Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sakusa never believed in the gods. Not really. Or maybe it was the extreme reverence his family had for them that turned Sakusa off the idea. But if they do exist, they must be punishing Sakusa for his rebellion and laughing down at his face as the annoying blond approached Sakusa from where he sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Stop whinin’, Omi-kun. The sooner we start, the earlier we finish, yeah?” Sakusa grumbled, straightening his back and stretching his legs out in front of him ever so slowly, every movement dragging and sluggish.

“Well, at this rate, we’re not gonna be joinin’ practice anytime soon.”

Sakusa looked back and scowled at the setter who only chuckled lowly, emanating deep within Sakusa’s gut and making him look away.

He hated the whole idea that ended up assigning him to none other than Miya Atsumu, but he hated all of it even more because it made sense.

A chill spread through all of V. League when the setter of VC Kanagawa fell hard on his back mid-game. The match stopped because no one could move the setter until actual professionals reached the court, not with the possibility of a spinal cord injury. Soon, everyone in Japan’s volleyball scene knew that the fall hit his sacrum, but the injury is, fortunately, classified as incomplete. He didn’t lose sensation in his legs and can actively move at least half of his leg muscles, so recovery was looking good and it was possible for him to play again after a year of intensive rehab. With little time to find a second setter, though, VC Kanagawa was forced to skip out of the season.

It was a cruel reminder of the dangers of their profession, the memories of Iizuna limping out of the court and of Hinata crying on the bench resurfacing in his mind. Everyone was on edge for a while, every jump and run-up just a bit more frightening as the thought that it could be their last nagged him whenever he spiked. So Coach Foster went on a research rampage and asked around. Hinata even had several phone calls with Ennoshita to ask about any extra measures they could take. They settled on passive stretching that was used for rehabilitation in various fields from sports science, occupational therapy, to physical therapy. It was a really effective preventive measure, too. And as much as Sakusa wasn’t fond of the idea of being touched or touching anyone, he’s more than willing to grit his teeth if it meant staying on the court for as long as he was allowed.

But, geez. Not Miya Atsumu.

“You washed your hands, right?”

His back was turned to Atsumu, but Sakusa could practically feel his eyes rolling, his lips twisting to a snarl. “Of course, Omi-kun. I clean up myself nicely, thank ya very much.”

He heard the soft thump of Atsumu’s knees hitting the floor behind him. Sakusa took a deep breath, stretched his legs in front of him and pressed them together, flexible wrists allowing him to reach his toes through gloved hands with ease, whispering, “Just get on with it then.”

“Just tell me when it begins to hurt, okay?” The last thing Sakusa remembered doing was humming in affirmation when the setter’s calloused hands rested in between his shoulder blades and pushed, and Sakusa promptly lost it.

Every muscle lining his back, shoulders, and neck went taut as the setter pushed Sakusa’s torso forward. His hamstrings stretched, the slight burn there expected, but everywhere else burned, too. Sakusa closed his eyes, forcing his brain to handle the touch. It’s through the shirt, it’s fine. It’s fine, Kiyoomi.

But as always, with one sense gone, his brain fixated on the touch of the setter’s hands, and the waves of familiar, unwelcome thoughts began lapping at his head, drowning out any hints of logic or rationality.

As if on cue, Atsumu’s broke through the haze. “Oh, right,” Atsumu murmured, his hands slightly lifting off of the shirt, hovering above the fabric. It was a welcome reprieve from the onslaught of sensations and Sakusa sighed in relief. “Just... hold on a little, ‘kay? I’ll let go once Coach is not lookin’. Just focus on the stretch for a while.”

Which is exactly what Sakusa did. He pushed the limits of his joints and tendons to elicit pain and take his mind off of the return of Atsumu’s touch and the burning—fuck, the burning. The discomfort and slight pain are parts of passive stretching, but not too much that it hurts or injures. Still, his fingers were way past the tips of his shoes and his abdomen was nearly flat against his thighs now and for once, he mentally cursed his hypermobile joints and why can’t you just work with me here.

A few minutes later, Atsumu’s palms are off his back and Sakusa found himself sighing deeply.

Atsumu can be the most annoying person anyone has ever met, but once in a while, the setter did care, in his break-his-back-to-give-you-the-best-sets kind of way. Sakusa saw the way Atsumu carefully watched his spikers, an attentiveness often disguised under his high demands for every set or whenever he called Sakusa a scrub for his once-in-a-blue-moon sloppy spikes because how could you not have hit that set.

So, it made sense, although it was exceedingly shocking, when Atsumu held out a finger and drew circles over Sakusa’s shoulder blade.

Sakusa could practically trace the setter’s train of thought. Atsumu probably thought that the tiny surface area of his fingertip would be way more tolerable and less overwhelming than the surface area of his whole palm. From a distance, it looked like they were still going through with the stretches as instructed, too. The idea made sense.

Sakusa thought otherwise.

