Archive of Our Own ^omega

"I have spent all my life resisting the desire to end it."

🪳🪳🪳

Atsumu’s first memory is a little blurry, smudged around the edges, like a photograph that’s yellowed with age. He knows he’s at his grannie’s house, and he’s sitting in grass that’s almost taller than he is. Osamu is sitting next to him; their chubby fingers are locked together. Back then, their fingers were always locked together. You couldn’t tell where one twin began and the other ended. Atsumu would toddle around, dragging Osamu from one adventure to the next.

He knows that the sun was high in the sky—and the sky—it was so blue. The kind of blue you only appreciate as a kid. Never bigger and never brighter. Blue in the way that it’s endless. You don’t know how or why, but one day you’re gonna stand on your tiptoes and finally be tall enough to touch it.

His grannie had a cheap disposable camera clasped between her hands, and she was cooing at the twins, trying to catch their attention. Trying to get them to smile.

Even back then, Osamu was the easier twin. Because Atsumu had ignored his grannie, instead choosing to look at the sky. To see if it was really as far away as it seemed. Osamu was smiling like the good one. Like the calm one. Like the better one.

“Good boy, Samu,” his grannie praised, before tsking at Atsumu. “Come on, Tsumu, be a good boy like your brother and smile for me.”

Atsumu had cocked his head to the side, because why had refusing to smile made him bad? He didn’t want to smile. He wanted to look at the clouds as they drifted low.

His grannie had just sighed at him, and with the single shutter of the camera, a picture of him and Osamu, on a warm summer day at their grannie’s house in Hyogo, was immortalized forever. In matching overalls, hands intertwined, Osamu smiled while Atsumu frowned, and maybe—really—that’s where the problem lies.

Osamu is everything he will never be.

Because how could you go your whole life being compared to your mirror image, but know that you’ll never measure up. Not where it mattered. Not where it counted.

🪳🪳🪳

Atsumu sat with the photo album on his lap, and not for the first time that day, that week, that month, that year, resisted the urge to shove his fingers in his eye sockets to stop the surge of tears that threatened to fall.

He felt kind of pathetic. No—he didn’t feel pathetic—he was pathetic. There was a difference. He was sitting on the bottom bunk, clutching the old photo album full of his and Osamu’s baby photos, wishing he could stop the passage of time. He was running his fingers over memories long gone, while Osamu was out with Rin, trying to soak up their remaining time as third years.

Osamu was trying to hold on to Rin, and Atsumu was trying to hold on to him. He tried to tell himself that growing up was the natural order of things. It only made sense for them to spread their wings and leave the nest. It’s what their mom had been preparing them for. It’s what they were supposed to do. But where Osamu seemed easily accepting of the changes around them, there were claw marks on everything that Atsumu had ever let go of. He had never had it in him to go with grace.

When Atsumu learned that Osamu wasn’t planning on going pro—that he hadn’t been for a long time and that almost all their friends knew—he wishes he could say that he had been more supportive of his brother. He wishes he could say he didn’t blow up, didn’t try to cut Osamu, so he wouldn’t have to bleed alone. He wishes he could say he didn’t see it as a betrayal, but when he first found out, that’s all it was. Osamu had been lying to him. He didn’t trust him, didn’t love him, didn’t want him.

It tore Atsumu to shreds, and the only thing he could do was try to tear Osamu to shreds right along with him. They were twins after all; they were supposed to match. Not only did he cause the biggest fight between them ever, but he also managed to horrify his entire team all in one go. He was just talented like that.

Maybe if it had gone down differently. Maybe if Aran had double-checked that Atsumu wasn’t still in the locker room before opening his mouth. Maybe if Osamu had been able to sit down and tell him like he’d been planning to. Maybe if Atsumu wasn’t such an asshole, things wouldn’t have imploded. Maybe.

But Aran hadn’t checked the locker room before asking Osamu if he’d gotten a chance to tell him yet. Maybe if Ginjima hadn’t snorted and said that if Atsumu had found out that Osamu wasn’t playing volleyball after high school, they’d have all heard about it by now.

Osamu made horrified eye contact with Atsumu over Aran’s shoulder, as he stepped out of the shower, hair dripping, and heart in shatters.  

“What?” Atsumu had asked, because what else could he have said? Because what? 

The team froze, and suddenly the high they’d had from winning their practice game vanished. The atmosphere had changed from jovial to tense within seconds, and everyone slowly turned to face Atsumu. Everyone thought he was still in the gym, doing extra practice like usual.

“Tsumu,” Osamu said, eyes wide. He didn’t finish his sentence, and it didn’t take twin telepathy to know that there was pure dread flowing through his veins.

“’Course Osamu’s going pro,” Atsumu said, laughing nervously, “We’re tryin’ out for the Jackals.”

It must have been some kind of joke. His team loved to rip on each other. This was just another prank to make Atsumu freak out, like the time they put a rubber snake in his locker. It was harmless.

Atsumu tried to comfort himself, but the longer he stood there, the tighter his chest got. No one was laughing, and everyone looked like there’d been a death in the family. If Atsumu didn’t know any better, he’d say they looked scared.

Osamu’s eyes shifted down, and he reached for his gym bag. “We can talk about this at home, Tsumu.”

Alarm bells were going off in his head, because what was there to talk about? Osamu was going pro. They both were. The infamous Miya twins. It was them against the world, always had been.

“Talk about what?” Atsumu whispered.

Osamu sighed, “I don’t wanna do this here, Tsumu.”

Atsumu felt himself begin to freeze from the inside out. Frost spreading from the base of his spine, into his stomach, and creeping toward his heart. He was afraid it might freeze it. He was afraid the icy feeling would spread to his fingertips. Afraid that he’d never feel again.

Atsumu always associated that icy feeling with rage, but he’d never felt this way because of his brother. He’d felt this way because of their father, the bastard who left. He’d felt this way because of volleyball, the rage that comes with trying your hardest and still losing. He’d felt this way when his grannie had died, unable to comprehend how the world could just take something away in the night, providing no explanation as to why.

But he’d never felt this way because of Osamu. Maybe that’s why he didn’t pull his punches. Maybe that’s why he reacted like a cornered animal when Osamu said that he had no plans to continue playing after high school. That he wanted to be a chef of all things. That he hoped that Atsumu would be supportive.

The rest of the team already knew.

Atsumu was the last to know. Atsumu—who was the first to tell Osamu everything—was the very last person on the team to find out.

Kita knew Atsumu was an atomic bomb before he exploded. He tried to place a hand on his shoulder, to tell him to breathe, to think before he spoke, but Atsumu wasn’t the easy twin. Atsumu was the bad twin. Always had been.

So, like any good atomic bomb, and any bad twin, he exploded and watched as he obliterated Osamu in the process.

“You’re not my brother!” He’d screamed. It was the final insult, but not the first. Atsumu always shot to kill when he was mad, and right now, he wasn’t mad; he was devastated . He’d called Osamu every word in the book, told him he was a liar and a traitor, and he’d never forgive him for this. Told him that when they were on their death beds in 80 years, he’d regret it because Atsumu would have lived the better life. Told him that he hopes it was worth it, because they’d never be the same.

Then, like any good coward and any bad twin, he ran.

The tears on Osamu’s face and the horrified looks of his teammates are ingrained in his mind. He ran. He ran all the way home and straight into his mother’s arms. She already knew. Atsumu felt betrayal washing over him all over again.

“You knew?” He accused her, leaving the comfort of her embrace even if he didn’t want to.

She gave him a knowing look, “You know your brother tells me everything. Just like you do, Tsumu.”

Atsumu shakes his head and laughs, but it’s angry and he’s pissed even more now, “Well, he used to tell me everything! Obviously, I can’t be trusted anymore, seein' as everyone else but me knew!”

His mother sighs, “He wanted to tell you, Tsumu, he just didn’t know how. He was afraid you’d be upset.”

Atsumu’s jaw tenses, and he wants to rip the framed pictures off the walls and roll around in the shattered glass. Lay on the ground and pound his fists and feet until the rage passes, like he did when he was a kid.

He wants to go back to a time when he didn’t feel like Osamu was a million miles away from him.

“Clearly,” his mother chides gently, running her fingers through his hair, “He had reason to be worried.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen, and he’s back on his feet in an instant, “You think I overreacted? He’s changed our future, did a complete 180 and didn’t even bother tellin’ me, but I’m in the wrong?”

His mother holds his gaze, “He didn’t change your future, Tsumu; he changed his. I understand that this is going to be an adjustment, and it’s okay if you need time to come to terms with it, but I won’t pretend what you said to your brother is okay. This is scary for him, too. I’m sure he’s feeling a lot like you do right now.”

Atsumu glares at her, and he knows the only reason he’s getting away with having an attitude like this is because she knows he’s hurting, but the gaping hole in his chest shows no signs of shrinking.

“Ya think he feels like his family and friends betrayed him and kept a massive secret from him for months? All because apparently, you’re nothing but a raging asshole who can’t handle change or the truth?”

“Atsumu—”

“'Cause that’s a lot like how I feel, mom,” Atsumu says, and his voice is choked, and there are tears in his eyes.

“You know that’s not fair,” she says, voice still kind. Unwavering after having to deal with the twins for eighteen years.

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees, “You’re right. None of this is fair. Glad we agree.”

Then Atsumu is gone, feet carrying him back out of the house. Angry. Angry at Osamu. Angry at his mother. Angry at his team. Angry at the world.

He doesn’t come home that night, and he faces the consequences of an angry mother and a twin with bloodshot eyes the next morning, but he doesn’t care. He spent the night with his back pressed up against his grannie’s headstone, praying for some kind of guidance. Some kind of relief.

If she bothered to answer him, he didn’t hear it.

It takes time. A lot of time.

The third-years graduate, and with tears in his eyes, Atsumu thanks Kita and Aran for being the kind of men he wants to be. The kind of men who are strong and fearless, but kind and compassionate too. The kind of men who face things head-on and don’t run away.

It’s Kita who claps him on the shoulder, “You’re gonna do great things, Tsumu. You’re gonna be a good captain, and I know the team's gonna get even stronger. But you know that if you want to win, if you truly want to be the best, you gotta find it in yourself to forgive Osamu. It’s been months, and it’s your last year together like this. After this, everything changes.”

Atsumu swallows down his protests because something flashes in Kita’s eyes. It’s the same look he gets before games, telling them to give it their all, that it’s not over until it’s over.

He squeezes Atsumu’s shoulder even tighter, and Atsumu feels his throat tighten even more, “So, stop running.”

Atsumu blinks away his tears, and is it weird that Kita—even though he’s only a year older—is better than any father figure he could have ever asked for?

He feels something unfurl in his chest, because right now he doesn’t want to be mad at Osamu anymore. He doesn’t want to continue moving around him like they’re two ghosts occupying the same haunted house. He doesn’t want to feel like he’s missing his right arm.

He wants to talk to Osamu, wants to hug him, and mourn the loss of their Senpai together.

“Okay, Kita-san,” Atsumu eventually says, and it’s the beginning of the end. In all ways.

He talks to Osamu that night. Osamu is on the top bunk that he’s too tall for, slamming his head on the ceiling in the morning more often than not.

“Are you awake?” he asks from his bunk on the bottom.

It takes a minute, and Atsumu thinks for a moment that Osamu is either ignoring him or might actually be asleep at 10 pm on a weekend.

“Yeah,” Osamu eventually confirms.

Atsumu sighs, thinking about his words. They really haven’t talked. About anything. They avoid eye contact and each other like the plague. Atsumu knows his mother is worried. They’ve never fought this badly, and never one that has gone on for months like this.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

There’s a long bout of silence, and again, Atsumu thinks that Osamu might ignore him, but then in a voice smaller than he’s ever heard from his twin, Osamu says, “Because then it would make it real.”

“What do you mean?” Atsumu asks.

There’s shuffling above him, and Atsumu can picture him shrugging in that noncommittal way he always does, “I mean that I’m scared.” He huffs, “Shitless, actually. You could be right. I could do this and fall flat on my face, and then I’ll have thrown everything away for nothing, ya know? Like, I know that I want it. I know that I have to try. But deciding to do this has made every single thing in my life harder, and what if it’s not worth it?”

Atsumu feels something that feels a lot like guilt pile in his stomach.

“What kind of chef do you wanna be?” He asks instead of apologizing.

He can hear something shift in Osamu’s voice. It’s brighter now, “I think I want to open an Onigiri shop.”

