face like he was something fragile.

And Sakusa just… let him.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.

Let those warm, calloused thumbs brush under his eyes like they could erase the damage.

“Ya didn’t answer,” Atsumu whispered. “You’re never late. I knew somethin’ was wrong.”

Sakusa nodded, barely. “I couldn’t—”

“I know,” Atsumu said quickly, gently. “You don’t have to. I got you, ‘kay? I got you.”

And just like that—

Sakusa let go.

Leaned forward. Buried his face in Atsumu’s neck, towel still clutched in one fist, breath shuddering as arms came around him. Strong. Steady. Holding all the broken pieces together.

“Let’s get you dressed,” Atsumu murmured into his hair. “Then we’re gonna lie down. You don’t gotta talk. Just breathe, alright?”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because Atsumu was already easing the door shut behind them.

Already carrying him, in all the ways that mattered.

They made it to the bedroom slowly.

Sakusa’s steps were uneven, towel still clutched at his hips like it was anchoring him, like if he let go it would all fall apart again. Atsumu didn’t rush. Didn’t speak, either. Just kept a hand warm and steady at the small of his back, guiding him gently past the doorframe, the bed, the still-folded pyjamas he hadn’t touched this morning.

“Sit down, baby,” Atsumu said quietly. “I’ll grab somethin’ comfy.”

Sakusa sat. Didn’t meet his eyes.

Atsumu returned with soft trackpants and one of his own hoodies — worn, faded, smelled like home.

“Arms up,” he coaxed.

Sakusa moved automatically. Until Atsumu reached to tug the hoodie over his head — fingers brushing the back of his neck.

He flinched.

Barely. But enough.

Atsumu froze. “Hey—hey, it’s just me.”

And that was it.

Like a crack in the glass — the weight too much to hold back — Sakusa broke.

His breath caught on something sharp. Chest heaving suddenly, like he couldn’t pull the air in fast enough, like it was catching on every rib. His hands went to his face, to his hair, clutching tight — as if he could physically stop the thoughts, the noise, the words still echoing in his skull.

“I can’t—” he choked out. “I can’t—fuck—”

Atsumu was kneeling in front of him in an instant.

“Hey, hey, look at me. Look at me, Omi.”

But Sakusa couldn’t.

He was already folding in, trying to curl into himself, to disappear, to make it stop.

And Atsumu didn’t force it.

He just leaned forward — hands low and slow, not touching — and said, “Breathe with me, alright? Just breathe. I’m here. I got you. You’re safe.”

Still shaking.

Still breaking.

But Sakusa heard him.

Found the rhythm in Atsumu’s voice — the softness, the steadiness — and clung to it like a life raft.

Eventually, after what felt like years, his breathing slowed.

Not even. Just a little steadier. Just enough to survive the next second. And the one after that.

“I’m sorry,” Sakusa whispered, voice raw.

“Don’t be,” Atsumu said instantly, eyes wide and full of something aching. “You don’t gotta apologise for feelin’.”

Sakusa’s throat worked around the words before he could say them.

“They came by,” he said, voice thin. “My parents.”

Atsumu froze.

Sakusa’s eyes didn’t lift. “Saw the flowers.”

A beat. A long one.

“Oh,” Atsumu said quietly.

Not because he didn’t know what that meant — but because he did.

“They read the card,” Sakusa continued, each word like glass in his mouth. “She took it out. Didn’t even ask.”

Atsumu didn’t say anything. Just reached up again, slow and sure, and rested a hand at the back of his neck — grounding, gentle.

“What’d they say?” he asked, but softly, like it didn’t need an answer if Sakusa couldn’t give one.

Sakusa huffed — not quite a laugh. “That I’m throwing everything away. That you’re a phase. That Yuji ruined me. That I should be ashamed.”

Atsumu didn’t move.

But Sakusa felt it. The way his hand flexed just slightly. The stillness of his breath. The way his entire body coiled tight like it wanted to fight.

Instead, he said, “You’re not ruined. And you sure as fuck don’t need to be ashamed.”

Sakusa’s lips parted — but the words didn’t come. He just looked at Atsumu like he was trying to understand something too big for language.

And Atsumu leaned in, pressed their foreheads together, voice low:

“They’re wrong, baby. Every fuckin’ word. You hear me?”

Sakusa’s hands dropped. His face was blotchy, red. Hair damp with sweat and tears. “I thought I could handle it.”

“I know.”

“I thought it wouldn’t matter what they said.”