His muscles—his whole body—only tensed a tenfold as his mind registered the tiny circular movements above his scapula. The burning came back full force, concentrated on the skin underneath Atsumu’s fingertips. The waves only intensified, growing bigger and harsher, logic long gone underneath its deep, deep waters.

The circles stopped, and so did the burning and the waves. Sakusa saw Coach Foster move back in his line of sight. “Come on, next stretch, Omi-kun.”

Muscle memory worked first before Sakusa could even think. Soon he was bending his knees, soles pressed together, his gloved hands on his shoes so close to his body it scraped the fabric of his shorts. “Ready, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa wasn’t.

Atsumu placed his hands on Sakusa’s bare knees, his shorts riding up halfway up his thighs, and then he pushed. Soon Atsumu’s chest was leaning against Sakusa’s back, promptly pushing his trunk muscles to move, Atsumu’s hands guiding his abductors to flex with the ease of sending a perfect set and Sakusa is gone.

The waves became a full-on storm. The burning moved from his knees to his neck and his ears and he was feeling lightheaded. Sakusa knew Atsumu was only following instructions—these were the exact steps on the handout they all read—but his mind didn’t care. To regain what semblance of control he had left, he counted the seconds. 15 seconds to hold the position. Just 15.

Somewhere between 11 and 10 he felt Atsumu’s breath against his nape.

Sakusa felt all his hairs stand, goosebumps rising up and down his arms. The waves of his thoughts hit him repeatedly and recklessly, and there is nothing but Atsumu’s hands, Atsumu’s hands, Atsumu’s hands—both of which have eased off the pressure on his knees, his right index finger drawing lazy circles on Sakusa’s kneecap.

The waves lulled.

“Sorry, Omi-kun, I can’t remove my hand completely. Foster’s still watchin’. Ya still okay?”

Sakusa found it ironic—and annoying—how Atsumu himself could let loose storms in his head and also be the one to calm them down. It’s not fair.

Sakusa just nodded in reply.

The next stretches felt like they lasted hours, but Sakusa knew it all took 5 to 10 minutes tops. Whenever Foster wasn’t looking, Atsumu would run his fingertip over Sakusa’s ankles, elbows, forearms, or knees. Whenever Foster was completely out of their sight, Atsumu would let go completely and the burning and the waves would subside, allowing Sakusa to breathe.

Sakusa also noted the emptiness whenever Atsumu’s palm left his skin. Sakusa made a mental note to not think about that again.

“Ya know ya also have to assist me, right?”

Logically, this was supposed to be easier. Sakusa had gloves on. He has control over his own hands. He can let go if it became too much to handle.

The first stretch was relatively fine, with the surgical glove and the shirt as barriers. The next ones were different. Sakusa wished he was casual about it. Sakusa wished he can say his eyes didn’t linger a second longer when he had to press down on Atsumu’s knees, his back, his forearms, his ankles, or his thighs—those famed thighs that once trended for hours after their first game against the Adlers.

Sakusa never lifted his hands throughout the following stretches. Not once.

As Foster called the start of practice, they stood wordlessly and reached for their water bottles on the bench, moving in position for serve drills with no recognition of the last twenty minutes.

As if Atsumu didn’t leave tiny circles on Sakusa’s skin whenever he noticed the spiker tensing up.

As if Sakusa still didn’t feel the phantom burning in places Atsumu has touched, a lingering reminder of a starvation that has suddenly made itself known, as loud and as wild as the person who brought them to life.

Steam billowed softly as Sakusa stepped out of the shower. A familiar figure sat on the bench, huddled over his duffel bag, still wearing the same shirt from before. Sakusa closed his eyes and sighed, swallowing his pride deep, deep down.

“Miya.” Atsumu cut his gaze towards Sakusa, one eyebrow raised. “Thank you,” he began, more uncertain this time, “for a while ago. And… sorry.”

Sakusa already knew the infamous smirk was coming, but it didn’t make it any less annoying to see. “Anything for ya, Omi-kun,” Atsumu teased as he drawled on the syllables of the nickname, warranting an eye roll from the spiker. “What’re ya sorry for, though?”

Sakusa sighed and raised the towel to his hair. “Foster gave the stretching as an extra precaution, so asking you to ease off of it makes me feel like I’m cheating out of it.”

“Nah,” Atsumu uttered, “no worries. He should’ve taken ya into consideration before implementing that, anyway. He could’ve at least given an exception or somethin’. Everyone in the V. League knows about yer thing. Foster should’ve known better.”

Sakusa looked up and couldn’t help but stare. Atsumu was still rummaging through his things, nonchalant and casual, as if he hadn’t said the most considerate statement Sakusa’s heard from him for a while now. Lost in thought, Sakusa watched Atsumu gather his things, until Atsumu looked up at him and grinned. “See ya tomorrow, Omi-kun.”

He watched Atsumu stand up and head for the showers, and he stayed there until long after the door clicked to a close.

The next days have not been easy. Of course, they haven’t. Since when did Sakusa ever have it easy, anyway?