“Like grannies Oni—”

“Yeah,” Osamu confirms, “Hers was the best. I know I still have a long way to go, but I think if people gave it a chance, they’d like it.”

Atsumu snorts, “Please, they’d love it. You’ve always been the best at making it. I think I liked your onigiri’s more than granny's, but don’t tell anyone I said that.”

It takes Atsumu a moment to realize that he’d encouraged Osamu. He wasn’t sure at first that he was going to. He wasn’t sure at first what he’d hoped to gain from this conversation. Insight? Forgiveness? More reasons to stay angry?

But being supportive of his brother is so second nature to him that it rolls off his tongue like dice on a blackjack table. He finds that he doesn’t mind. The more he thinks about it, the more he can see it. Osamu standing behind the counter at a little shop. Folding the rice between his hands, smiling at the customers who came in.

“Did you really?” Osamu’s voice comes from above, “Like mine better?”

Atsumu swallows around the lump in his throat, “I always like you better, Samu. Even if you are a secret-keepin' scrub sometimes.”

Suddenly, there’s shuffling again, but this time it’s more recognizable. Atsumu watches as Osamu swings himself over the edge of the bed and jumps down, ignoring the ladder completely. Then he’s sliding into Atsumu’s bed, and Atsumu is scooting over to make room.

There’s a small salt lamp on in the corner, so the room isn’t completely dark. Everything is cast in its usual orange glow, and Atsumu is glad he can see the side of Osamu’s face when he talks.

“I’m sorry for not tellin’ you,” he says, sounding guilty. “I wanted to—really, I did—I just didn’t know how. I felt like I was lettin’ you down.”

Atsumu sighs, “You’re an idiot.” he watches the way Osamu seems to deflate, “’Cause you could never let me down, not really.”

“You didn’t talk to me for months,” Osamu argues, eyebrows scrunching.

“I’m not gonna sit here and pretend that I wasn’t upset,” Atsumu says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was upset that you didn’t wanna keep playin’, but after I had some time to think, I was more upset that I was the last to know. Ya told Rin first, and then the rest of the team, and even Ma knew before me. It felt like…I don’t know. Felt like you didn’t trust me or something, and it pissed me off. I tell you everything, trust you with everything, and then suddenly I find out that the feeling is not mutual.”

Osamu is shaking his head before Atsumu can finish, “It had nothing to do with Trust, Tsumu. It was because I was scared. I was scared that I would tell you and you’d hate me. I was scared you’d say I would fail…”

He trails off for just a moment, “I was more scared that I would tell you and you’d tell me to go for it. Telling you made it real. I’m really quitting. I’m really gonna try to start something from the ground up.”

Atsumu remembers when they were kids, and they would hold hands and drag each other wherever the other wanted to go. He remembers when there were no secrets, just bugs, and grass, and sky. It was just them figuring out the rest of the world.

He guesses it still is. Them vs the rest of the world. Atsumu figures life is hard enough without forcing yourself to hate your brother for trying to chase his dreams. For trying to stand on his tiptoes and touch the blue sky.

“Well, you were right,” Atsumu confesses, smiling reassuringly at his twin. “I told you that I thought you would fail. But I was wrong, Samu. That wasn’t right, and it isn’t true, and I didn’t mean it. So now, I’m telling you to go for it. Because you’ll make the best damn onigiri that Japan has ever seen. And when I have a million Instagram followers from being the best damn setter Japan has ever seen, you’ll open up your shop and I’ll make sure to give you a shout out every now and then.”

Osamu is staring at the bars that hold up the top bunk, and his eyes are watery, but there’s a small smile on his face.

“Thanks, Tsumu.”

Atsumu closes his eyes and tries to remember this feeling. Lying in the bottom bunk with his brother. Everything is changing around them, and there is little they can do to stop it. But he can hold on to this. For now.

“Don’t mention it, Scrub.”

🪳🪳🪳

Everything and nothing changed after that fight. They went back to normal for the most part, but now when they talked about the future, Samu was thinking about business loans and Atsumu was thinking about how to use his professional salary so Samu didn’t have to take one out.  

Their third year started in a flurry, and suddenly they were in the midst of practice, and games, and working hard to get to nationals. That wasn’t anything unusual, but what was, were the secretive stares that Osamu and Rin started sharing when they thought no one was watching.

Atsumu had watched them dance around each other long enough to know that something was going on. That’s why, halfway through July, when Osamu sat down next to him in the grass of their backyard, their tattered volleyball net being abused by Atsumu once again, he wasn’t surprised to hear that Osamu had finally bucked up and asked Rin out.

“So, ya finally did it, huh?” Atsumu asked with a smirk, “It’s about time, I thought I’d be 67 before I finally got to be your best man.”

Osamu splutters, “Best man!? We’ve only been dating a few weeks, that’s too soon to even think about marriage!”

Atsumu can’t help but snort, “Please, we all know you’ve liked each other since first year. Give it two years and you’ll be down on one knee, and I’ll be tellin’ ya I told ya so!”

“You’re real annoyin’, do you know that?” Osamu grumbles, shoving him.

“Learned from the best, scrub,” Atsumu chirps.

Osamu started spending more time alone with Rin, trying to soak up as much time together as they could before real life started. Atsumu tried his best not to feel too left out, but he couldn’t help but yearn for the days when they were a trio. He wanted to give them the space they needed, but he couldn’t help but fret. Didn’t they realize they were running out of time with him, too?

Their days were finite and numbered, and while Atsumu seemed to be dragging his feet in a funeral march toward graduation, he could hear Rin and Osamu excitedly planning for the future.

There had been scouts at their games for both Rin and Atsumu. While Atsumu was in talks with the MSBY Black Jackals, Rin was in serious discussion with EJP Raijin. He and Osamu had been trying to figure out how to make long-distance work. Atsumu knew that they would. He had never seen two people look at each other the way that Rin and Osamu did. He was happy for them, even if it did make something inside of him twist with envy.

Maybe Atsumu wouldn’t care so much if Kita and Aran were still here, but with Osamu and Rin preoccupied, he was coming to terms with the fact that he didn’t have a ton of friends to hang out with outside of them. Sure, he had the rest of his team, but the other third years were busy hanging out with their girlfriends, and he hadn’t quite swallowed his pride enough to ask if his underclassmen were free, because he didn’t wanna look like that much of a loser.

So maybe that’s why he was sitting on his bottom bunk, alone on a Friday night, looking at old pictures and trying not to feel like the stitching in his lungs was coming undone. He’d spent the second half of his second year fighting with Osamu, but their third year was drawing to a close, and Osamu was too busy with Rin to hang out now. He ran his thumb over the corner of the photo and tried to pretend his eyes weren’t wet.

When he flipped to the next page in the album, he was startled to see a roach smashed between the heavy pages. It was small and evidently had been there for quite some time, seeing how it was practically mummified.

He knows that it was from the house they had lived in as kids. The house they’d had when their dad ran out on them and left their mom with a mortgage she couldn’t afford. He remembers walking into the kitchen at night, seven years old and thirsty, and flipping on the kitchen light and seeing an absurd amount of roaches scatter back underneath cabinets and out of sight.

He remembers his mom crying a lot back then. They all cried a lot back then.

Then his dad left and his mom moved them back to their grannie’s house, and even though it was smaller and he and Osamu had to share a room, he’d finally felt safe. There were no more roaches, no more dads, no more tears.

Anytime his dad was around, he’d feel like he had to walk on eggshells, afraid that the wrong move would set him off. He never knew what would cause a fist to smash into drywall or a glass to shatter against the floor. He wished his dad would have left sooner. Atsumu didn’t miss him.

He stares at the roach, notices how it’s smashed over a photo of him and Osamu. They're standing in the garden outside. Its flattened corpse is smeared directly over Atsumu’s smiling face. He closes the album and slides it under the bed. He turns off the light and tries not to view it as a sign.

🪳🪳🪳

“I can’t believe my baby is actually leaving me,” his mom says, arms wrapped around his stomach because she’s too short to hug him around his shoulders. They’re standing in the kitchen of the apartment that MSBY set him up with, and they’d just unpacked the last box.

“I can’t believe you got an apartment this nice,” Osamu snorts, walking in from the living room where he was assembling a bookshelf.

“Don’t be jealous,” Atsumu huffs, but if his arms tighten around his mom, and he doesn’t let go for a long time, none of them comment on it.

That night, after they get takeout from down the street, his mom and Samu stand in the genkan, and Atsumu is hit with the realization that this is it. He’s no longer sharing a room with his brother. He won’t wake up to his mother’s rice and eggs. Once they cross the threshold, he will be truly alone for the first time in his life.

He hugs his mother again and breathes in deep, trying to make sure he commits the smell of vanilla to memory.

He can’t help it when his voice breaks and he flashes a watery smile at her, “Are ya sure you don’t wanna stay the night?”

She’s a good ten inches shorter than him, but when she cups his cheek and smiles at him, he feels like he’s five years old all over again. He feels like hiding behind her skirt in the grocery line when the cashier tries to talk to him. Like nothing bad will happen as long as she’s there.

“You’re gonna do amazing things, Miya Atsumu,” She reassures him. Her voice is firm, like she means it. “As much as I want to stay here and never ever let you go, I’m afraid if I don’t now, I won’t ever be able to.”

There’s a sniffle, but it’s not from him or his mother. He turns to Osamu, and to his surprise—and utter devastation—tears are running down his twin’s face.

Osamu notices Atsumu and their mom staring at him, and he’s quick to wipe his tears away, “Not a fuckin’ word from either of ya!”

Atsumu smiles, maybe one day he’ll hold this over Osamu’s head and brag about how much his brother would miss him, but for right now, he drags his brother into a hug and closes his eyes against the raging storm in his chest.

Once they’ve said their goodbyes and Osamu’s stepping into the hallway, he looks back at Atsumu, “Take care of yourself, Tsumu.”

And maybe it’s a little dramatic considering Osamu will soon be following Atsumu to Osaka, but it still makes his lungs constrict, and the gap he’d been feeling all year turns into a canyon.

This was it.

They would no longer be AtsumuandOsamu. A unit.

Why could he still feel Osamu’s chubby toddler fingers linked with his? Why did he know his twin even better than himself? Why couldn’t they stay together? The best part of having a twin was never having to be alone.

He doesn’t say any of this; he smiles, and wonders if it looks as jagged as it feels, “You too.”

The door clicks as Osamu follows their mom to the car.

He stands there for too long, just looking at the door, praying that they’d come back. A roach skuttles across the floorboard next to Atsumu’s slippered foot. He watches it until it disappears into the kitchen.

Bile rises in his throat.

🪳🪳🪳

Atsumu is stubborn. That is something no one can deny. No one would deny it. He’s as bull-headed as they come, and once he’s formed an opinion about you, there’s very little you can do to change that.

Maybe that’s why he’s decided he would go to war for Bokuto Koutarou and gladly slaughter anyone who dared speak ill of the man. The transition from living with your mom and brother in a lively home to living alone with only the walls to talk to is drastic and something that Atsumu couldn’t get used to. Bokuto made it easier.

Atsumu would like to pretend that he was coping well. He’d like to pretend that he was adjusting. Adapting. He pretends that the resounding silence that echoes against bare apartment walls doesn’t settle heavily in his bones. He diligently ignores the wilting of his lungs when he eats yet another meal alone.

Maybe Foster or Meian put Bokuto up to it. Maybe Bokuto saw it himself. Maybe Atsumu looked too pathetic to ignore. Maybe the spiker is just a saint that the world truly doesn’t deserve. A light that seems to shine endlessly, refusing to go out.

Atsumu doesn’t know what caused Bokuto to ask him to go out to dinner one night after practice, but he did, and it made all the difference. Atsumu was the only new player to join the team that season, and while he was gunning for first-string, he still had a lot to prove. He’d continue practicing long after everyone else had gone home, even the cleaning staff had exited the training facility before him.

He knew that pushing his body like this was stupid, reckless even, but he was doing pretty much anything to stay the fuck out of his empty ass apartment. Maybe it was his all-seeing owl eyes, or just that Bokuto is a really fucking decent person, but he saw that Atsumu was wearing himself ragged and decided to intervene.

Atsumu’s hands are shaking the day Bokuto approaches him and asks him to get ramen at some hole-in-the-wall shop. He and Bokuto get along in practice. The spiker’s enthusiasm is contagious and enough to get the whole team hyped up when needed. He also has a cut shot so sharp that it’s enough to make a grown man weep. Atsumu knows that Bokuto is a talented player. He wouldn’t be on MSBY if he weren’t, but it’s different to see him up close. Bokuto is wild. An unstoppable force. He’s like a hurricane if a hurricane had a smile bright enough to blind you and a spike strong enough to break your radius and ulna.

“Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto shouted from the opposite side of the gym, sitting on the floor doing his cool-down stretches.

Atsumu looked up from where he was gathering up scattered volleyballs so he could start his self-imposed extra practice. “Yeah, Bo?” he called back.

Bokuto hopped up with too much force, arms pinwheeling for a fraction of a second as he threw himself off balance. As soon as he was steadily back on two feet, he was trotting over to Atsumu with his signature grin. “D’you wanna get dinner with me tonight?”

Atsumu tried to school his surprise. It’s not like any of the guys on the team were mean or rude or anything, but none of them had really gone out of their way to hang out with him past the team dinner they’d had after he signed on. Meian seemed nice as far as captains go, but he was also quite a bit older with a wife and a kid already, so he didn’t have much time to babysit the newbie on the team.

Inunaki kind of reminded him of Rin, as he seemed to like teasing his teammates, but Atsumu was just too new, and other than his brassy hair color, he didn’t have a ton of ammunition yet. Atsumu didn’t mind the teasing, it helped him not feel so off-kilter with all the new players. Inunaki seemed to hang out with Barnes and Tomas the most. They seemed cool, but Atsumu hadn’t quite cracked their circle yet.

“You wanna get dinner with me, Bo-kun?” Atsumu asked, not meaning to sound quite so shocked.

Bokuto nodded, “Me and ‘Kaashi found this cool ramen spot last week, and I wanna go again, but he’s back in Tokyo, and I know you like ramen, so we should go! I promise it’s good! I ate three bowls last time!”

There’s a snort from the other side of the net where Inunaki sits on the floor, stretching to touch his toes, “Don’t let Foster hear that you ate three bowls of ramen, Bokuto, unless you wanna run suicides until you puke.”

Atsumu can’t help but laugh, knowing that Inunaki is right. Once the season starts, it’s all about eating right. A bowl of ramen every once in a while isn’t a huge deal, but three bowls in one sitting is apparently enough to send their nutritionist into a spiral of militant veggie-based meal panic for the whole team.

Bokuto spares a glance at Foster, who is off to the side going over something with Meian, and thankfully doesn’t seem to have overheard Bokuto’s slip-up.

“Pretend you never heard that,” Bokuto quickly amends. “But the offer still stands. One bowl, filled with all sorts of vegetables and nothing worth running laps over at all.”

Atsumu thinks about his plans of staying late to practice his serves. Then he thinks about how he’s stayed late every date for the past month and a half, and the worried looks the facilities manager has started to give him. He thinks about going home and eating another frozen pre-prepped chicken, rice, and broccoli meal. He thinks about being alone with no one to talk to. He thinks about how his hands are shaking, and he doesn’t know when that started happening or how to make it stop.

He tells Bokuto he’d really like to get dinner together. It’s the first meal he’s shared with someone in two months. He tries not to get choked up over it.

After that, he and Bokuto start hanging out more and more. They get dinner together on the nights Bokuto isn’t going to go visit Akaashi or vice versa. To his credit, Bokuto tells Atsumu he’s more than welcome to come to Tokyo to visit Akaashi with him or to come over when Akaashi is in town, but Atsumu knows their alone time is few and far between, and he’d like for Bokuto’s boyfriend to not hate him.

Atsumu also finds himself crashing on Bokuto’s couch more and more. Bokuto moved out of the MSBY dorms after his first year, wanting something a bit bigger, and more importantly, something that allowed cats.

The first time Bokuto invited him over, and he saw quite possibly the fattest orange tabby cat lounging on a cactus-shaped cat tree, Atsumu’s heart grew three sizes.

“Tsumu, meet Cheeto. Cheeto, meet your uncle Tsumu,” Bokuto had said as Atsumu cooed at 16 pounds of orange feline.

“Wow, you’re so handsome, huh?” Atsumu said, scratching Cheeto under the chin. Cheeto seemed to purr in agreement.

Bokuto nodded, “’Kaashi says he needs to lose weight, but I think he’s perfect the way he is.”

Logically, Atsumu knows that Akaashi is right and that Cheeto could probably stand to lose a pound or two, but he couldn’t possibly insult the cutest cat he’s ever seen. So, instead, he settles for giggling and, in a saccharine baby voice, says, “Akaashi-kun doesn’t know what he’s talking about, does he? No, he doesn’t. You’re the most majestic kitty in the whole wide world, aren’t you?”

“I knew you’d understand us,” Bokuto sighs, putting his hands on his hips and puffing his chest out, sounding proud.

“I’ll be the best uncle Cheeto’s ever had,” Atsumu declares, kissing the top of Cheeto’s furry head.

Bokuto throws his head back in a mighty laugh, “Of course you will, Tsumu, you’re already the best friend I’ve ever had! Why would you treat my son any differently?!”

Atsumu knows that Bokuto often makes large declarations of affection, and maybe to others that would make them sincere, but it makes no difference to him. He’s proud to have Bokuto Koutarou as a friend.

He'd go to prison for the man at this point.

Without the lifeline Bokuto had unknowingly thrown to him, Atsumu thinks he might have struggled against the current a lot longer. Eventually, he became good friends with almost everyone on the team. He and Inunaki grew closer, as the libero—did in fact—remind him of Sunarin. He was deadpan with a wicked sense of humor. They could trade insults back and forth until they were both snort-laughing.

He learned that while Meian was a busy, intimidating, and very handsome man, he was also one of the most caring people on the team. Maybe it was because he was captain, or a dad, or just a genuinely kind person. Atsumu wasn’t sure. But he found that you could confide in the man just as easily as you could laugh with him. He kind of reminded him of Kita sometimes. Strong. Kind. He was the pillar that kept the whole team from collapsing in on itself. Eighteen-year-old Atsumu looked at Meian and thought, ‘That’s the kind of man I want to be.’

Barnes and Tomas were both a good time. Those two plus Bokuto were the first people to ever take Atsumu to an Izakaya. Atsumu had sipped a beer that Suna had stolen from his parents’ fridge in third year. It had been split between him, Osamu, and Suna. They’d thought it was disgusting. He couldn’t quite fathom why anyone would drink it willingly, much less pay for it. He’d told as much to his MSBY counterparts, and they’d all chuckled. Bokuto ruffled his hair with a, “You sweet summer child, Tsumu. It’s an acquired taste.”

Atsumu found out quickly that it wasn’t so much about the taste being acquired, but that after downing his third, you couldn’t really taste it anymore. Was it beer or was it water? Who knows. Atsumu was slamming them down regardless.

His teammates were laughing at his antics. Barnes had declared Atsumu a “runner” drunk. He didn’t know what that meant at the time, but apparently, it’s self-explanatory. Drunk Atsumu is there one moment and gone the next. Whether he’s on the dance floor or down the street, though, that’s anyone’s guess. Bokuto threatened to get him a leash like one of those little kids with the backpacks.

He was happy, though. He wasn’t a boring drunk. He was fun and wild, and his teammates liked him. They liked him despite not having Osamu as a buffer. Despite not having anyone to dull his sharp edges or apologize for his crass behavior—they liked him. Atsumu was not familiar with the feeling. All of his friends had been Osamu’s first. They’d always kind of liked Osamu more, too. He was laid back and chill. He was easy.

He thought that since he was the fun drunk at the bar, the same could be said at home. If his apartment was lame and boring and kind of haunting with its silence, that the beer might help him bear it more.

He was wrong.

Turns out he’s only fun when there’s someone there to smile at him. When he’s alone, his drunkenness manifests as something dimmer. He hadn’t danced around to music on his shitty stereo or laughed while watching shitty 90s sitcoms. No—he’d sat on his couch and felt that ever-present weight settled on his shoulders. Thoughts that he’d tried to keep locked in managed to escape the vault. Alarm bells would be blaring in his head if they hadn’t been dulled by the alcohol thrumming in his veins.

He started doing the thing he hates more than practically anything else. Thinking.

He thought about his ma, who was at home helping Osamu pack for his move. He thought about Osamu, who had been so busy lately that they hadn’t really gotten a chance to talk. He thinks about Suna and the fact that they haven’t really talked since graduation. Worries that all the people he loves don’t actually feel the same way. He needs them, but do they need him back?

His brain was foggy, and his eyes were wet, and before he knew what he was doing, he was pulling his phone out and pressing Suna’s contact. He just needs to know that they are still friends. He knows that Suna always liked Osamu better, and in more ways than one, but they had still been friends, right? Besides Osamu, Suna was his best friend. But it didn’t really feel like it right now.

The phone rings a few times before the static clears, and he hears that all too familiar voice, “’Sup bitch?”

It’s how Suna’s always answered his calls. It makes something in his chest ache. He realizes that he doesn’t know what to say now.

“Tsumu?” Suna’s voice crackles through the phone speaker. “You there?”

Atsumu sniffles, and it probably sounds gross and snotty, “Yeah, ’m here.”

“What’s wrong?” his voice was tinged with concern. He’d always been observant. He was able to pick up Osamu and Atsumu’s emotions faster than anyone else. His high school teammates had deemed him the ‘Miya Twins Whisperer,' a title that he rebuked immediately.

Atsumu swallows hard, and maybe if his mind was clear, he could have been a little more tactful, but as it was, it felt like his thoughts were molasses, “D’ya hate me?”

There’s a long silence on the other side of the phone, and his heart plummets. He knew it. He knew that all of these prickling thoughts had to be based in reality. Suna probably only talked to him because of Samu.

“What the hell, Atsumu?” Suna says, and he sounds mad. It makes Atsumu want to cry harder. It’s quiet, but in the background, he hears his brother’s voice ask who he’s talking to.

Suna must take his mouth away from the receiver, but he can still hear him say, “I think something’s wrong with Tsumu.”

Atsumu sniffles again. Of course, he’s with Osamu. That’s his boyfriend. His priority. It doesn’t make the ache in his chest any better. He feels the need to explain himself.

“It’s just that…we don’t talk anymore. Yer my best friend, but I don’t even know if ya like me half the time, ya know?” Atsumu cuts himself off to take another drink from his bottle. “I just—it’s hard bein’ all alone.” It occurs to his drunken brain that Suna, much like him, is alone the majority of the time since he signed on with EJP. “Do you ever get tired of the silence? ‘S’all I ever hear in this stupid fucking apartment.”

“How much have you drunk tonight, Tsumu?” But it’s not Suna’s voice this time, it’s his brother's.

Atsumu sighs, and his head is beginning to feel heavy. He shifts so he’s lying down, but the room is spinning and—oh god—is that a roach on his ceiling?

Atsumu doesn’t answer, trying to focus enough to see if—and yep—it’s another fucking roach. He’d had an exterminator come in after he’d seen the first one that night, but every once in a while, he’d see a stray one running around. He thought that maybe one of his neighbors had an infestation.

His head felt a lot like an infestation.

He realizes that his brother is saying something, but he doesn’t really know anymore. The roach isn’t moving. If his legs didn’t feel like lead, he would get up and smash it. Sometimes he felt bad for killing them, knowing it wasn’t their fault they were made like that, but sometimes empathy wasn’t enough for the world to spare you. Atsumu knew that firsthand.

“Tsumu!” Osamu practically yells, forcing him back into the conversation, one that he wishes he had never started. Why did he call Rin anyway? To learn what he already knew?

“What?” he drawls, turning away from the ceiling and facing the back of the couch. Trying to block it all out.

“When did ya start drinking anyway, ya dumbass?”

“That’s not helpful,” Suna scolds.

“Well, it’s true! Since when did Tsumu start going out and getting wasted?”

Atsumu groans, “Ain’t wasted. Just tired.”

Osamu scoffs, “Ya just asked if Rin hated ya!”

Atsumu’s fists clench, and his head is beginning to pound, “’Cause he does! We don’t talk, we don’t hang out, we don’t…do anything. ‘S’like we graduated, and you got to keep ma and Suna and all I have are roaches, Samu!”

“Tsumu,” Osamu says, and his voice is gentle in a way it wasn’t before.

“I don’t hate you,” Rin cuts in quickly. “Samu is my boyfriend, but you’re my best friend, Atsumu. I know…I know we haven’t been talking lately, but everything has been so crazy lately. Everything changed so fast that I haven’t quite figured out how to manage it. The practice, the living alone, the fact that I’m responsible for myself…”

Tsumu frowns. He guesses he’s not the only one struggling to adapt. It doesn’t make him feel better. He’d hoped Suna was doing better than him.