Atsumu swallowed. Reached forward again — this time slower — and cupped his cheek.

And Sakusa let him.

“They don’t get to have that power anymore,” Atsumu said. “You hear me?”

Sakusa nodded. Or tried to.

Atsumu leaned up. Kissed his forehead. Soft. Reverent. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

And Sakusa, tired and hurting and wrecked, finally let himself fall into him again.

This time, he didn’t flinch.

Sakusa was still crying.

Not the gut-wrenching kind anymore — not the storm he’d barely weathered in the bathroom — but the quiet aftermath. The kind that slipped out in broken exhales, wet lashes, the tremble in his fingers that hadn’t stopped since the front door closed behind his parents.

Atsumu had coaxed him into bed with nothing but patience. No questions. No rush. Just his hand on Sakusa’s spine, his breath steady and sure. A promise he didn’t have to speak.

Now, they were lying in the mess of Sakusa’s sheets — both quiet, both of them raw — and Atsumu had one arm curled around Sakusa’s shoulders, the other patting gently at his hair. Not even really a pattern to it. Just something to do. Something to soothe.

“Shhh,” he murmured, cheek pressed to Sakusa’s temple. “I gotcha, baby. I gotcha.”

Their phones wouldn’t stop buzzing — texts from the team, missed calls, probably Meian wondering where the hell they were — but neither of them moved to check.

It didn’t matter. Not right now.

Right now, Sakusa was curled into Atsumu’s chest, hands clutching the front of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. His face was damp, red, splotchy — eyes puffy from crying, lashes stuck together — and still, still, he looked so heartbreakingly beautiful like this. Honest. Unarmoured.

Atsumu didn’t stop patting.

Didn’t stop whispering soft, meaningless comforts.

Didn’t stop being there.

Because Sakusa had finally let himself fall apart.

And Atsumu was gonna be the one who held the pieces.

Sakusa didn’t speak for a long time.

His breathing had evened out, a little. The tears had slowed. But the weight in his chest hadn’t lifted, and the ache behind his ribs still pulsed with every beat.

Atsumu stayed quiet, one hand carding through his curls, the other resting warm and steady over his back.

When Sakusa finally did speak, his voice was hoarse and quiet — like it had been buried somewhere deep.

“What if this scares you off?”

Atsumu stilled.

Not completely — his thumb kept brushing just under Sakusa’s shoulder blade — but he paused, just for a second. Then:

“Nothin’ about ya scares me, baby.”

Sakusa swallowed hard. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

“I signed up for you.”

There was no hesitation in it. Just truth. Like he’d already known the answer for a long time.

“This is part of the deal,” Atsumu said, softer now. “The parents, the panic, the bad days. You think I’d only want the good bits?”

Sakusa didn’t answer.

Just shifted a little. Pressed closer. Let his fingers curl into the hem of Atsumu’s shirt like he needed something to hold on to.

“Can you stay like this?” he asked, barely more than a breath. “A while longer?”

Atsumu leaned in and kissed the edge of his jaw. “Always.”

And neither of them moved.

The phones kept buzzing — distant, unimportant — but here, in this quiet little cocoon of grief and love, nothing else mattered.

Just the warmth of skin. The weight of comfort. The quiet promise of not being alone.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

It might’ve been five minutes. Might’ve been thirty.

Time didn’t move right in the quiet. It curled around them like fog — thick and warm and slow. Atsumu’s fingers hadn’t stopped moving. Sakusa’s breathing had steadied.

But the weight in his chest never really left.

Eventually, Sakusa blinked up at the ceiling, eyes raw but clear now, lashes still damp.

Then he sat up — slowly, carefully — like the sadness had settled in his bones, too heavy to shake.

“Motoya,” he said suddenly. “Shit.”

Atsumu blinked, half-dozing beside him. “What?”

But Sakusa was already sitting up, the sheets falling from his chest in a soft rustle. He reached for his phone with shaking fingers and unlocked it, ignoring the cascade of missed calls and unread messages from teammates — Meian, Hinata, even Inunaki, whose last message just read:

Inunaki:

u alive bro?

He scrolled past all of them.

Straight to the three that mattered.

Motoya.

Each one hit a little harder than the last. Simple. Concerned. Real.

Motoya:

heard from my mom. everything okay?

kiyo?

please just tell me you’re safe.

Sakusa’s heart twisted. All the shame, all the static, all the weight of the day pressed hard against his ribs.

He just stared at the screen a moment longer — then, without speaking, passed the phone over.