The day after that, Sakusa had spent so much time anticipating the incoming onslaught, he was tense way before stretching even began. “Geez, Omi-kun,” Atsumu commented, “there’s nothing to stretch if all yer muscles are already this tense.”

He was foolish to think it’d be easier, because the same litany of thoughts he had no control over formed the same enormous waves as the ones from yesterday’s stretching session, lapping against his rational thinking endlessly.

And the burning.

God, the burning was so much worse. Sakusa still tensed every now and then, but Atsumu probably noticed that it hadn’t been as worse as yesterday, so his hands lingered just a second more, which meant the burning was prolonged more and more and more. Then Atsumu would proceed to soothe it with his tiny, lazy circles.

This pattern would continue for the next three days. Progress was never linear, Sakusa knew that, but it was still progress. He tensed a bit more on the third day, then eased a bit on the next. Atsumu adjusted to Sakusa’s state with ease, knowing exactly how to read every taut muscle, every hitch in his breath, and every sigh as if they were simply spike forms and court positions that he analyzed to make the single, perfect set.

Sakusa still wore his gloves when assisting Atsumu, too, much to the latter’s disdain. “I shower twice a day, Omi-kun, excludin’ the ones I take here after practice. I’m not filthy,” Atsumu exclaimed one day, to which Sakusa only replied with the snap of his glove fitting right into his fingers.

One day, as Sakusa lied down on his back, his right leg straight up in the air as Atsumu held his ankle and knee for stabilization, Atsumu gasped in a moment of epiphany. “I have an idea.”

The slight sting as Sakusa stretched his hamstrings did nothing to quell the scorn in his face. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Shut up, Omi-kun.”

Atsumu loosened his grip on Sakusa’s ankles, then his index finger moved, except this time it wasn’t the tiny circles Sakusa had been used to.

(Not that Sakusa was looking forward to them every time. Hell, no.)

Atsumu’s finger moved in a long vertical line on Sakusa’s ankle, then a short horizontal one, then another vertical line. They varied in strokes and directions, but Sakusa figured it out.

H E L L O. Atsumu grinned as he finished off the O, beaming like he just came up with the best idea in the world.

“Great. You thought about writing. You’re just 20 something years too late.”

“Omi-kun, I haven’t began exploring the infinite possibilities of this idea.”

Sakusa sighed. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

And thus began the saga of Atsumu writing the most random of things on Sakusa’s skin. That first day had been a reprieve, apparently; a tiny sneak peek of what’s to come. He wrote mostly volleyball terms that day. SETTER. SPIKER. BLOCK. SERVICE ACE. It was annoying but tolerable, and it did distract him well. He was too busy trying to figure out Atsumu who laughed at every decidedly un-funny word he wrote. He was so distracted that the overwhelming anticipation of being touched by Atsumu slipped past his mind harmlessly, floating around but never charging head-on like they always did. The waves no longer slammed against his brain, now only tickling and gently nudging his insides.

The following days became more chaotic. Atsumu fully emerged as his true self—a five-year old preschooler, apparently—who used Sakusa’s skin for the stupidest vandalisms of all time. He started the next day with a U SUCK, and Sakusa knew that day’s stretching session was going to be an absolute pain. That was immediately followed by SEA URCHIN and PRICKLY two times over, and then LOSER in even bigger letters a few seconds later, a surefire reminder of Atsumu’s recent win on their never-ending service ace competition. Sakusa had hoped to hit Atsumu in the face when he jerked the ankle lying on the latter’s shoulder, but Atsumu dodged and guffawed instead, as if he saw the reaction from miles away.

Sakusa was so busy rolling his eyes and scowling that he realized he hadn’t been tensing in anticipation of skin contact since the stretching sessions began. He was still marveling on how it happened—still wondering about the definite upward slope on the line chart of his progress—when Atsumu caught him off guard once again.

Atsumu wrote the same thing over and over again on his back. Sakusa almost didn’t catch it, but the letters were unmistakable.

OMI. OMI. OMI. OMI. OMI.

He tensed at the recognition of his own name, that godforsaken nickname, on his skin. Sakusa marveled at how different it felt—the utmost rawness of it from Atsumu’s finger to his skin, stripped off of the smirk or the annoying grin that usually accompanied the nickname whenever Atsumu used it.

It was then that Sakusa realized just how beautiful the nickname was.

(Not that he’d tell Atsumu that, though.)

Sakusa convinced himself that the confusion from that morning was what lead to the day’s poorly thought-out decisions, such as when Sakusa found himself willingly sitting beside Atsumu on the izakaya in another one of Meian’s attempts “to forge group camaraderie”.

In Sakusa’s defense, the empty seat beside Atsumu was the corner seat, the one Sakusa had always chosen during their izakaya night-outs. On other days Sakusa would have sat literally anywhere else, but somehow, he let it slide that night.

The thought that maybe Atsumu sat there on purpose tugged on his gut, that maybe Atsumu saved the seat for him so no one else could take it. Sakusa swatted the thought away, slouching but keeping his back from touching the seat, untrusting of the faux black leather that covered it.