“And yeah,” Suna continues, “I do hate the silence.”

Atsumu lets out a wet laugh, “Fuckin’ awful ain’t it?”

Osamu snorts, “You guys are makin’ livin’ alone sound like a real picnic.”

“I would move back home in a heartbeat,” Atsumu confesses.

There’s a heavy sigh, but he’s not sure if it’s from Suna or his brother. “Ya can’t go back, Tsumu.”

“It’s unfortunate, but the clock doesn’t seem to go in reverse,” Suna adds, not unkindly.

“I know,” Atsumu whispers, “I just didn’t think it would be this hard.”

“Why haven’t ya said anything, ya idiot? I would have come and visited more if I knew you were upset.”

Atsumu shrugs even though they can’t see it, “I know ya have your own stuff goin’ on.”

Osamu scoffs, “You are my stuff. So next time ya get stuck in the giant head of yours, why don’t ya call me?”

“Or me,” Suna adds on quickly.

Despite his watery eyes and clogged nose, he finds himself smiling, “Thanks, guys. Ya can call me too, if ya want.”

Atsumu’s brain is starting to shut down. He can feel sleep tugging at the edges of his mind.

“We’re friends, Tsumu.” Suna declares.

 A statement. Not a question.

Something begins to unfurl in his chest, and he feels like, for the first time in a while, that things might be okay.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, halfway gone.

Suna snorts, “Don’t thank me. Text me in the morning and tell me how bad your head hurts. I wanna know what to expect the first time I get wasted.”

If he weren’t on the brink of sleep, he’d smile.

There’s a roach on his ceiling, but for once, it gets to live.

🪳🪳🪳

Twenty-two sees two new faces added to the MSBY roster. Atsumu had declared at seventeen that one day he’d be setting for Hinata Shouyou. Call him a prophet, because it came true. Atsumu hadn’t really heard anything from the spiker in a few years. He knew that Shouyou was going to Brazil to train on the beach. He knew that from his Instagram pictures that he looked stronger. Surer of himself. Seeing it in person was completely different. Shouyou was still short, but he’d grown since his high school days. More than that, though, he was built now. Atsumu was sure that Hinata could crush and kill someone with his thighs. When he asked about his workout routine, Shouyou looked vaguely haunted. Maybe traumatized was the better answer. He had shuddered and said, “Sand, Tsumu. Just sand.”

Shouyou’s new muscles weren’t just for looks either. He’d had an insane vertical in high school, but now it was almost otherworldly. His peak was higher, and he got there faster than ever. The first time Atsumu had set to him, the ball slammed down on the other side of the court so fast that Inunaki looked around, stunned, not even having time to move. Shouyou had looked at him with fire in his eyes, and Atsumu knew this season would be nothing like the others.

The second rookie was one that Atsumu had to personally find his chill about. Sakusa Kiyoomi was the 2nd best ace in high school. When Atsumu learned that he didn’t go pro, he’d almost wept. Spikes like that deserved to be cultivated and nurtured. He was relieved when he found out that Sakusa was playing at university. Playing so well, in fact, he was their MVP in his final year.

It was a dream to have him on his team. The sets that he could give that man would make the ground shake. He’d met Sakusa briefly during training camps in high school, and they’d played each other at Nationals. His spikes were just as disgusting then. The spiker never said much, though, usually trailing behind his cousin with the cute eyebrows. Atsumu had spoken to him when they were on the same team in training camp, and one conversation was enough to have Atsumu hooked and wanting more.  

“Hard to believe that Karasuno beat Shiratorizawa, huh?” Atsumu had said, following Sakusa after he stormed off following Kageyama’s stoic, but somehow still cocky answer to whether Ushiwaka had been ill or off his game.

He hadn’t. Karasuno was just better that day.

Sakusa side-eyed him heavily, as if pondering why Atsumu was trailing after him…or breathing at all.

“You ever seen Karasuno play?” Atsumu asks when he doesn’t get a response.

Sakusa purses his lips, “No.”

Atsumu smiles, “They’re…different. The energy changes when they come out to play. It’s like ya can feel how bad they want it.”

Sakusa scoffs, “We all want it.”

Atsumu’s grin grows, “Yeah, I guess that’s what makes it so fun.”

Something in Sakusa’s face shifts, and he doesn’t look like he’s smelled something rotten anymore.

“Isn’t there supposed to be two of you? Where’s your mirror?”

Atsumu chuckles, “Har har, haven’t heard that one before. Apparently, that scrub’s stats weren’t as good this year, so he didn’t get an invite.”

“Are you surviving on your own?”

Atsumu doesn’t know what it is about the prickly setter that seems to have him all smiles, but the grin he has refused to leave his face, “Somehow, I’m managing.”

The corners of Sakusa’s lips quirk up, just a little. It’s enough to send Atsumu’s stomach swooping.

Sakusa eyes him up and down, “I bet you are.”

Then the spiker is heading back toward their dorm rooms, and Atsumu is left standing in the middle of the hallway, heart beating a mile a minute.

Uh oh.

They didn’t get the chance to talk much after that. They played against Itachiyama in the Interhigh tournament. They lost to them, coming in second. At spring nationals, however, Atsumu’s team came out victorious. They’d shaken hands under the net before the game, and Atsumu once again found himself smiling from ear to ear. There was something about Sakusa Kiyoomi that Atsumu couldn’t quite clock.

Sakusa rolled his eyes, but offered a “Good luck, Miya.’

“You too, Omi-kun.”

Omi sneered, “That’s disgusting.”

Atsumu smirked, “I came up with it special for ya!”

“Never say it again.”

“No can do, Omi-Omi. It’s too good.”

The ref blew the whistle to signify the start of the match. “See ya on the other side, Omi.”

Omi scoffed, “I hate you.” But there was something close to amusement swimming in his eyes. In the quirk of his lips.

Atsumu turned back to his team, only to find Osamu and Suna staring back at him like vultures.

“Omi-Omi, huh?” Suna draws, elbowing Osamu in the ribs like something’s funny.

Osamu leans into the touch, talking to Atsumu like he’s speaking to a small dog, “I think wittle Tsum-Tsum has a cwush, Suna-win.”

“Shut it!” Atsumu barks, cheeks turning red, and the rest of his teammates laughing at his embarrassment. “I hate all of ya!”

Suna smiles widely and looks around conspiratorially, “You know who you don’t hate, though?”

Osamu smirks, “Would it be Omi-kun, Rin?”

“Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner, dearest boyfriend of mine!”

“I should have eaten you in the womb,” Atsumu huffs, getting in place next to the net.

And if he sees Omi’s eyes trailing him from the other side of the court, he blames the pounding of his heart on the adrenaline from the game.

Omi and Shouyou join the team, and if MSBY was a strong team before, they are practically diabolical now. They’d always ranked highly, but now, it was as if they were finally coming together in a way that probably gave Coach Foster wet dreams. Atsumu fought back and forth with Tobio for the number one setter in Japan, sometimes landing on top, sometimes falling short. He gave Shouyou so much shit for dating his rival. Berating him for the betrayal. Who gave him his sets? Who allowed him to fly?

Omi would always scoff, “If you’re vying to be Shouyou’s favorite, you’re playing a losing game.”

Shouyou shot him an apologetic grin, “You’re my favorite MSBY setter.” He attempted to appease.

Atsumu mimed getting shot to the chest, collapsing on the floor, “You wound me, Shou-kun.”

Omi dug the toe of his trainers into Atsumu’s ribs, “If I told you that you were my favorite, would you stop being a dramatic bitch about it?”

Atsumu shot to his feet, clasping Omi’s hands between his, like he was desperate. He was. But shut up.

He exaggerates his accent to show his dedication, “D’ya really mean that, Omi-Omi? For real and for true?”

Omi scoffs but doesn’t slap his hands away like he thought he might, “You’re an idiot.”

“You’ve said that before,” Atsumu counters, “But you’re not denying it.”

Shouyou laughs at the display, “Believe me, Tsum-Tsum, if Tobio weren’t…well Tobio, you’d be my favorite, too. But you’re a very close second!”

From the other side of the gym, Bokuto rises from his stretches and yells, “You’re my favorite professional setter, Tsumu!”

Atsumu scowls, “What is up with all my spikers being in love with their setters?”

He looks to Omi, “You’re not harboring any feelings for your high school setter, are you?”

Omi rolls his eyes, but answers him with an unamused, “No. Iizuna is also married to a woman who happens to be pregnant with his child right now.”

Good.

The only person Atsumu wants Omi to be harboring feelings for is him.

🪳🪳🪳

Atsumu does good for a while. Really, he does. His team is doing better than ever, and Osamu is finally in the same city as him, so he doesn’t feel as isolated as he did starting out. No one talks about the brain development from eighteen to twenty-three, but it’s kind of scary how much perspective it gives you. He knows that technically your brain doesn’t stop developing until you’re like twenty-six, so he wonders what differences he’ll see between now and then. He copes better now. Most of the time. That’s what he told himself.

He doesn’t spiral like he used to. He isn’t consumed by anxiety and loneliness like he was. He’s found ways to keep the waves at bay.

Again, that’s what he told himself, anyway.

Looking back, he could lie and say he didn’t know what caused the downward spiral. He could lie and say he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that his chest tightened, and the lump formed in his throat. He could lie, but he doesn’t. Because even though his head is seemingly fucked up beyond all repair and he’s pretty sure the light within him is slowly dwindling—he’s never been a liar.

It had started out as something small, because it always did. It was never something big that would set him off, no—that’d be too easy. It was simply his brother brushing off hanging out for what seemed like the hundredth time. Usually, he was able to rationalize it. Samu was a restaurant owner. He worked long, hard hours on his feet. Once he closed the shop for the night, he’d have to do paperwork or payroll in the back. Atsumu knew that his brother was practically wearing himself ragged with Onigiri Miya. He knew that Samu wasn’t intentionally avoiding him, but after he had offered to swing by the shop with dinner and the promise of helping close up, he’d heard his tired voice over the phone.

“I dunno, Tsumu,” Samu had sighed, “Rin’s s’posed to come by. I think he wanted to have a night with just the two of us.”

Maybe if this had been the first time that Osamu had blown him off, it would have been fine. Maybe if Atsumu hadn’t been stuck in his apartment all day, driving himself crazy, it would have been fine. Maybe if that evil voice in the back of his mind hadn’t whispered that Osamu was getting tired of him, it would have been fine.

He was supposed to cope better now, so why did he still feel like a scared little eighteen-year-old?

“Oh, that’s fine. No worries.” Atsumu reassured, “Tell Rin I said hey.”

“I will. Maybe you can come by the shop next week and we can hang out when it won’t be so busy?”

Atsumu hated the lump in his throat because he always struggled to swallow around it. “Sure, sounds good.”

“Talk to you later, Scrub.”

“Yeah…”

He lowered the phone, and as the screen faded to black, he caught sight of his reflection. His hair was greasy and sticking to his equally greasy forehead. The dark circles under his eyes looked particularly gruesome. He couldn’t help but wince at that man who stared back.

He never fared well during the off-season. When volleyball season was in full swing, he had something to keep himself occupied. He made sure to take care of his body like it was a well-oiled machine. He ate right, slept right, and maintained himself with all the dignity that a professional player should.

On the off-season, though…

It was far too easy to fall into bad habits. There was no early morning practice, so he found himself staying up until the sun was peaking past the clouds. Sometimes he would start skipping meals because he didn’t need to constantly fuel his body to make it through the grueling exercises. Ideally, he would maintain his routine year-round, but he was anything but ideal, so he found himself struggling.

Fortunately, creature of habit that he was, he would usually start slipping right as the season ramped back up, so he had something to throw himself back into. He would be distracted once again. Crisis averted. Sigh of relief.

This time, though, the anxiety and restlessness started just a week into the off-season. He didn’t know how he was going to make it through three more months of this.

Most of his teammates had gone back to wherever their families were from. Shouyou had dragged Tobio back to Miyagi to see their parents. Bokuto was headed to Tokyo to spend time with Akaashi. Omi had followed him, but to spend time with his sister while she was back in Japan. Sure, he could hit up Meian, but he had an actual family with a wife and kids, and he was sure that Meian must be sick of seeing his face. 