Atsumu hesitated, then typed slowly.

Kiyoomi:

i’m okay. i promise. can we talk?

A beat later: the phone lit up again.

Incoming call.

The phone rang once. Twice. Sakusa put it on speaker as he answered.

Then—

“Kiyo?”

Motoya’s voice was low, tight with worry, like he hadn’t exhaled since his last message. Sakusa swallowed hard. Couldn’t speak.

“He’s here,” Atsumu said softly from beside him, shifting closer on the bed. “He’s okay. Just a shit day.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then, “You don’t sound okay.”

Sakusa curled his hand tight in the blanket. “They came over,” he said, voice hoarse. “My parents.”

Motoya swore under his breath.

“They saw some flowers,” Sakusa continued, barely above a whisper. “My mom—she read a card from Atsumu. Said some things.”

Another pause. The kind that cracked with tension.

“I’m gonna say this once,” Motoya said finally, voice sharp. “And I don’t care if she’s your mother or the damn Pope. She doesn’t get to make you feel like this. Not ever. You hear me?”

Sakusa closed his eyes.

“I don’t care what she said. She’s wrong. She’s been wrong for years. You—” Motoya’s voice broke slightly. “You are so loved, Kiyo. And not just by him. By me. By everyone who matters.”

Sakusa’s throat burned. Atsumu brushed his knuckles over his knee gently, grounding him in the moment.

“I just…” Sakusa started, then gave up. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Motoya said, instantly softer. “I know it does. I’m so sorry. I should’ve—if I’d known, I would’ve come straight over.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I would’ve,” Motoya said, like it was obvious. “You’re not alone. You’re never alone. And if anyone says otherwise, I’ll fight them. I’ll literally throw hands. Put me in a room with your mother for ten minutes.”

That made Atsumu laugh — a tiny huff that shook Sakusa’s side.

“She said Yuji put ideas in my head,” Sakusa muttered, bitter.

“Yuji was fuckin awesome. He just happened to be gay. Your parents hated that he was different and they couldn’t control it.”

Sakusa went quiet. Then: “I miss him.”

“I know,” Motoya said gently. “He’d be proud of you. You know that, right?”

Sakusa didn’t respond.

“You told them the truth, Kiyo. You stood your ground. I don’t care how ugly it got — that’s strength. That’s something they’ll never understand.”

Silence settled again, warm this time.

Atsumu shifted. “We’re gonna eat soon,” he murmured, like a reminder. “Then rest. He’s been through enough today.”

Motoya caught that. “You staying with him?”

Atsumu hesitated. “Yeah. As long as he wants.”

“Good,” Motoya said, no trace of teasing this time. “Text me if you need anything. I mean it. Anything.”

Sakusa found his voice again, soft and low. “Thanks.”

“No thanks needed,” Motoya replied. “I love you, Kiyoomi. You hear me?”

Sakusa swallowed. “Yeah. I hear you.”

And this time, he believed it.

The call ended with a soft click.

Sakusa let the phone fall onto the mattress beside him and sat there, silent for a second, like he was still waiting for the world to collapse. But it didn’t. Just kept turning, slow and steady, the way Atsumu’s thumb was rubbing over his thigh.

He exhaled. Not all the way. But enough.

Atsumu leaned closer. “You wanna eat now, baby?”

Sakusa nodded, then hesitated. “Can you… stay again tonight?”

Atsumu smiled, so warm it hurt. “Wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ anywhere.”

Sakusa didn’t say anything. Just leaned in until his forehead bumped Atsumu’s shoulder and stayed there, breathing in the smell of detergent and something sweet — like vanilla, or safety, or home.

They moved slow.

Atsumu reheated the curry he’d brought over earlier — soft pumpkin-free chicken and rice that Sakusa didn’t even pretend to resist. They sat on the couch with a blanket slung around both their shoulders, knees brushing, the shark plush tucked snugly between them again like it had always belonged.

Sakusa ate with quiet focus, not quite tasting it but feeling the warmth settle in his chest. Atsumu kept glancing over like he was checking for cracks, for signs he might break again. But Sakusa didn’t. He just ate. Breathed. Existed.

When the bowls were empty and the lights were low, Atsumu tugged him back toward the bedroom.

Sakusa let himself be led.

They didn’t talk much — didn’t need to. Just moved through the space like it was theirs. Like it always had been.

Once they were curled back under the covers, Sakusa on his side this time and Atsumu pressed against his back, one arm around his waist, one hand absently stroking over the bracelet still snug on his wrist, Sakusa finally whispered, “Thank you.”