“Hi, Omi-kun!” Atsumu greeted, grinning and waving one hand, the other draped over Sakusa’s seat yet never touching the spiker. Sakusa only replied with a glare and a scowl hidden under the face mask before sliding a tiny alcohol bottle in front of Atsumu. Atsumu laughed and took the alcohol anyway, leaving Sakusa genuinely surprised when Atsumu took the time to spread the alcohol to every finger and every crevice, going over the motions with care and ease the way Sakusa usually did it.

Which is how Sakusa found himself staring at Atsumu the whole night. Atsumu, regardless of whether Sakusa refused to admit it or not, always radiated an exhilarating yet intimidating energy in his sports attire, the point hammered home with every pinpoint set that carried the highest of demands from his spikers. Here though, in casual bottom-down white shirt and black slacks under the dim and dingy lights of the izakaya, Atsumu radiated a boundless devil-may-care energy, an aura that demanded everyone to look at him. Granted, Atsumu always did, being the attention whore that he is, but this time it was different. Inhibitions loose with booze, Atsumu is even more carefree than usual, the top two buttons of his shirt undone and skin flushed red as the alcohol crept further within his bloodstream, hair gone awry but somehow fluffier with the absence of sweat from training.

Sakusa downed one too many shots that night, this time hoping to summon the waves he’d so often cursed, wishing they’d quiet his head just this one time.

If Sakusa ever thought that Atsumu would ever ease off as the prime nuisance in his professional career, Atsumu proved him wrong almost immediately.

The day after their izakaya night-out, Sakusa’s head buzzing with a hangover, Atsumu welcomed him with a new set of words: MOLES. WHACK A MOLES. MOLES again. Sakusa would have come up with a comeback had he had the energy to, but what little sass he had died out when he felt the ghost of Atsumu’s laughter dance across the shell of his ear. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he began writing OSAKA. AMAGASAKI. HYOGO. TOKYO.

The waves came back. Sakusa let himself float in the waters of his thoughts this time, his head buoyed with thoughts of Atsumu’s hands and laughter and smile—

Weeks pass and more stretching sessions came, which meant Atsumu came up with more stupid messages to write on Sakusa’s skin.

Sakusa’s unpredictable state kept him on his toes, leaving him with days with not a hint of tension to be found and days where he could do nothing but shallowly breathe through the stretches as every muscle contracted under his skin. Despite all that, Atsumu rode the incalculable waves of Sakusa’s state with ease.

When laying off the touches were impossible as Foster lingered around, Atsumu opted for tiny circles. One day, he wrote BREATHE over and over again, on another an endless loop of OMIOMIOMI. On a particularly bad day, Atsumu wrote what Sakusa thought as a loop of cursive L’s, only to realize later on that Atsumu was drawing waves. He found that interesting: how the tiny physical waves from Atsumu’s fingertips singlehandedly overpowered the ones in his head.

The tiny waves never quite quelled the mental ones, Sakusa doesn’t think anything will at this point, but they quieted the latter to a whisper. Sakusa often thought about it at night until his eyes droop with sleep.

Still, the unknowable turns of his brain also meant that there were more good days, and all that bothered Sakusa were Atsumu’s stupid words and his stupid grins. With his mind unburdened by the waves, Sakusa had the headspace to actually watch Atsumu and he was struck by what he saw. He noticed the subtle bags under his eyes, the slight droop in his eyelids on certain days. Whenever Atsumu thought Sakusa was not paying attention, Atsumu often zoned out with muscle memory the only thing moving his limbs, and Sakusa cannot help but notice the way Atsumu often stared at nothing, as if lost in thought or memory.

Sakusa wondered if he looked like that in his bad days. Then Sakusa wished he knew how to help Atsumu the way he always knew how to help Sakusa, with Atsumu steadfastly navigating past the waves in his head. A hand always came to Sakusa, never imposing but always there, unwavering, should he choose to reach out and grab it.

Sakusa always did.

He wondered if Atsumu would grab his, if given the choice.

Sakusa hoped he would.

“Want me to assist ya, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa turned around and saw Atsumu in a black muscle tee, eyes lingering a tad too long on the latter’s defined arm muscles before quickly turning away, gulping, going back to stretching his hands over his outstretched legs.

“Fine,” he grumbled, shifting in the yoga mat he brought with him to make room for Atsumu.

Atsumu had already began pushing in between Sakusa’s shoulder blades, Sakusa’s hands reaching past his toes as he flexed his torso forward. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I was goin’ out for a run,” Atsumu answered, slightly increasing the pressure in his palms.

“Here?” Sakusa looked around. He had found a mini garden in the hotel they were staying in, nestled in the center of the 26^th floor, the area just barely bigger than their hotel rooms with one wall open to the Tokyo air. It was secluded and empty, though, which was perfect. “You’re going to run here?”

“Yup.”

“How?”