Atsumu looked around his quiet apartment and tried not to feel too suffocated by the quiet of it. When he had first moved to Osaka, he had been nervous and scared, but he’d tried to focus on the positives. He was out on his own, the world his oyster. He could have anyone over. He could throw parties, be loud, dance around in his underwear with no one the wiser.

Reality was a lot harsher than eighteen-year-old Atsumu had been ready for. He rarely ever had anyone over. Sometimes he could talk Bokuto, Shouyou, or Kiyoomi into coming over, but most of the time he went to one of their houses. Samu would make the rare appearance when he had time, which had become fewer and farther between with the success of Onigiri Miya.

He was twenty-three now, and he had never thrown a party. He was rarely loud, doing his best to be a respectful neighbor. He was too afraid to sleep or dance in his underwear in case his building caught on fire, and he had to be carried out by a hot fireman in an embarrassing fashion. His only companion was constant loneliness.

It felt kind of pathetic to feel like he was in the same spot he’d been all those years ago. Still sad. Still alone. Still fucked in the head. Time was moving forward, but he was stagnant.

With nothing better to do and no one else to bother, he heads to the fridge to crack open a beer. He doesn’t drink often anymore, usually just socially. He knows if he drinks alone, he’s only adding fuel to the fire.

He sits down on the couch and stares at the turned-off TV and tries not to focus on the itching of his skin or the desolate feeling in his chest.

Empty.

That’s all he was. Maybe that’s all he’d ever be. At the end of the day, he didn’t really have anyone who wanted to see him more than anyone else. He was no one’s favorite person. He was no one’s first choice. He didn’t really have anything to cling to other than volleyball. And that—well, that was fucking sad.

He knew that the rancid little voice in the back of his head was coming from somewhere vile, and he shouldn’t listen to it. He should call Samu back and tell him that he really needed him right now. Or he could call his mom. Or any one of his friends. He could go for a run or clean his apartment, or read a book.

He had been down this path before. Many times. He knew what his coping strategies were.

That’s the funny thing about having a fucked-up brain, though, you know exactly what you need to do to stop the spiral or at least slow it down. You know that the darkness can be halted with the simple flip of a light switch. You know that you can kick your feet before you sink beneath the waves.

You know all of that, but you just don’t .

Because somewhere inside your fucked up brain, feeling hurt feels nice . It feels deserved.

He brings the bottle to his lips.

So, yeah, Atsumu knows exactly what caused the downward spiral. He knows, but it’s not like it makes a difference.

It burns his throat as he swallows.

🪳🪳🪳

His phone is vibrating.

He really wishes it would fucking stop.

His head is resting on the arm of the couch, and he doesn’t actually remember the last time he moved. He knows he got up to get a glass of water at some point yesterday . Self-care , he thinks mockingly. It’s been a week since he last spoke to someone. He knows that he needs to at least send an “I’m alive” text so Samu will leave him alone.

If he even cares at all.

Atsumu tries to shake the poisonous thought off. It’s not Samu’s fault that he’s been busy, and it’s not Samu’s fault that Atsumu is a little bitch who gets his feelings hurt over every little goddamn thing.

He knows that he needs to stop staring at the fucking wall and like rejoin society or something, but he’s just so goddamn tired. Really, he is. He can feel in his bones, in his temples . He feels nothing but aching exhaustion. He doesn’t know how a few short weeks ago, he was running suicides for Foster, and now it feels like he couldn’t even lift his head off the couch.

Suicides.

Suicide.

The all-consuming ‘S’ word.

The word that’s been banging around in his head for the past 120 hours like an ensnared wild animal. The letters bounce off his brain like they want to bruise it. He wonders how easy it would be to not be here. To simply stop existing. He worries about how dirty his apartment is. He worries that that’s maybe a stupid worry. He worries about who would find him and if it would fuck them up forever. He worries that they would never forgive him.

That they would forget him.

He wonders if he’d get to watch them like a phantom in the shadows. Watch as they pack his things into boxes that would get shoved into his mom’s spare bedroom, damned to collect dust. How would it feel to be twenty-three forever? No future. Just who he was before.

Would his mom be okay?

He wonders if he’ll ever do it. Like actually. How far down does he have to sink before he runs out of air? Before, there’s no more light, and it’s easier to see the bottom than it ever was to see the top.  

Heavy thuds on his apartment door snap him out of his reverie. He doesn’t really care who’s out there; he’s not opening that door. Not now. Not like this.

“Miya?” And truthfully, it’s the last voice he’s expecting.  

Omi pounds on the door again, “I know you’re in there! You’re Snapchat location hasn’t moved in a week, and I swear to God if you’re dead I’ll bring you back just to kill you myself.”

He shuffles deeper into the couch, hoping he can disappear into it. He knows there’s already an Atsumu-shaped indent on the cushions. How long would it take to just become one? He already feels halfway there.

Eventually, Omi will go away. He closes his eyes and waits for his teammate to give up.

He hears the sound of a key turning in the door and the clicking of the lock.

Well fuck.

By the time he has performed the monumental task of rolling over to sit up, Kiyoomi is in his house, in his genkan, in his living room, and then staring down at him in horror.

“Are you fucking dying?” Kiyoomi demands, eyes roving over the crumbled and defeated form that is Miya Atsumu.

Atsumu flinches, “How’d you get a key?”

Kiyoomi bristles, all six foot three of him tensing like he was about to hit a particularly nasty spike. Atsumu thinks his head might be the ball in this scenario.

“Your very loud and very rude and very demanding brother gave it to me so I could make sure that you weren’t dead and decaying in this apartment—which by the way—is disgusting. When was the last time you cleaned? Or showered for that matter?”

Atsumu winced and rubbed his temples, “I’m sorry if Samu was botherin’ you. You can tell ‘em I’m fine. I’ll text ‘em later.”

Kiyoomi’s expression loses some of its severity, but Atsumu can still see the tense line of his shoulders. “Will you, though?”

Atsumu frowned, “Will I what?”

“Text him? Because from what I’ve seen, you’ve been ignoring everyone from your mother to Coach Foster.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen, and he reaches for his phone, unlocking it and then scrolling through the notifications. He frowns, and then closes his eyes, suppressing an exhausted sigh. It seems as though pretty much every person on the team has sent him multiple messages. He even got some from the EJP team. Apparently, Suna had tasked Komori with harassing him. Foster and half the PR team have sent him multiple messages, too. Then there’s Samu and his mother, who seemed to have been taking turns calling and texting him back-to-back.

He drops his phone and shoves his head in his hands, “Goddamn it,” he whispers.

Kiyoomi clears a spot on the coffee table and sits down across from him, “What’s going on with you, Miya?”

Atsumu shakes his head, “Nothin’, just haven’t felt great lately, I guess.”

Kiyoomi must take in the empty beer cans, his greasy hair, and just overall disgusting appearance because he’s not buying it.

“When’s the last time you consumed something other than beer?”

He shrugs, “Had water yesterday.”

Kiyoomi sighs, “Well, I suppose that’s something. What about food?”

Another shrug. He doesn’t know. He’s not hungry. He’s not anything.

“Why don’t you get in the shower, and I can make you something to eat?” Kiyoomi suggests, and his voice is soft, it never usually is when it’s directed at him.

Atsumu curls in on himself, “I’m fine, Omi. I know ya don’t dirty apartments, so ya don’t have to stay here and torture yourself. I’ll text everyone and let ‘em know I’m okay.”

Kiyoomi bites the inside of his cheek, looking around the apartment before looking back at Atsumu, “You don’t look very okay right now.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just concern. Atsumu hates himself more and more with every moment.

He doesn’t wanna talk about this. He just wants to be left alone. That’s all he’s ever been, anyway, why it matters now, he doesn’t understand.

He can feel tears pricking his eyes, and he’s frustrated that he’s crying once again. Being difficult once again. Why can’t he just be easy? Why is being easy so hard?

“Omi…” he begins, but stops, unsure of what to say.

“I’m not leaving. You should shower. Not because I think it’s gross, but because you’ll feel better. You know you will, too. I’m gonna pick up a little, but again, not because it’s gross, but because you will feel better.”  

He sees the determination in Kiyoomi’s eyes, and Atsumu doesn’t have the energy to fight with him. Not right now.

Kiyoomi stands and heads to the kitchen, and eventually, Atsumu follows his lead, but heading toward the bathroom.

He strips, and as his blanket burrito lands on the floor, tears are falling down his face again, because he smells . He looks in the mirror, and his hair is pretty much matted to his head, heavy with grease. The bags that were bad a week ago are practically black and craterous, and his skin just looks…dirty. He feels dirty.

He feels like a fucking failure.

Because how the fuck does he let it get this bad? How does he make it stop?

Without hesitation, he flips the bathroom light off. What he can’t see can’t hurt him. He showers in the pitch black of his bathroom, and the water is so hot it makes him dizzy. He scrubs his skin harder than usual, partially because he’s filthy, partially because his skin is itching, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. He wants to peel it off. Slice it open.

The shampoo does wonders for his hair, and lathers, rinses, and repeats three times to try and dislodge all the oil and build-up. As he steps out of the shower, he does himself another favor, grabbing his toothbrush and brushing until his mouth no longer feels disgusting.

Kiyoomi was right, he does feel a little better. He feels like his outside no longer matches his insides. Maybe that’s enough for now.

He exits the bathroom and heads to his bedroom for a clean pair of clothes. He puts on a baggy sweater and some ratty sweatpants. Kiyoomi’s already seen him at his worst, what difference does it make now?

He heads back to where he can hear dishes clacking, but that’s when he hears Kiyoomi’s voice too. He’s got his phone sitting on the island on speaker while he’s scrubbing like his life depends on it.

He’s talking quietly, but from where he hides in the doorway, he can still hear him.

“I’ve never seen him like that,” Kiyoomi practically whispers.

He recognizes his brother's voice instantly, “I thought he was doin’ better till a week passed and no one had heard anything from him.”

“Why didn’t you check on him before?” Kiyoomi asked, and Atsumu selfishly finds himself wondering the same thing.

Osamu sighs, sounding weary and bogged down, “If I’m bein’ honest, probably cause I’m a shitty ass brother. The shop has been so busy lately, and doing everything on my own has been harder than I ever thought. I didn’t even realize that I hadn’t heard from him in a few days till Bokuto texted wanting to know if Tsumu was mad at ‘em cause he wasn’t responding to his messages.”

Atsumu’s heart clenches. He knows his brother is stressed, and he hates that he’s another burden for Osamu to carry. He also needs to write Bokuto a long apology. He never deserved Bokuto’s kindness, but the man never ceases to bestow it upon him.

Kiyoomi rinses the plate he’d been washing, “Is this normal for him?”

“No,” Osamu says, “Tsumu…he’s always struggled a little, I think. Finding his footing is never something that came naturally to him outside of volleyball. I personally think that he’s too smart for his own good. He’s always thinkin’ and then overthinkin’ and then he ends up thinkin’ himself into a hole that he can’t climb out of. I know bein’ alone gets to him. I thought with the team…he talks about you, Shou-kun, and Bo-kun all the time. I thought y’all hung out a lot.

There’s a hum from Kiyoomi, who seems to be contemplating the glass in his hand awfully hard, “We do during the season. A lot of us went out of town for break, though.”

“He hides it a lot. Doesn’t want anyone to know when he’s strugglin’. It’s never been this bad, though. I’ve never seen him like how you found ‘em.”

“He’s in the shower now,” Kiyoomi says, “So I think that will help him more than he realizes.”

“Thanks, Kiyoomi-kun,” Osamu says, sounding genuine. “I’m sorry for bein’ rude earlier, I was just—”

“Worried?” Kiyoomi says, “It would seem you had good reason. Don’t apologize.”

“I’m gonna close the shop early tonight. If you could just make sure he’s actually okay before ya head out—’

Kiyoomi cuts him off again. “Don’t close early. I’m not leaving him like this. I’ll see if I can get him to go to yours for dinner or something. He needs to get out of this apartment.”

Something like relief infiltrates Osamu’s voice, “Thank you. Really. I owe you for this.”

Kiyoomi huffs, “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you called me. Really.”

Kiyoomi hangs up the call, and Atsumu has to lean against the wall to take deep, steadying breaths. He feels like such a hindrance right now. He didn’t want anyone to worry. He doesn’t want to be that person.

With one more inhale, he finally makes his way into the kitchen. Kiyoomi must be some kind of miracle worker, because it’s already shining more than it has in weeks. He’s like the human version of a Rumba.

Kiyoomi looks up when he hears him enter, “Feeling any better?” he asks.