Atsumu kissed the nape of his neck. “Always.”

And for the first time all day, Sakusa felt safe.

The morning came quietly.

Light filtered in through the curtains in soft, golden streaks, catching on the folds of the blanket tangled around their legs. The house smelled like sleep and leftover curry and something gentler still — the warmth of two people wrapped around each other with nowhere else to be. Not yet.

Atsumu woke first.

Not all the way — just blinked his eyes open, blinked again, and smiled against Sakusa’s shoulder. Sakusa was still curled on his side, breathing slow and shallow, his back warm against Atsumu’s chest. One hand rested on the pillow. The other, wrapped in Atsumu’s.

He stirred eventually.

A little shift. A quiet breath. A blink into the pillowcase.

Then a flinch — barely perceptible, but real.

Atsumu tightened his hold immediately, pressing closer. “S’okay, baby,” he murmured, voice still sticky with sleep. “It’s just me.”

Sakusa didn’t pull away. Just let his eyes slip shut again, and nodded once, slow.

They lay like that for a while.

No rush. No words.

Just breath. Just the beat of Atsumu’s thumb tracing the curve of his wrist. Just the pressure of the silver bracelet — grounding, gleaming faintly in the morning light.

Eventually, Atsumu whispered, “Ya don’t have to play today. If ya don’t wanna. We’ll handle it.”

Sakusa was quiet for a second. Then rolled over, slowly, until they were face to face — hair a mess, eyes still red-rimmed from yesterday, but steady now.

“I want to,” he said.

Atsumu searched his face. “You sure?”

Sakusa nodded. “They don’t get to disrupt my life. Not again.”

The conviction in his voice wasn’t loud — wasn’t even hard — but it was there. Sharp in its clarity. Solid in a way it hadn’t been yesterday.

Atsumu leaned forward, brushed their noses together, and whispered, “Then let’s go win a fuckin’ game.”

Sakusa let out a breath that almost — almost — sounded like a laugh.

The locker room was buzzing — sneakers squeaking against tile, laughter echoing off the walls, Meian barking orders over the din like a long-suffering father wrangling a school trip. Bokuto was already half-dressed and trying to wrestle Inunaki into some kind of celebratory handshake, and Hinata was explaining very loudly why he needed to tape both ankles this time, not just one.

But no one said a word to Sakusa.

Not about yesterday. Not about his parents. Not even about his eyes, still slightly puffy. He caught a few glances — lingering ones from Meian, a worried look from Hinata, the kind of quiet check-in that didn’t need words — but no one brought it up.

No awkward sympathy.

No probing questions.

Just space.

And Sakusa knew — knew — that Atsumu had said something.

He didn’t know what, exactly. Just that whatever it was, it had worked.

Because he was being left alone, the way he needed to be.

Atsumu stuck close the whole time.

Not hovering. Just near. Like a bodyguard who also happened to be in tiny shorts and a loose practice tee that kept slipping off one shoulder.

Sakusa went through his routine — slow, deliberate, grounding. Wiped down the soles of his shoes. Retaped each finger. Checked the seams of his jersey twice. Stretched with mechanical precision.

And Atsumu?

He didn’t interrupt.

Just watched. Made sure no one else did either. Sat on the bench beside him, quiet but ready to bare his teeth if anyone got too close.

There was something deeply comforting about it.

Not performative. Not overbearing.

Just steady.

Just him.

Eventually, Sakusa stood. Adjusted his elbow pads. Looked down at Atsumu, who met his eyes without a word and stood too.

They didn’t touch.

Didn’t need to.

Sakusa exhaled.

Then nodded.

“Let’s play some volleyball.”

The Schweiden Adlers always brought a crowd.

Even on MSBY’s home court, the energy shifted — heavier, sharper. Every spike from Ushijima was a statement. Every set from Kageyama came with surgical precision. And every time Sakusa took the court against them, something in him clicked.

He didn’t play angry.

He played like a scalpel.

Precise. Cold. Deadly.

Tonight was no exception.

The first set was brutal. Long rallies, brutal serves, the kind of back-and-forth that left the crowd on edge and the players breathless. Ushijima slammed down a line shot so hard it left a mark on the floor. Kageyama nearly decapitated Tomas with a dump. Even Hinata was sweating buckets, bouncing in place like a livewire.

But Sakusa?

Unshaken.