“I’ll circle the garden over and over again. How else?”

Sakusa didn’t see the appeal of it, but what was another mystery about Miya Atsumu that Sakusa couldn’t unravel, anyway? He wanted to shrug it off, but the conclusion that came to his mind wouldn’t budge. So he asked. “Are you nervous, Miya?”

Atsumu stopped pushing against Sakusa’s back, murmuring, “Yeah.” A beat. “Are you, Omi-kun?”

“I am.”

The pressure in his upper back returned, pushing Sakusa forward along with his thoughts. He knew why Atsumu wandered around the hotel beneath the pitch-black sky of 5 am, and why Atsumu wandered to the secluded garden underneath the orange and blue clouds of 6 am. No one said it out loud, but they were anxious about the rematch against the Adlers. They no longer had the surprise card with Hinata and Sakusa, and with the numerous matches since then, the Adlers had more than enough time to study Atsumu’s new serve on tape.

Still, somehow, with Atsumu it was easy to slip out of the worry and into their banter. It was stable, easy. Comfortable. “I’m still going to have more service aces, though.”

“Oh, ya wish, Omi-omi. I’ll even get the first one.”

They moved from one stretch to another wordlessly, a choreography of harmony and tension and understanding weeks in the making. Legs crossed, Sakusa held out his hands for the chest stretch as Atsumu held the space between Sakusa’s wrists and elbows, stretching his limbs backward.

Despite the nerves for the upcoming match, Sakusa wasn’t tense then. Not by a long shot.

Which is why he was surprised when Atsumu relaxed his grip and began writing on the inside of Sakusa’s wrist. He thought he was imagining it, but it was unmistakable.

After all, how could he mistake the letters of his own name?

Not Omi-Omi. Not Omi-kun. Not Sakusa.

Kiyoomi.

His skin burned again. Sweet and slow and tender, but still, it burns.

Sakusa wants more.

“I think you’re gonna be fine, Omi-kun,” Atsumu whispered, his lips and his hands writing completely different stories.

Sakusa carried those stories with him the whole day.

Sakusa wished he didn’t know why he went back to the garden at 1 a.m. He wished he can say that he took a walk because he couldn’t fall asleep, but his droopy eyes would say otherwise. He wished the reason wasn’t because he heard the door of the room beside his slam open and shut. How he heard the muffled sounds of dragging footsteps against the floor at around 11 a.m and how he hadn’t heard those footsteps come back since. Sakusa wished the reason wasn’t because he noticed the vacancy in those brown eyes when the ball dropped on their court, or the slight slouch on his shoulders, barely noticeable underneath cheeky grins and steely stares.

Sakusa wished he was surprised when he saw Atsumu clad in his sleepwear and sprawled on the fake grass. He wasn’t, though.

He went there for him, after all.

He nudged the toe of his shoe against Atsumu’s ankle, brown eyes meeting his with shock and, if Sakusa was seeing clearly, a bit of relief. “Omi-kun.”

“What are you doing here?” Sakusa asked, stuffing his hands on the pockets of his hoodie. Atsumu promptly covered his eyes with his forearm. “I can’t sleep.”

“And lying down on fake grass was going to solve it?”

Atsumu didn’t answer.

Sakusa crouched down to an Asian squat a few steps away from Atsumu’s feet, his hands hugging his knees and his chin digging on his forearm. “Does this always happen?”

Atsumu’s forearm slowly fell from his face, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. “Sort of. I tend to think a lot about the choices I made in matches. It’s bad in particularly shitty trainings, but sometimes it happens even when we win. But it’s so, so much worse when we lose, I can’t even sleep.”

After a moment, Atsumu sat up, pushing his knees to his chest as he went. “I’ve been doin’ it since high school. It never stopped since.” He wrapped his arms around his knees, chin resting on the dip in between.

An idea began forming in Sakusa’s mind, and he spoke before he could chicken out. All he saw was an opening in Atsumu’s flawless façade, an opportunity to reach out a hand the way Atsumu did for him so many times before, and Sakusa didn’t even hesitate. “Go back to your room.”

Even with his face half hidden, the upward quirk of Atsumu’s eyebrow was noticeable. “Who are ya, my mother?”

“Just shut up and follow me, Miya.” Sakusa heard a snort as he stood and turned without looking back, making his way back to the elevator and to their own floor. A pair of footsteps followed him all the way.

Sakusa fell back as Atsumu opened the door to his own hotel room, eyes evading Sakusa as he began walking inside. “Good ni—”

Sakusa slipped in before the door slammed shut, halting the words on Atsumu’s tongue and leaving his eyes wide in shock. Hands still in his hoodie, Sakusa walked towards the bed with the haphazard sheets and thrown-around clutter, evidences of a struggle to grasp elusive sleep, and jerked his head towards it, guessing that it was Atsumu’s. Besides, Sakusa had already inferred that the pristine second bed and the still padlocked luggage was Bokuto’s, who had hurriedly left after the match with Akaashi. “Lie down.”