Atsumu nods, “Yeah, I am. Thank you, Omi.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, “Don’t be stupid, you’d do the same for me.”

Atsumu takes comfort in that fact. Because he would. If Kiyoomi didn’t respond for a week and Atsumu thought something was wrong, he’d probably break the spikers' door down. If there was one thing Atsumu was, it was loyal and stubborn. An A+ combo for getting shit done when his friends needed it.

He’d been harboring a crush on the spiker since he was seventeen, and time had only made it worse. He wondered if anything might come of it when Omi first joined the team, but the spiker was dead set on making a name for himself in the professional league. Atsumu didn’t want to be the one to distract him, so he continued gazing fondly at him from afar.

Kept him at an arms' distance so he wouldn’t get sucked in even deeper. Not that it mattered. Kiyoomi was like an oceanic whirlpool, and Atsumu was useless against the current. Not that he ever resisted all that hard.

He was embarrassed that Kiyoomi had seen him like this, but he knew if the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t care what Omi looked like. He wanted to be there for the good and bad days and every day in between.

He sits down at the table, still feeling a little wobbly from his shower and low blood sugar, probably. He watches as Kiyoomi flits around between the kitchen and the living room. He hears the empty beer cans clinking together as Kiyoomi throws them in a bag to be recycled. Another wave of shame rolls over him, but he can’t do anything about it now.

Atsumu stands up to help, but Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and, with a hand on his shoulder, shoves him back down.

“Just chill for a minute,” he commands.

Atsumu does. Because who is he to argue?

It takes another 45 minutes before Kiyoomi deems the apartment semi-livable again.

“I’ll come back tomorrow to vacuum and mop,” the spiker says, sitting down at the table next to Atsumu.

He can’t help the surprise on his face, “Ya ain't gotta do that, Omi. The shower helped, and with you cleaning everything, I’ll be alright. I wish ya wouldn’t have had to do this for me.”

Kiyoomi sits back in his chair and frowns, folding his arms over his chest, “I think you’re lying through your teeth, Miya Atsumu.”

Atsumu starts to protest, but before he can, Kiyoomi cuts him off. “I think the moment I leave you alone, you’re gonna go right back to where I found you.”

Atsumu hangs his head in shame. What else can he do? Omi’s reading him like a book, but the pages are fucked up and ruined. What could have been a masterpiece is just faded ink and bad prose.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, because what else does he have to offer?

In an instant, Kiyoomi is kneeling on the floor in front of him. His knees are on the floor of the kitchen. Atsumu hasn’t mopped in weeks, but if Kiyoomi minds, he doesn’t show it. They lock eyes, and then Kiyoomi’s hands find his, lacing their fingers together and squeezing reassuringly.

“You don’t have to be sorry for this, Atsumu.”

Kiyoomi never calls him Atsumu. He’s always Miya, or Miya Atsumu when he’s being scolded like a little kid. Omi’s a mother hen through and through, and the team has no issues making fun of him for it. Atsumu thinks it’s cute.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he whispers.

Kiyooumi’s thumb is rubbing the back of his hand, and even with all the shit hammering at his brain like a particularly stubborn nail, it still manages to make his stomach swoop.

Kiyoomi’s voice is quiet, “You can talk to me.”

Atsumu knows this. He knows that Kiyoomi would listen to all the bullshit thoughts. He wouldn’t be scared of the darkness that won’t seem to leave his head. But he is. He’s scared he’ll open the floodgates, and the water won’t stop rising. When the dam bursts, it floods the town, but it destroys the dam too.

“I know,” Atsumu says, “But I don’t think I wanna talk right now.”

Kiyoomi’s forehead bows for a moment before he looks back up, eyes determined once again, “That’s okay. I'll be here until you do.”

Kiyoomi pops back up off the floor, and then he’s tugging Atsumu up with him. Atsumu is confused for all of ten seconds before arms are wrapping around him and pulling him in close.

Kiyoomi is hugging him.

Kiyoomi never hugs anyone.

Getting a high five from him is something to be coveted, and he, Shouyou, and Bokuto often fight if Kiyoomi shows affection to one player but not the rest. There’s an ongoing competition between them to see who can earn the most Omi-fives. Atsumu was winning.

With this, though, he thinks he just blew his competition out of the water.

Kiyoomi squeezes him harder, “Hug me back, you bitch.”

Atsumu can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat. The shock wears off, and then his arms are wrapping around Omi in the way he’s truly only dreamed of. He clutches onto him like he’s the only thing keeping him anchored here. His face is shoved into the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck, and Kiyoomi’s arms tighten around him again.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” Kiyoomi hums, “Even if it all feels a bit shit right now.”

Something loosens in Atsumu’s chest, and he can’t tell if the dam burst or if the town is flooding. Doesn’t know if he just destroyed himself or everything in his path. Doesn’t know if roaches can swim or if they’ll drown right along with everything else 

Snot is soaking into Kiyoomi’s shoulder, his face is wet, and he’s practically dry heaving, but Kiyoomi never lets go. He’s the foundation that Atsumu rests upon. Anchoring him in place. Fighting against the rush of water.

“It’s never been easy with me,” he whispers between labored breaths.

Kiyoomi’s hands are running through the hair at the nape of his neck, “It’s not supposed to be, Atsumu. People aren’t easy. But they’re worth it. Despite everything you might be thinking in that big head of yours, you are worth it.”

Kiyoomi manages to drag him out of his apartment. It’s reluctant and against his will, but he’s grown enough to admit that the cool evening air against his face feels nice. Air that’s not from his stale ass apartment fills his lungs, and it does feel like he can breathe a little bit easier. Crying his eyes out loosened the knot in his chest, and the streetlights reflecting on the sidewalk picked at the strings even more.

They’re standing in front of Osamu’s shop now, and Atsumu feels nervous for some reason. He’d tugged on Omi’s hand before he could open the door. He just needed a moment. The last time he’d felt nervous around his brother was when they fought in their second year. He doesn’t like it. He feels like he owes Samu some kind of explanation or apology, but what would he even say?

“Hey, sorry that my fucked-up brain once again fucked-up everything. Thanks for not letting me rot in my apartment.”

At some point, Osamu was gonna get tired of him. That’s if he wasn’t already.

Somehow, he didn’t notice his brother spotting them through the glass door or him bursting through it, “I don’t know what you’re thinkin’ right now, but knock it off, ya scrub.”

Then, before he can say anything, Osamu’s pulling him into a tight hug, “Ya scared the fuck outta me.”

Atsumu can’t remember the last time he’d received so many hugs.

“’M sorry,” Atsumu whispers against his shoulder.

“Don’t be sorry,” Samu says, pulling back and looking him over. “Ya look like ya haven’t eaten in a week. Ya hungry?”

Atsumu goes to decline, because he’s not, but Omi doesn’t give him the chance.

“Yes,” he says, giving Atsumu a knowing look. “He is.”

Same doesn’t seem to need further encouragement, as he’s pulling them through the door, flipping the sign in the window to closed, and bolting the deadlock.

“Umeboshi still your favorite, Kiyoomi-kun?” Samu asks as he walks behind the counter.

Omi nods, “Yeah, but you don’t have to make that if you don’t want to. I’m good with anything.”

He and Omi take a seat at the counter, and Samu scoffs, “This ain’t amateur hour over here. I can handle some Umeboshi.”

Atsumu sits at the counter, content to watch his brother fold the rice between his hands. It’s when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket that he remembers he still has about fifty people to apologize to for making them worry needlessly.

He pulls it out and winces again when he sees the number of notifications has only risen within the past few hours.

He sighs and opens his messages. Might as well start now.

He dismisses the ones from Samu and Kiyoomi first since they have seen he is alive firsthand. He clicks on his mother’s name next, and the pool of dread deepens exponentially. He’d had numerous missed calls from her, but the last few messages made his heart hurt.

Please call one of us, Atsumu. I don’t care who it is, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I’m flying back to Osaka now. I love you.

His mother was supposed to be on vacation, visiting his aunt in America. He’d ruined her trip. He was probably running her whole life. She’d have been better off with just Osamu.

There was another one after that.

Your brother told me one of your teammates got ahold of you. I’m so sorry that things have been hard for you. I wish you’d have told me. I’ll be home as soon as I can.

I love you so much, Atsumu.

Atsumu typed out a quick message, lip wobbling. None of it conveyed how he felt.

I’m sorry, ma. Ya don’t have to come home. I’m fine. Didn’t mean to worry ya. I love you, too.

He couldn’t stomach looking at it anymore. He placed his phone face down on the counter, and then his face followed suit.

He was crying again. He wrapped his arms around his head, trying to hide from his brother and Omi. He was so tired. It’d have been better if he had never been born at all. He wished he had been brave enough to just fucking end it. He doesn’t want to deal with explaining his absence or watching his mother cry because he was too fucked up. He wasn’t in control of anything, and really, if he hadn’t figured out how to function by now, would he ever? Was it even worth it?

Hands are pulling his away from his face, and he’s forced to confront the two people in front of him.

Kiyoomi snatches his phone away, like he was afraid it would bite him.

“Don’t look at that if it’s gonna make you upset. I told the team you were fine and with me. Nobody should be bothering you with anything important right now.”

Samu is looking at him like he’s seen a ghost. His gray eyes are searching for answers that Atsumu can’t give him.

“Talk to us, Tsumu,” his brother says, but it’s a plea. Softer than he deserves.

Atsumu doesn’t understand how the feelings seem to come in waves. Outside with Omi, he’d felt almost okay. Like he might be able to face the day. But now, the ocean was rising again—and Atsumu—he’d never learned to swim.

It was like climbing a mountain just for there to be another mountain. Like clawing your way out of a trench, just to take a step and fall right back into another one. It was wave after wave. Breaking the surface just long enough to take a watery breath, only for another wall of water to drag you back under.

It was fucking exhausting.

He felt it filling up the air in chest. This awful feeling. It was like he needed someone to take a needle and stab it directly into his skull, so he’d finally be able to pop like a balloon.

He shouldn’t be surprised that Osamu had always been the needle.

Atsumu pops.

He rips his hands back, shoves the heel of them as hard as he can into his eye sockets. Stars burst behind his closed eyes. He wishes his brain would burst next.

“I don’t know!” His breathing is ragged, and even though his eyes are clenched shut, tears still manage to escape. He’s aware that his mouth is filling with too much spit and his nose is once again leaking snot, but he can’t do anything about it.

He can’t do anything.

“I don’t fucking know what’s wrong with me, Samu! I just know that I’m fucked up! I just feel so—” He can’t find the words. He moves one of his hands so it’s tugging roughly at his hair.

“It feels like everyone moved on, and I didn’t. I’m just—I’m here. I’m doing what I think I’m supposed to be doing, but I don’t—I feel like I never learned to walk on my own. It’s like every move I make has me crawling on my knees. There’s you and Suna and mom and Omi and the rest of the team, and you all just make it seem so easy . Up on two feet, walking like it doesn’t cost you anything. Where does that leave me ? Where does that leave the roaches ?”

 Osamu is staring at him like he’s speaking in tongues, and Kiyoomi’s brows are so furrowed, Atsumu worries that maybe he’d broken them both.

“The roaches?” Comes Samu’s tentative voice.

It’s like Atsumu is a wild animal, and they’re scared to spook him.

He wants to disappear and never show his face again. He wants to fall asleep and never wake up.

His voice is wrecked, and his hands are shaking. “It’s what I am. Just someone who relies on everyone else. I take and take and take, and I don’t have anything to offer in return. I just feel like I spend every day wondering when everyone will finally get tired and decide that I’m better off dead than I ever was alive.”

Samu’s hands slam down on the countertop, and Atsumu winces as the feeling vibrates through his teeth.

“That’s fuckin’ bullshit, Tsumu!”

“It’s not—”

“IT IS!” Samu growls, leaning over the counter and gripping him by the collar of his shirt.

“I don’t know what happened to make your brain think this way, but I’m tellin’ you it’s wrong! You’re not a fuckin’ roach. How could ya—how could ya even think that about yourself? That you’re just what?? Disposable? Do you know—”

Samu’s voice catches in his throat, and it looks like Atsumu isn’t the only one crying now. “Do you know the hole it would leave if you weren’t here? Do you know that the world is a better place just because you’re in it? Because it is! I know things haven’t always been easy for you, and I’m—I’m really sorry that I didn’t do more to change that. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell ya about quitting, and I’m sorry that you spent most of 3rd year feeling left out, and I’m sorry that moving out took such a toll on you, and I’m sorry that I did fuck all about it. I didn’t—I don’t know how to fix all that. I wish I could go back and be the brother you always were to me. But I’m telling you right now that if you leave—if you di—It’d kill me right along with ya. We’ve always been a packaged deal, and I need you to believe me when I tell you that I need you just as much as you need me. More, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Atsumu stares at Samu with wide eyes. He didn’t know that Samu knew that third year was hard for him. He never said anything to him. They’d just gotten back to being friends again, so he left Samu and Rin alone. He left almost every alone. He either spent his time at the gym or in his room, and once high school was over, he couldn’t help but think that it maybe should have been more fun than that.