He blocked Kageyama twice in a row, both times with such clean form it looked choreographed. Then landed a jump serve that kissed the baseline and didn’t even bounce — just died on impact.

Atsumu grinned every time. Called the plays with confidence, with intimacy, like he knew exactly where Sakusa wanted the ball before he even looked.

They worked in perfect sync — cleaner than they’d ever been. Atsumu’s hands found Sakusa’s timing like muscle memory, and Sakusa moved like he had no weight left in his chest, like the grief had burned clean and left only clarity behind.

Meian muttered something on the sidelines about “a man possessed.”

By the third set, the Adlers were scrambling. Even Ushijima, unflinching and immovable as always, was starting to adjust. Sakusa could see it — the slight shift in his stance, the fraction of a second longer it took to recover. Not fear, exactly.

Just respect.

And when Atsumu went up for a fake and Sakusa thundered a back-row attack so hard it slammed off the libero’s shoulder and into the stands?

The crowd exploded.

MSBY called the set.

Sakusa landed, chest heaving, sweat slick down his neck. He turned. Met Atsumu’s eyes across the court.

And smiled.

Not wide.

Not showy.

Just a flicker of something real — something full of pride.

Atsumu mouthed, that’s my boy , and it was enough.

The game wasn’t over.

But they’d already won something.

He barely made it off the court before someone snagged his elbow.

“Sakusa-san! Just a quick word?”

It was one of the sideline reporters — camera crew already set up, mic in hand, smile too bright. Sakusa resisted the urge to sigh, only nodding curtly as she motioned him into position.

The camera light clicked on. The mic came up.

The locker room was a mess of half-shouted conversations, towels slapping bare backs, and Bokuto’s voice carrying over everyone else’s like some kind of unkillable spirit of noise.

Sakusa moved through it like always — quiet, calculated. He set his things down at his usual spot, peeled off his jersey, and reached for the sanitiser in his bag. The sting of alcohol grounded him more than it should’ve. A ritual, like everything else.

But this time, there was a hand.

Fingertips brushing his lower back. Gentle. Just a pass, a graze, but deliberate enough that Sakusa turned slightly to catch him.

Atsumu.

Still flushed from the game, hair damp with sweat, eyes already on Sakusa like they didn’t just play three brutal sets and win. His hand lingered another second longer before slipping away.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said, voice low and soft — only for Sakusa. “Be right back.”

Sakusa nodded. Said nothing.

But he didn’t leave.

He sat down on the bench, reached for his towel, and began drying off his arms — slow and methodical, like there wasn’t an ache in his chest that only eased when Atsumu was near.

Across the room, Bokuto was trying to convince Hinata to do a backflip. Meian was muttering something about liability. Tomas was pulling up the game stats like it was a postmortem.

But Sakusa just waited.

And somewhere deep in the noise, he heard the shower turn on.

And felt himself start to breathe again.

He stayed seated, towel loose in his lap, elbows braced on his knees. The chaos around him blurred — Bokuto’s shouting, the hiss of showers, someone’s music playing from a half-broken speaker. It all faded into a distant hum, like background noise in a dream.

Sakusa didn’t check his phone.

Didn’t rewrap his knee.

Didn’t bother with his shoes.

He just… sat.

There was something about the way the water sounded in the distance. Like rain on pavement. Like something soft, steady. He let his eyes fall shut for a moment and tracked it — imagined it was falling on his skin, washing away the sting of memory and the static in his head.

He could still feel his mother’s voice ringing in his ears.

Still hear his father sighing like he was the one suffering.

Still see the card, crumpled and gone.

He inhaled.

Exhaled.

Let it shake on the way out.

There was a tap on his shoulder — someone walking past, maybe Tomas — and he tensed, just for a second, before relaxing again. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to think. Just needed—

The sound of the shower turning off echoed louder than it should’ve.

Sakusa sat up a little straighter.

Let the towel fall from his lap. Reached slowly for his hoodie.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t move.

Just waited.

Because even with all the mess of this week, even with everything still raw and aching under his ribs, one thing remained constant.

Atsumu would come back.

He always came back.

And right now, that was enough.

The steam from the showers clung to Atsumu’s skin as he stepped back into the locker room, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges, towel slung low on his hips. He was laughing at something Hinata said behind him — loud, bright — but the second his eyes landed on Sakusa, it quieted.

Not completely. Just… softened.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just walked over, quiet in his movements despite the buzz around them, and dropped down onto the bench beside him. Close, but not crowding. Warm.