Atsumu’s shock immediately gave way to a tiny hint of mischief. Sakusa would have been glad at the loss of the frown if he didn’t know exactly where Atsumu’s mind went. “Omi-kun, ya could have just told me—”

“Don’t even try finishing that sentence and just lie down.”

Slyness still laced Atsumu’s face, the grin holding up though somewhat strained, but it was progress. Atsumu raised his leg over the bed and dove in, tugging the already wrinkled sheets around him.

Doubt—and logic—was slowly creeping in Sakusa’s mind. His reflexes were veering towards flight, but Sakusa, determined, was fixated on the opening Atsumu may have consciously or unconsciously left open.

It didn’t matter. Sakusa was going to take his chance, anyway.

Once Atsumu was settled, Sakusa sat on the edge of the bed, right beside the latter’s knees. He didn’t look at Atsumu. He didn’t want to see his reactions or else he might retreat. He took his phone out from his pocket and opened a long-forgotten PDF file. Sakusa hadn’t found the need to use it lately, fortunately, and it had been so long since that he needed a refresher.

“There’s this technique called progressive muscle relaxation or PMR,” Sakusa began, locking the phone and slipping it back to his pocket. “It’s used for insomnia, anxiety, body pain, the likes, but you can also use it if you just want to relax for a while. I’m going to ask you tense certain muscle groups and then release them, and you have to feel the way your muscles relax as you do.” Sakusa fumbled on the strings of his hoodie, hands too jittery to keep still. “If you’re confused, just listen to me.”

When Sakusa accidentally turned his head, forgetting that he was pointedly not looking at the Atsumu’s face, he saw Atsumu looking intently at him. The shadows were still there, the heaviness, but in a way, Atsumu looked serene like this: his hair, now free from product, falling flat the way they did in high school and his features soft against the cozy hotel lights.

People often said how unreadable Sakusa is, but no one ever acknowledged how difficult it is to understand the mystery that is Miya Atsumu. Yes, he was loud and expressive, grins and sneers always pushed to the extreme that they concealed the uncertainties within. The silent moments before he decided on a set, the vacancy after the fall of his sneer when his sets were blocked or read. The gritty silence after the continuous slam of volleyballs on a bad practice day with a dangerously low serve success rate, the eerie calm whenever someone jokes that Osamu’s the better twin, the scary lack of a reaction when people claimed his personality as “too much”.

Sakusa wanted to understand him and his moments, the ones he kept public and the ones he kept hidden away.

“Do you sleep with the lights on?” Sakusa asked. Atsumu jerked upright at the question. “Ah, no, hold on—”

Sakusa stretched out a hand, stopping Atsumu from moving, his palm briefly grazing the bare skin of Atsumu’s knee. The burning came back, so brief it felt like a spark. “I’ll do it.”

Sakusa moved to turn off the lamp on Atsumu’s bedside table, then crossed the room to turn off the main lights. He was moving in near-black darkness until he traversed the room again, curtains on his hands as he shoved them aside, moonlight and city lights streaming through the windows.

One question caused Sakusa to still, frozen as he approached the bed.

“Why are ya doin’ this?”

Sakusa has a lot of answers to that, most of which would leave him with even more questions. I owe you one. You’re my teammate, why not? You’re sad. I don’t like it when you’re sad. I don’t need to have a reason. I just want to do it. Dammit, just let me do it, Atsumu.

“It just feels right.”

His long fingers shielded the light flooding from his phone, 2:13 a.m. flashed in a big, white font on the screen. He locked the phone immediately, sliding it back to his pocket and looking back with a sigh of relief when he saw Atsumu still fast asleep.

Sakusa suddenly remembered when Atsumu interrupted the PMR and spoke halfway through the breathing exercises. “How do ya know ‘bout this, Omi?”

The stare he was giving Sakusa was too much, his gaze so intense Sakusa was glad the routine asked Atsumu to close them. For now, though, those brown eyes stared as they desired. Sakusa looked out at the window instead. “There are nights where, no matter what I do, I just can’t sleep. A previous therapist told us about PMR, so my siblings used it on me since I was young. I had to do it to myself since high school, too, so I ended up memorizing it.”

“Do ya use it often?”

Sakusa looked at him then. There he was, helping him, and Atsumu turned the tables around with a single question. He wondered about how much care this man is capable of giving, about where the extent of his concern lies when he himself was barely keeping it together.  

“No, not anymore. It’s been a while, actually.” Atsumu nodded, letting his head fall back on the pillows as they go back to square one.

Sakusa spoke in the softest, gentlest voice as if he was reading a storybook instead of an actual relaxation technique used by healthcare professionals. At one point Atsumu joked that maybe Sakusa was moonlighting as an ASMR YouTuber somewhere, which was only followed by a steady glare and a breathy chuckle.

He was genuinely surprised at the ease with which Atsumu followed his voice, toes curling and soles tensing as asked, shoulders rising and squeezing at the correct times, chest breathing out as long as he is told, muscle groups relaxing on command.