They never really talked about that drunken phone call with Suna. Atsumu was embarrassed, and the other two seemed okay with leaving well enough alone. He and Suna did start talking more after that, and Samu also visited more when he could. He and Suna bonded over how fucking awful living in apartments was, and everything was fine again. Most of the time.

He’d have the stray thought every now and then that maybe they just felt guilty, but he brushed it off. Guilt or not, he was their friend. He just hoped they were his.

“None of this is your fault, Samu,” Atsumu whispers, “S’not your fault I gotta bad brain.”

Samu gives him a sad look, “But it’s my fault, I knew somethin’ was wrong and never did anythin’ about it.”

Atsumu shakes his head, “You’re not responsible for me. You were growin’ up just like me. It’s hard enough to find your footing without having to worry about your weird ass brother. I—I didn’t tell you this to make you feel bad. I don’t really know why I told you at all. I guess it feels better out than in…but I don’t want you to feel bad. You were there for me when I needed it most. You were here for me today. You’ve pulled me out of it so many times, you don’t even know. This one was just worse, is all.”

Atsumu spares a look at Kiyoomi—who has been quiet throughout this whole exchange. To his surprise, Kiyoomi also has a face full of tears, which he was discreetly trying to wipe away.

They should have packed tissues.

As if reading his mind, Kiyoomi reaches into his pocket and pulls out a travel pack, offering it to the tearful table.

“Omi…” He starts, but the spiker waves him off.

“Fuck, I hate crying,” Kiyoomi says, before clearing his throat. “What do we do?”

Atsumu stares at him questioningly.

“To help,” he clarifies, “How do we make sure it never gets this bad again?”

Atsumu blinks at him, “I don’t need—”

“Shut the hell up,” Samu interrupts. “You’re not gonna look at us and say you’re fine and it won’t happen again. Ya need something, Tsumu. Let us help.”

He shrugs helplessly, “I don’t know.”

He gets two accusatory looks in return. “Really. I don’t know. If I did, do you think I’d still be havin’ breakdowns like this? I have stuff that helps, but sometimes it ain’t enough.”

“Well, what helps?” Asks Kiyoomi.

Atsumu frowns, “Usually distractions. Volleyball, exercising, reading, hanging out with other people.”

“What makes it worse?” Asks Kiyoomi again.

Everything else.

He shrugs, “Drinkin’,”

The silence.

The loneliness.

Roaches.

Samu eyes him wearily, “Being alone is hard for you, isn’t it?”

He wants to deny it. Hates how pathetic it makes him feel.

“Yes.”

“Have you thought about talking to a doctor?” Kiyoomi asks gently.

Atsumu opens his mouth to protest, but Kiyoomi cuts him off, “Before you say anything, just know that I’ve spent the better part of my life on Prozac for my OCD. There’s no shame in getting help when you need it.”

“I didn’t know that,” Atsumu admits.

Kiyoomi shrugs, “It’s not so bad. Wake up in the morning, pop a pill, probably don’t have a panic attack that day.”

“There’s therapy too,” Samu suggests. “Maybe talkin’ to someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re doing could help.”

Omi nods, “MSBY offers therapy services. I guess that’s a perk of being pushed into the public eye.”

Atsumu sits back in his chair and thinks. Despite his head kind of pounding from all the crying, and his body feeling kinda of blah from a week of abuse, he’s feeling better. Maybe crying helped. Maybe it was finally getting it off his chest.

“Can I think about it?” Atsumu asks, meaning it.

“Of course,” Kiyoomi agrees, “The ball’s in your court, Atsumu. But we’re here for you no matter what you choose to do.”

Samu nods, “What Kiyoomi-kun said. No matter what happens, scrub, we’re in this together, okay?”

Atsumu smiles, it’s small, and still a little shattered, but it’s there. Maybe that’s all that matters for now.

Osamu turns back to the sink to wash his hands, then finishes concocting their onigiri. It’s the best bite of food Atsumu’s had in a long time.

When they finally return to his apartment, Kiyoomi grants him access to look at his phone with a stern, “The moment I see you frown, I’m taking it away again.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, “Yes, mother.”

The rest of the text messages don’t set him off like his ma’s did, thankfully. He’s got a handful from each member of the team. Most of them were aware that he was indeed not dead and had sent messages wishing him well. Apparently, Kiyoomi had told everyone that he’d been sick. He appreciates the lie.

The first message he opens is from Suna.

You never called me like we had planned? Have I been replaced? What about our friendship bracelets? Does the sanctity of the woven and beaded bracelet mean nothing to you?

It’s your little Omi-Omi, isn’t it?💔 He’s the one you’ve left me for? 💔💔💔

Hello?? Atsumu?

How are you gonna ignore me? As if I’m just swine?

I was seriously just joking before, but you’re actually starting to worry me. Are you alright?

Don’t make me have Komori spam your ass. I can and will.

You asked for it.

How are you gonna ignore poor, innocent, beautiful Motoya? He’s heartbroken. You should see his sad little eyebrows.🥺

I called your brother and he’s upset. He said that you won’t answer him or your mom. What’s going on? You can talk to me.

I’m getting on the next train to Osaka.

Your brother called me. He said that you’re okay for now and with Kiyoomi. He wouldn’t tell me everything, but he said that you weren’t doing too good. I’m still coming down, but he told me to leave you alone for the night. I’ll be at his apartment, though. Please call me if you need me. I’m literally a phone call and a train ride away, always.

And not to make it gay, but I love you.

Fuck, it’s gay now, isn’t it?

Atsumu doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry at Suna’s messages. He looked down at his wrist, and just like Suna had mentioned, his blue and purple friendship bracelet wrapped around his wrist. Suna had gifted it to him, the little beads spelling out B-I-T-C-H.

Atsumu loved it instantly and only took it off for practice and games. He’d gifted one back to Suna that said F-U-C-K-F-A-C-E.

They had giggled like little kids over it. Suna had worn it to a press conference, and one of the fans had zoomed in on it and posted it to Twitter. Suna then posted a picture of Atsumu with his bracelet on.

“If anyone is wondering about the bitch who called me a fuck face.”

PR was not happy with them, but it was worth it for the laugh.

He misses him. He’s tempted to call him now, but he figured he would go see him bright and early in the morning.

He sends him a message back telling him he is sorry for everything. He’d never intentionally make him worry and was sorry that he came down for nothing, but if he was free in the morning, they could hang out at Samu’s. He finished the message off with a “It was kinda gay…”

Suna messages him back immediately, with a “Fuck you.” Followed by a heart emoji and a reassurance that it wasn’t for nothing, and they were getting breakfast tomorrow.

Shouyou had spammed him over the course of the week, each message growing more and more desperate.

Tsum-Tsum ur worrying meeeeee D:🥺 D: 🥺😭😭

Is this about me eating ur last pudding cup???? I swear I didn’t no it was urs when I ate it. I thought it was Bo-kuns! 👁

Please let one of us no if ur ok.

Atsumu, you know I hate to write in full sentences, but if this is what it takes to get your attention, I will do it.

Omi told us you were sick. I feel like something else is up? But I hope you’re okay now. Please text when you can! I miss your face!

Love you! 🩷🩷🩷🩷

Atsumu couldn’t help but smile at the messages from Shouyou. His sunny disposition always managed to shine through. And he even typed in full sentences. That was practically unheard of.

He messaged back, telling him that he was sorry for causing so much trouble, but he was fine and he would explain more later.  

He didn’t really want the whole team to know about his psychopathic behavior, but he trusted Shouyou and Bokuto.

He opened Bo’s messages next. He should send the man a fruit basket. No chocolate. He’d like that better.

TSUMUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

BRO

TSUMUTSUMUTSUMUTSUMUTSUMU

Miya Atsumu

Hello???

Are you doing okay? Haven’t heard anything from you in a few days. I know how you can get during the off-season. Call me if you need to.

The invite to stay in Tokyo with me and Kaashi is always open. He won’t mind. He loves you. I love you. Bring him an Onigiri from your brother’s shop, and he’ll kiss you on the forehead, and I won’t even get jealous.

You were supposed to laugh at that…

Will you please let someone know that you’re good, even if it’s not me?

I called your brother. He hasn’t heard from you????

If you don’t respond, I’m coming home.

Omi messaged me. He said that you were sick, but he sounded upset. I don’t like this, but he told me it was under control. I might come back anyway. I feel like something is up with my bro, and we can’t have that. I love you. Like a lot. You’re like the brother I always wanted!

Cheeto loves you, too! His uncle Tsum-Tsum is his favorite. He told me himself. 🐈

Please call me when you can.

“You’re frowning,” Omi says warningly from his spot next to him on the sofa.

Atsumu schools his expression, “I’m not…upset. Just feel bad for causing such a fuss.”

Kiyoomi leans over, looking at the messages on his phone.

“Well, don’t. You deserved to be fussed over sometimes. I know what it’s like for your brain to constantly gaslight you and every choice you make, but don’t believe it when it tells you no one cares, Atsumu.”

Just like the Grinch, Atsumu feels his heart grow three sizes. “You’ve called me Atsumu a lot today, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi smirks at him, “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

When Atsumu had first met Kiyoomi all those years ago, he couldn’t stop smiling. It seems like some things never really do change. “It is. I like when you say it.”

Kiyoomi nods slowly, and the corners of his mouth quirk up. They only do that for Atsumu, he’d noticed. No one else ever seems to get past those walls Kiyoomi built up.

“That’s good,” Kiyoomi says, “Because I like it when you smile.”

Atsumu knows that right now isn’t a good time to kiss Kiyoomi. He’s had a long, emotionally exhausting day. He wants to. Really, he does. He doesn’t even think Kiyoomi would mind. Thinks that Kiyoomi might want him to, actually.

But he doesn’t want their first kiss to be tinged with sadness and desperation. He doesn’t want it to be associated with an awful day coming off of an even worse week.

“Thank you for coming today,” Atsumu settles on instead.

“I told you not to thank me,” Omi chastises, but it’s fond. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Atsumu grins at him, “Jump on a train to come save me from myself?”

Omi snorts, “Don’t be stupid. I took a plane.”

“YOU FLEW—”

🪳🪳🪳

Four Months Later

“You said that your father left when you were a kid? How old were you?”

Atsumu sits in his new therapist’s office. Atsumu guesses he’s in his forties, with kind eyes, and more patience than he deserves.

“I was seven.”

“Just a baby, then,” Furudate-san jokes. That’s something he does often, reminding Atsumu of just how young he is. That he’s not falling behind. That he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“How did it make you feel?’ He asked.

Atsumu thinks long and hard about his answer, “Is it fucked up if I say relieved?”

Furudate-san laughs, “No, I’d imagine I’d feel relieved if the main stressor in my life left. Were you angry?”

“I…I don’t think I was angry that he left. I think I was angry that it took so long. I think I might have been mad at my ma for staying with him so long. We were all so miserable all the time.”

“Have you seen him since?”

“No, thank fuck,” Atsumu says. “He could be dead by now, and I wouldn’t care to know the difference.”

“Does your brother feel the same way?”

Atsumu thinks back. He remembers cowering in his own room, his dad’s angry voice echoing off every wall in the house. He was screaming about something. He was always screaming about something. Glass shattered, and in the next moment, he was sprinting across the hallway towards Osamu’s room.

He found his brother, shaking under his blankets, trying to remain as still as possible. It was always better to go unnoticed when his dad was like this. He heard his mother sob loudly, and he closed the door gently behind him. He crawled into bed next to Samu, and they hid under the covers together.

Samu’s eyes were wide and watery, and in a voice barely above a whisper, said, “I wish he were dead.”

Atsumu closed his eyes. Because he did too.

And wasn’t that a fucking thought.

“Yes,” Atsumu answers, “If I hated him, then Samu despised him.”

“I see. And are you still angry with your mother?”