Sakusa didn’t look up. Didn’t need to.

Atsumu’s hand brushed lightly against his knee — not possessive, not lingering, just a quiet reminder that he was there. That he was real. That he hadn’t gone far.

“Hey,” Atsumu murmured, voice low, for Sakusa’s ears only.

Sakusa nodded. That was all he could manage.

Atsumu leaned forward, elbows on his knees to match Sakusa’s posture. Their shoulders pressed, barely — warm skin meeting warm hoodie. He didn’t push. Didn’t prod. Just… stayed.

A moment passed. Then two.

“You played like a demon today,” Atsumu said finally, voice a little lighter. “Think ya scared the shit outta their outside hitter.”

Sakusa huffed a breath — something close to a laugh. “Good.”

“Also think you scared our libero.”

“That’s fair.”

Atsumu’s smile curved against the corner of his mouth. “You waitin’ for me?”

Sakusa nodded again.

This time, Atsumu touched his hand — gentle, quiet. His fingers grazed over Sakusa’s knuckles, curled just enough to anchor without pulling.

“Okay,” he said simply. “Let me get dressed. Then we’ll go home.”

And Sakusa didn’t answer.

Just finally, finally let himself breathe.

They didn’t speak as they left the locker room — not because there was nothing to say, but because everything had already been said in the quiet press of their shoulders. In the way Atsumu hadn’t let go. In the way Sakusa hadn’t asked him to.

The night air hit them as the doors swung shut behind them. Crisp, a little too sharp. Sakusa exhaled through his nose and kept walking.

He didn’t rush.

Not exactly.

But Atsumu saw it — the way his fingers twitched at the sleeves of his hoodie, the way his eyes flicked up at every passing voice or laugh from behind them. The way his jaw clenched just slightly when someone called out a goodbye across the lot.

He wanted out. Fast. Quiet.

So Atsumu didn’t dawdle. Didn’t crack a joke. Just walked a half-step behind him, like a shadow. Like a shield.

Sakusa clicked the car open before they reached it. The lights blinked in the dark, a little too bright. He slid into the passenger seat the second Atsumu unlocked it — not even pretending to wait for him to open the door.

By the time Atsumu climbed in behind the wheel, Sakusa had his seatbelt on and one hand fisted loosely in the fabric of his hoodie, like he was still bracing for something.

Atsumu started the car.

Neither of them spoke until they were out of the lot, headlights stretching long across the road.

Then — quietly — Sakusa said, “Thanks for driving.”

Atsumu didn’t look over. Just reached across the console, fingers brushing against Sakusa’s knee.

“Always.”

They didn’t talk much on the way. The city slipped past in blurs of light, muffled by the hum of the heater and the steady rhythm of tires on asphalt. Atsumu kept one hand on the wheel and the other within reach — resting lightly between them, palm up. Sakusa didn’t take it right away. But somewhere near the second set of lights, he reached over and threaded their fingers together without a word.

By the time they pulled into Atsumu’s driveway, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. Just warm. Familiar.

Atsumu killed the engine. The dash light faded. Neither of them moved.

Then—

“C’mon,” Atsumu murmured, giving Sakusa’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Let’s go inside.”

They didn’t turn on the overheads. Just the little lamp by the kitchen, soft and golden, enough to see by. Sakusa leaned against the doorframe while Atsumu tossed his keys into the bowl and kicked off his shoes, hoodie riding up just enough to show the strip of skin above his waistband.

“You hungry?” Atsumu asked over his shoulder. “I’ve got leftovers. Or we could do toast.”

Sakusa shook his head. “Not hungry.”

Atsumu padded over. Stopped just in front of him, then reached up to brush his fingertips through Sakusa’s curls. “Okay,” he said softly. “Bed?”

Sakusa didn’t answer. Just leaned forward — forehead resting against Atsumu’s shoulder, breathing in slow.

Atsumu wrapped his arms around him and held him there. No questions. No rush.

“Bed it is,” he whispered, and steered them gently down the hall to the bathroom.

The water was hot — almost too hot — but Sakusa stayed under it anyway. Let it run over his shoulders, his neck, his face, like it could rinse away the last twenty-four hours. Like it could strip off the weight of that card, that voice, that look of disappointment etched into his father’s silence.

When he stepped out, the mirror was fogged. He didn’t wipe it clean.

Atsumu had left a change of clothes on the counter: one of his oversized jumpers, faded navy with slightly frayed sleeves, and a clean pair of soft grey trackies. Sakusa dressed slowly, folding into the familiar cotton like it was armor, or maybe a second skin.