Sakusa had noticed him slipping when he asked Atsumu to curl his hands inwards only to receive a weak flex in response. Later, Atsumu could barely hold his clenched fists for more than three seconds, and when he asked Atsumu to squeeze his eyes he only complied once, then his eyelids remained still for the minutes thereafter.

Sakusa didn’t dare to move for twenty minutes, afraid that he would stir Atsumu awake. So Sakusa stared at him for twenty minutes, the moonlight so much softer and lighter on Atsumu’s skin than the artificial hotel lights. He didn’t even realize the way he catalogued every part of Atsumu’s face, every swoop of moonlight that hit his hair, or the way Sakusa’s thoughts ran wild, unbidden, the waves turning into a rushing stream.

Sakusa wanted to sleep to this view every night, wanted to wake up to it every day. He wanted to be there when Atsumu’s mind betrayed him, to coach his breathing to even out and his muscles to relax. He wanted his hugs to be the ones that calmed Atsumu, his cuddles to be the ones that genuinely made him smile. He wanted to be there for every toss Atsumu is ever willing to give, giving his all the way Atsumu did every single time. He wanted to be there for every victory and every loss, because the distinction hardly mattered as it only meant that they get to play together more, and that they get to go home together.

The realization that Sakusa loves Atsumu wasn’t earth-shattering or time-stopping. It wasn’t an earthquake that made him tremble nor was it a shock that left him gasping for air. It wasn’t even that soft oh writers always talked about, the quiet surprise when they finally find the puzzle piece that made everything make sense. It was less of a realization and more of a fact that simply made itself known.

The only thing Sakusa thought was—

Of course.

Of course, it’s Miya Atsumu, in all his loudness to Sakusa’s quiet. Atsumu’s easy touches to Sakusa’s aversion to them. Atsumu’s recklessness to Sakusa’s heedfulness. Atsumu’s endless capacity to give to Sakusa’s endless evasion that had left him empty. Atsumu’s tendency to spread himself thin to Sakusa’s years of holding back, the recoil posed and ready to finally give more.

Because who else could it be? Who else could Sakusa possibly love this much?

Sakusa left as softly as he could, feet light and grip gentle as he opened the door with the tiniest of creaks. A thought solidified in his mind: The next time he comes back, it will be when Atsumu opens his door for him.

The next time he comes back, Sakusa will be heard. He will be loud.

The next day transpired with nothing but Atsumu’s quiet thank you and Sakusa wordlessly seating beside him on the bus ride back to Osaka.

Sakusa was glad for the day off, even if he knew it meant that Foster would push them harder tomorrow given their recent loss. That was tomorrow’s concerns. Today, he needed another night to mull over his emotions.

When they all went back to the gym, the air was grim, the loss that cost them the war still hanging heavy on their shoulders. Even Bokuto and Hinata were subdued, opting for tinier, tighter smiles.

And then there was Atsumu.

Atsumu’s broad shoulders and neck still curved slightly, though his back was straighter this time and the bags under his eyes significantly lighter. Sakusa sighed in relief, knowing he was still getting a bit of sleep.

Atsumu gave off the feeling that he is there but not really. When Foster talked to the team, he nodded in the right places and reacted accordingly, but the line in between his eyebrows made Sakusa feel like Atsumu was out there, already thinking about his next serve, his next toss.

They both drifted to their usual spot for stretching once the circle broke off, Atsumu drifting down on his knees to the mat as if he was moving on mere autopilot.

They moved through the motions, movements guided only by muscle memory. Atsumu’s skies were blurry this time, too hard to see through. Sakusa can’t even see if there was an opening somewhere, a space for his hand to reach.

He was deep in thought when he noticed the familiar movement of Atsumu’s fingertip against his shirt, in between his scapula. It made him wonder if he had tensed his body unconsciously, or if his worry over the setter set his muscles on end. Still, Atsumu wrote. The letters were so sloppy Sakusa wasn’t even sure Atsumu was aware that he was doing it, his touch so light it was barely perceptible. Sakusa would have missed it had he not been paying attention. He always has been, though—all five senses attuned to Atsumu and no one else.

Still, nothing made sense when he put the letters together.

I LIKE YOU.

If Sakusa wasn’t tense before Atsumu began writing, he definitely is now, every single muscle taut with the sensation etched on his skin.

I like you.

Atsumu’s finger left the fabric of his shirt, and even with his back turned to Atsumu, Sakusa felt Atsumu’s breath hitch. The waves rose again, raging and wild, the force of its waters setting his back straight, his limbs stiff, his heart racing. Every organ and every system were set on overdrive, pushing forward to keep up with his mess of a head. This time, though, the waves weren’t suffocating—they were exhilarating. A force that gave him momentum to run, to fly, to move.

Sakusa stood up swiftly and turned around.

Atsumu was frozen on his knees, face and lips pale, eyes darting everywhere but on Sakusa. On any other day, Sakusa would have laughed at the face of an Atsumu so completely lost and out of control. Not today, though.