“No,” Atsumu is quick to clarify. “As a kid, I didn’t understand why we didn’t leave that piece of shit to rot in the gutter, but I know now that it was more nuanced than that. She was scared. She had two kids. I think she was worried he would follow us.”

“Forgive me if this is out of line,” Furudate-san said, leaning forward in his chair, “But humor me here.”

Atsumu nods.

“When you look in the mirror, do you see more of your mother or your father?”

Bile rose in his throat at the question.

He and Samu might be twins, but Samu took all the good genes, in his opinion.

Samu got his mother’s pretty gray eyes, her gentle features, and her fair complexion.

Atsumu’s golden eyes were passed down by his father. He was all sharp angles and harsh lines. Especially when he drank. His cheeks turned red, and his eyes got glassy, and if it weren’t for the bleached hair, it was like looking into the past.

“I look like him.”

“And are you okay with that?”

Atsumu shakes his head, “How could I be? I’m the spitting image of a coward. Of the worst type of man.”

“Do you act like him?”

Atsumu remembers being ten years old and some kid was messing with Samu on the playground. Throwing rocks, calling him names. Samu looked at Atsumu helplessly, like he wasn’t sure what to do. Kids liked Samu. Everyone liked Samu. He wasn’t used to getting side-eyed or name-calling.

Usually, when it happened to him, he’d just ignore it. He’d grit his teeth, clench his fists, and walk away. Suppress the rage that always seemed to be sitting below the surface.

Something in Samu’s expression changed that.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was on top of the other kid, fists moving faster than he’d thought possible. He shoved the kid's face in the ground, rubbing his nose in the dirt like he was a dog who had disobeyed. His fists were covered in blood, and he knew Same was trying to pull him off, but it was like he was watching from above. His vision was red, and all he knew was that no one was going to hurt Samu.

Eventually, an actual adult saw what was happening and hauled Atsumu off, fists still swinging. Like a feral animal. The other kid didn’t get off the ground. He didn’t move. The adrenaline that was coursing through his veins came to an icy halt. Fear took its place. He’d hurt that kid.

Bad.

He’d lost control. He didn’t even remember it. Just knew that his fists were flying and he was practically foaming at the mouth. He caught Samu’s eye as he was being dragged away, and it was the same look he had when his dad was around.

Samu was scared.

Of him.

He vowed after that that it would never happen again. He’d never be like that man. He’d never sink so low that he couldn’t get back up.

“I used to,” Atsumu confesses, “When I was a kid. I was so full of rage. I hated other kids, other adults, and the world. I could always feel his anger right beneath my skin. Like if I gave it an inch, it would take the whole damn mile.”

“But you don’t feel that way anymore?”

No. He doesn’t feel that way anymore. “I think the sadness replaced the rage. I don’t get angry like that anymore, but the smallest things seem to send me into a downward spiral.”

“You’re very self-aware, Atsumu.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s not a bad thing.”

“Sure feels like it.”

Furudate-san laughs, “I’m sure it does.”

“When you talk about your father. When you picture him, what comes to mind?”

An angry voice screaming in the background. Glass shattering. A fist hitting the drywall.

Roaches.

“Roaches.”

“You’ve mentioned roaches before.”

“I don’t like them.”

“Why?”

It feels like a stupid question to Atsumu. They’re roaches. Disease-ridden. Disgusting. Selfish. Everywhere.

“They just…take over everything. They’re in your cupboards, in your room, in the bathroom. All they do is take. They infest and multiply and ruin everything they touch. You spray them and they live. The world ends, and they survive. The only way to make sure they’re dead is to crush them, but there are so many. And the sound it makes beneath your shoe is awful. And then you’re killing a bug simply for existing, but its existence quite literally is detrimental to yours.”

“You said you felt like one,” Furudate-san counters.

Atsumu freezes. He’d forgotten he’d told him about that. It was during their third or fourth session. He doesn’t know why he brought it up. Tried to play it off like a joke. Furudate had scribbled something down on his notepad but moved on.

“Sometimes I do. Sometimes my apartment has roaches, and I wonder if it was a sign from the universe.”

Furudate nods, “Sometimes, Atsumu, a roach is just a roach. It doesn’t mean that you’re cursed. It doesn’t mean that you are your father. It doesn’t mean that you take from people just because you want to be loved as ardently as you love them.”

Atsumu sits back in his seat and thinks about that. Allows it to wrap around his brain like a noose.

A roach is just a roach.

Huh.

🪳🪳🪳

“I think I’m gonna look for a new apartment,” Atsumu says when they’re changing into their practice clothes.

Hinata looks up, “Huh? Why? Your apartment's nice, Tsum-Tsum.”

Atsumu grimaces, “I get random roaches sometimes? Like I’ve had the exterminator come in almost every month. It’s usually only a handful that I see…but—”

“One is too many, Kiyoomi cuts in with a shutter.”

“Kinda my thoughts too. I think one of my neighbors might have ‘em. But I thought about maybe gettin’ a roommate or somethin’.”

Shouyou nods, “My roommate in Brazil was kinda weird at first, but he became a good friend! I still talk to him all the time! It’s kinda scary, but it was worth it for me!”

That makes Atsumu feel a little better about rooming with a stranger.

Once practice ends, Kiyoomi waits for Atsumu to finish showering so they can head to Onigiri Miya together for dinner. It kind of became their new routine. Ever since that night, Kiyoomi has become Atsumu’s shadow. Atsumu could lie and say that he hated it…but that would be a lie.

He tries not to tell those.

Once they have their food and Osamu is off helping another customer, Kiyoomi gives him an appraising look.

Atsumu almost chokes on a bite of rice, “What’s that look for, Omi?”

“Were you being serious about moving and finding a roommate?”

Atsumu is taken aback by how serious Kiyoomi looks. He’s not sure what he’s so worried about.

“Yeah, I talked to Furudate, and he says that he thinks it might be good for me too. That apartment…it’s never been good for me—to me. I’ve been in it since I signed with MSBY cause it never really occurred to me that I could leave, ya know? But it’s not like money’s an issue, so why not, right?”

Kiyoomi looks down at his hands for a moment, shifting in his seat, “I have a spare room.”

Atsumu freezes, and it takes him a second to fully compute what the other man just said.

“Are ya tellin’ me this to rub it in my face or are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin'?”

He’s met with an eye roll and an exasperated sigh, “Offering it to you, you imbecile. I’ve got a highly methodical cleaning regimen and a standard of cleanliness that I refuse to budge on. Motoya would tell you to run the other way, probably. He says I’m a bitch to live with. But I’ve never seen a roach. And if I did, we’d be homeless, because I’m burning it the fuck down.”

Atsumu can’t help it; he throws his head back and laughs.

He’s been feeling braver lately. Happier. He can feel time moving, but he finally feels like he’s moving with it. He’s many things, but he’s not stagnant. He’s not crawling while everyone else runs.

He’s finally back on two feet, navigating one step at a time.

It’s not easy and it’s not perfect, and he still has a long way to go and a shit ton to learn, but he’s moving forward, no longer looking back at the past and wondering why.

Maybe that’s why he looks at Kiyoomi, who’s sitting at a table at his brother’s restaurant, the warm lighting painting him in happy hues of yellow and smiling like an idiot.

Maybe that’s why he says, “Omi-kun, aren’t ya supposed to ask a guy out before askin’ ‘em to move in?”

Kiyoomi pauses mid-bite, mouth hanging open in a very un-Omi-like manner. Slowly, he comes back online, and after a moment, says, “Would you want that?”

Atsumu’s mouth hangs open, “You’re kiddin’, right?”

Kiyoomi’s eyes are wide. He shrugs.

“Are ya blind? I’ve liked you since we were in high school! I’ve been obsessed with ya for years. Ya can’t tell me ya didn’t know?”

Kiyoomi dabs his mouth with his napkin, but Atsumu can tell it’s just him trying to conceal the panic.

“I did not know…”

“I was so obvious…”

Suddenly, Samu is there, setting down two mints, “Ya really were.”

Atsumu shoves him roughly, “Go away! Can’t ya see I’m tryna get a boyfriend right now?”

Samu cackles as he walks away, “Seems like it’s goin’ real well!”

He can’t help but huff as his brother walks away, then he turns back to Kiyoomi, who’s looking at him with soft, steely gray eyes.

The breath catches in Atsumu’s throat.

Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything, but when he stands and offers Atsumu his hand, he doesn’t hesitate to take it.

The walk back to Kiyoomi’s apartment is accompanied by a warm breeze that ruffles the spiker's curls. He looks like something straight out of a magazine. Perfection. Or the closest thing.

“I can see it now,” Kiyoomi says, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

Atsumu follows his lead, cocking his head to the side, “See what?”

And this time, Kiyoomi’s lips don’t quirk up. No, instead it’s a real smile, something so rare, Atsumu thinks he might need to take a picture for proof. His teeth are perfect, something that Atsumu already knew. You can’t spend years hyperfixating on someone’s mouth without beginning to notice a few things. That doesn’t mean he’s at all prepared when he’s faced with the full force of it.

He wheezes, “Put that thing before you hurt someone. It’s too powerful.”

Kiyoomi actually laughs. Or maybe it's angels singing. Atsumu’s not a good frame of reference at the moment. He’s too entranced by the man before him.

“The way you look at me,” Kiyoomi says, stepping closer to him. “I always knew it was…different…but you actually like me?”

Atsumu nods dumbly, “So much.”

There’s that grin again, “I think you might have terrible taste in men.”

“I think you should shut up and kiss me, now.”

Kiyoomi does.

Their lips meet, and it’s everything. Period. Point blank. There are no words he could string together to describe it.

Kiyoomi consumes him. Fire licks at his fingertips and in the spaces where their lips lock. Kiyoomi tastes like the warm night air and the mint candy that Samu had given them. Atsumu’s hands immediately find purchase on his waist, and maybe it’s electricity that radiates between them, maybe it’s something else entirely.

Kiyoomi’s hands are in his hair, and Atsumu never wants them to leave. There was a time when he never thought he’d have this. When being alone was easier than bridging the gap. Because silence was easy. Loneliness was easy. Giving up was easy.

Miya Atsumu was not easy. He never had been. He probably never would be.

He’s coming to terms with it. Knows that it’s okay.

Because someone had once told him that people weren’t supposed to be easy. They were supposed to be worth it.

And maybe that has made all the difference.

🪳🪳🪳

One Month Later

“That’s the last box, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto says, hiking the box high up on his shoulder. Atsumu is immediately envious of the upper body strength the man has. He needs to update his lift regimen immediately.

“Thanks, Bo-kun!” Atsumu praises, “You and Shouyou have been a big help. Omi and I would still be taping boxes without ya!”

Bokuto flashes him a grin and salutes with two fingers before trudging down the stairs, final box in tow.

He looks around his empty apartment. He’d spent the last five years of his life trapped within its confines. He still doesn’t know how he feels about it. Doesn’t know how much he can blame the apartment when it was his head that created all the shadows within it.

“Are you alright?” Arms slide around his waist, and he’s pulled until his back hits a warm chest. Atsumu tilts his head back, and Omi takes the opportunity to kiss him on the cheek.

“I’m good,” he sighs, content in his boyfriend’s arms. “Just thinkin’.”

“I already put your name on the lease, you can’t back out now,” Kiyoomi informs him, while his lips pepper down the side of his neck.

Atsumu giggles like a five-year-old. He’d always been smiley around Kiyoomi, and it’d only worsened in the past month. He’s never felt this happy before. He’s practically insufferable now. At least that’s what his scrub of a brother says.

“Don’t worry,” Atsumu reassures, “If you want me gone, you’re gonna have to beat me off with a stick.”

Kiyoomi grins, wide and feral, “I can definitely beat you off, not sure about the wanting you gone part though.”

It takes a moment for Kiyoomi’s joke to click in his head, but once it does, he’s cackling into his neck.

He looks up at him, and he knows that whatever’s on his face must be close to adoration, “You’re unreal.”

Kiyoomi’s gaze softens, and for the last time, he kisses Atsumu in his apartment. It’s slow and soft and everything Atsumu has ever wanted.

Kiyoomi eventually releases him, “Ready to go, love?”

Love.

Yeah, he’s ready.

Kiyoomi walks out ahead of him, and Atsumu can’t help but take one last look around at the empty apartment. He’s up and walking on two feet. He’s no longer on his knees. He’s done crawling.

His eyes catch and then linger on a small black spot on the ceiling. He squints. An antenna twitches.

He closes the door and takes a deep breath.

It’s just a roach.

🪳🪳🪳