The house was quiet when he padded out of the bathroom.

Atsumu was already in bed, propped up on one elbow, curls messy and cheeks faintly flushed from his own shower. He was scrolling through his phone, but the second he saw Sakusa, he set it aside and pulled back the blanket without a word.

Sakusa slipped in next to him.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Atsumu’s arm slid around his waist, his nose pressing gently to Sakusa’s damp curls. Their legs tangled under the sheets. The room was warm, dim, safe.

Sakusa exhaled. Let the tension bleed out slowly, like it had somewhere to go now. Like he didn’t have to carry it alone.

“Hi,” Atsumu whispered after a long stretch of silence, voice thick with sleep and something gentler.

Sakusa turned slightly, just enough to tuck his face against Atsumu’s throat.

“Hi,” he breathed back.

They lay there for a while in the quiet, pressed close, sharing slow, steady breaths. Sakusa’s fingers had curled loosely into the hem of Atsumu’s shirt, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, and Atsumu didn’t ask him to.

Eventually, Atsumu broke the silence. “Ya played so fuckin’ good today.”

Sakusa huffed, face still half-buried in his neck. “You always say that.”

“Yeah, well—today I meant it,” Atsumu grinned, pressing a kiss to Sakusa’s temple. “Seriously. You were a menace out there.”

Sakusa was quiet for a second. Then: “Felt like I had to be.”

Atsumu’s smile faded, but he didn’t let go. “You didn’t. You don’t. But I get it.”

Sakusa shifted a little, eyes on the crease of Atsumu’s shirt. “I didn’t want them to think they got to me. I didn’t want me to think they got to me.”

“They didn’t,” Atsumu said immediately, firm and soft all at once. “You were fuckin’ incredible. Proud of you, baby.”

That earned a small noise — half sigh, half breath of disbelief. Sakusa’s hand slid up, rested lightly over Atsumu’s chest. “I don’t feel incredible.”

“That’s okay.” Atsumu kissed the top of his head again. “Feelin’ shitty don’t cancel out bein’ good. Don’t cancel out bein’ loved either.”

Sakusa didn’t answer right away.

Then he tilted his head just slightly to meet Atsumu’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Atsumu’s thumb stroked slow over his spine. “Y’know I’m always gonna be here. Through all of it.”

Sakusa looked at him a moment longer. Then nodded. Small. Grateful.

“You should sleep,” Atsumu murmured after a while, brushing his fingers through Sakusa’s curls again.

“Don’t want to yet.”

“Mm, why not?”

Sakusa’s voice was quiet, just above a whisper. “Feels good here.”

Atsumu smiled.

“Then stay,” he said. “As long as ya need.”

And Sakusa did.

Sakusa woke to the soft hum of morning — birds outside the window, sheets warm around his hips, the scent of clean cotton and Atsumu’s shampoo in the air. He blinked, slow and hazy, letting the light filter in through his lashes.

Atsumu was lying beside him, still in the same shirt from the night before, phone in one hand, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he scrolled through something with his thumb. He looked so relaxed. So stupidly beautiful in the quiet light, his hair a mess, his skin golden in the sun.

Sakusa didn’t think. Didn’t need to.

“I love you,” he murmured, voice low and sleep-rough.

Atsumu glanced down, eyes crinkling instantly. “Well good mornin’ to you too, princess,” he grinned, tossing the phone aside without hesitation and rolling over until he was practically on top of him. “Ya always get this sappy when ya wake up in my bed?”

Sakusa made a noise — a mix between a sigh and a huff — but didn’t push him off. His hands found Atsumu’s waist, his thumb slipping beneath the hem of the shirt, just brushing skin.

“I always wake up loving you,” he muttered.

“God, that was smooth,” Atsumu laughed, kissing his cheek, then his nose, then his mouth. “You tryin’ to get lucky again?”

Sakusa rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to get a kiss without commentary.”

“So needy in the mornings,” Atsumu teased, but kissed him again anyway — soft, sweet, lingering.

And if Sakusa smiled into it?

Well.

He didn’t try to hide it.

Atsumu shifted just enough to press a kiss to Sakusa’s cheek. Then another to the corner of his mouth. Then one just under his jaw, where he knew Sakusa was ticklish — gentle enough not to make him flinch, but just enough to pull a faint, sleepy huff from him.

Sakusa blinked up at him, lids heavy. “That’s excessive.”