Today, he had to move.

“Sit on the mat, Miya.”

The words seemed to have rattled Atsumu. “What? We barely even finished—”

“Just sit, Atsumu,” Sakusa repeated, softer this time.

The gentleness of it seemed to have gotten through to Atsumu. He moved to the mat and sat, legs stretched out in front of him.

They moved from one stretch to another, Atsumu’s muscles too tense and his breaths too shallow.

He waited for the right moment. Waited the waves hit the right height, the right intensity, the right timing. He wondered if that was the waves had been telling him all this time: if it had been telling him to stop thinking so much, to stop worrying about drowning when swimming had always been an option.

Atsumu straightened up, moving to the chest stretch and raising his hands to shoulder height. It was a good day on the progress chart, Sakusa noted. He snapped the gloves off and pocketed them.

Then he held Atsumu’s wrists and pulled his limbs back.

He watched Atsumu’s muscles contract as he pulled and pulled, biceps and deltoids tensing under his skin. The waves rose, licking the insides of his brain, inviting him in like sirens in the night.

Sakusa jumped. Right hand loosening off of its grip, a fingertip grazing against Atsumu’s sweaty palms.

I LIKE YOU TOO. A stretch of silence. Then another word. ATSUMU.

Sakusa wished he knew what it was like in Atsumu’s brain then.

Maybe Atsumu could tell him.

Atsumu has all the time in the world to tell him. They have time.

Sakusa was usually the last person in the changing rooms because of his tedious shower rituals. He was used to the sight of the empty space, an often-welcome relief from the stamina-depleting trainings.

Instead, he found Atsumu leaning against his locker, just three lockers away from Sakusa’s.

Sakusa walked over to his locker and yanked his bag out. He could feel Atsumu’s gaze follow his hands as he draped the towel around his neck, Atsumu’s eyes unwavering and unyielding.

His head had (very poorly) processed what happened as training began. The confidence he had after Atsumu’s confession crumbled to the overwhelming realization that his affection, after all, is not a one-way street. He suddenly couldn’t meet the setter’s eyes as he positioned himself to receive Atsumu’s deadly serves. Sakusa hit Atsumu’s tosses without looking at him, partly because he knew the ball will come to his hand, anyway, but mostly because it reminded him of Atsumu’s capacity to love and care with every fiber of his being.

He didn’t know how to handle the idea of it, much less the actuality of it.

He wanted to try, though. 

God, did he want to try.

It still didn’t make him any less overwhelmed. Nor did it make it easy to look at Atsumu who—and Sakusa just knew even without looking—was grinning widely as he watched Sakusa squirm under his stare.

“Stop it, Miya.”

“Hey, I thought I’m ‘Atsumu’ now.”

Apparently liking each other wasn’t going to change this push-and-pull, either. Sakusa liked that.

“Ya weren’t kidding though, right?”

This time Sakusa did look at him. The teasing smirk was gone, leaving behind a tentative smile and soft brown eyes. This is Atsumu opening the door for him.

“No. Were you?” And this is Sakusa stepping in, loud enough to be heard.

“No.”

Atsumu took his hand out of his pocket and held Sakusa’s, slipping his fingers in the spaces between.

“You washed your hand, right?”

“Of course, Omi-omi. Why are ya destroyin’ the moment like that?”

“Just making sure.”

Without unravelling their interlocked fingers, Sakusa loosened his grip just enough to free his thumb and began writing. He can’t help but stare at their intertwined hands, can’t help but smile as he left the letters on his lover’s skin.

KISS ME.

When he looked up, Atsumu was smiling back at him. Atsumu grabbed the towel wrapped around Sakusa’s neck and pulled him in, lips slotting in perfectly. Atsumu yanked the towel off and threw it on the ground, his fingers curling against the curve of Sakusa’s nape as Sakusa reached up to touch Atsumu’s jaw, fingers tracing his cheek, warm and soft and his.

A breathless Sakusa reprimanded him later for the towel, which Atsumu only answered with a scowl. Then he wrote KISS ME MORE on Sakusa’s nape and their lips were together again like the waves naturally gravitating to shore under the whim of the moonlight and boy, did they swim.

This wasn’t so bad.

He wouldn't mind a lifetime of this.

Sakusa knew what people meant when they talk about love languages. He knew Atsumu’s is acts of service and his, ironically, is physical touch (but only after years of getting used to Atsumu’s touch). However, he’d insist that writing on each other’s skin is their true love language, one that rewrote itself on their fingerprints with every word they have written over the years.

So when Atsumu joked that he’d just write his proposal on Sakusa’s skin, while a part of him laughed, a part of him also knew Atsumu had meant it.

It didn’t make it any less surprising when Atsumu wrote MARRY ME KIYOOMI on his palm, though, moonlight cascading down their skin.

Sakusa never believed in the gods. Not really. But if they brought Atsumu to his side, perhaps Sakusa can leave room for a little bit of faith.