“Mm, nah,” Atsumu whispered, kissing the tip of his nose. “I’m plying ya with affection. Works better than melatonin.”

Sakusa didn’t answer, but his face softened. He tucked his head back down against Atsumu’s chest, hand sliding beneath the fabric of his shirt like he needed to feel skin-to-skin.

Atsumu didn’t say anything else. Just kept one arm around him, kept his fingers moving in slow, lazy patterns across his back.

And eventually, Sakusa’s breaths evened out. His body went lax. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.

He fell asleep like that — wrapped in warmth, cocooned in comfort, the quiet press of Atsumu’s heartbeat anchoring him.

For the first time in days, his chest didn’t ache.

And he didn’t dream of shame.

Just warmth.

Just love.

Just home.

The whole day stretched out in front of them like soft sunlight on warm sheets — no alarms, no practice, no obligations. Just time. Just the two of them.

Sakusa stood barefoot in Atsumu’s kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, quietly rinsing strawberries while Atsumu hummed behind him, flipping pancakes with the confidence of a man who considered himself a brunch connoisseur.

“I still don’t understand why you insist on putting chocolate chips and blueberries in the same pancake,” Sakusa said, eyeing the bowl of batter dubiously.

Atsumu bumped his hip playfully. “Because I’m a genius with a sophisticated palate.”

“You’re a menace with a sweet tooth.”

“And yet, ya kissed me this morning. Must mean ya like both.”

Sakusa gave him a look, but it lacked any real heat. Especially when Atsumu turned back to the stove and started swaying to the playlist he’d thrown on — something soft and boppy, the kind Sakusa would never admit he liked.

Their plates came together in a slow, lazy rhythm. Pancakes stacked, fruit added, a drizzle of honey instead of syrup because Sakusa insisted it was less sticky. They ate on the couch, legs tangled, a documentary neither of them were really watching playing in the background.

After, it was dishes — a mess of bubbles and mild bickering, with Atsumu flicking suds at him until Sakusa retaliated by spraying him with the faucet.

“You’re the worst,” Atsumu declared, dripping and laughing.

“You’re the loudest,” Sakusa countered — but his hands were already reaching for a towel.

Later, they sprawled on the balcony, warm tea in their hands, a blanket slung over their laps. Atsumu dozed with his head on Sakusa’s shoulder, fingers loosely curled around his wrist like he couldn’t bear to let go — even in sleep.

It started simple:

“You wanna go out for lunch?” Atsumu asked, chin on Sakusa’s shoulder, voice muffled by the hoodie Sakusa hadn’t taken off since morning.

Sakusa tilted his head just enough to brush against his temple. “Only if you pick somewhere that doesn’t give me food poisoning.”

Atsumu gasped. “That happened once.”

“You made me eat something called a ‘spicy tuna tornado.’”

“It was a specialty item!”

“It had nacho cheese on it.”

“…Okay, fair.”

They ended up at a quiet little café on a side street — the kind with mismatched chairs and plants hanging from the ceiling, soft jazz playing just loud enough to cover the hum of conversation. Sakusa liked it immediately. Atsumu liked that Sakusa liked it.

They sat in the corner, sharing a pot of jasmine tea while waiting for their food — grilled chicken wraps for Atsumu, roasted veggie sandwich for Sakusa, both with fries because compromise.

Sakusa picked at his food carefully, savoring the flavors. Atsumu devoured his wrap like it had personally offended him. At some point, one of the waitstaff recognized them.

“You guys are with MSBY, right? The setter and the… other one?”

Sakusa blinked. “Wing spiker.”

“Oh my god, right. My boyfriend loves watching you two.”

Atsumu grinned. “Well, I am the fan favorite.”

Sakusa stole one of his fries. Atsumu gasped like it was betrayal.

“I’m tellin’ the fans you’re a thief.”

“You’re the one who left your food unattended.”

A beat. Then they both smiled — small and private and stupidly soft.

After lunch, Atsumu insisted on paying (“Birthday boy tax”) and Sakusa let him, if only to avoid arguing in public. They wandered down the street after, hand brushing hand, until Atsumu finally gave up pretending and just intertwined their fingers.

Neither of them said anything.

Didn’t need to.

Not when the afternoon sun was warm, and the city felt quiet for once, and they were together.

They didn’t mean to spend the whole afternoon horizontal.

But the moment they got home — shoes kicked off, jumpers tugged on, Sakusa stealing the comfier blanket without remorse — it just sort of… happened.