Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hit that one more time, scrub, and I’m gonna ban ya for life.”

Atsumu tears his gaze from the boxy screen and its blinking, pixelated reminder of GAME OVER, and settles it instead upon the unimpressed face of his brother. He looks stupid hunched over the arcade counter in his retro uniform. He looks stupid out of it too.

“Not my fault all your machines are broken,” Atsumu tells him, sending one last kick into the side of Space Invaders for good measure. It rattles ominously, but it doesn’t change the fact that Atsumu’s score still isn’t high enough. It seems like nothing ever will. “You should reset ‘em all again.”

“Reset ‘em,” Osamu repeats. “So Sakusa gets a clean slate to wipe ya against?”

Atsumu kicks the machine again just to watch the way his brother’s brow twitches irritably beneath the flickering lights of a dozen different games. “He ain’t wipin’ me against nothin’. If you’re gonna ban someone, ban him. The bastard’s obviously cheatin’.”

That’s the only plausible explanation as to why ranks ten through two all belong to initials MYA and number one is permanently occupied by SKO. It doesn’t matter what – Space Invaders, Pac-Man, Asteroids, Centipede – Sakusa has an immovable first-place monopoly across them all. It’s fucking infuriating.

“‘Course he is,” Osamu says, and he sounds like he’d believe Atsumu more if he told him the sky was green and pigs were falling from it. “Is it time for you to fuck off yet? I’m sick of listenin’ to your ugly voice.”

Atsumu pulls back the red-leather sleeve of his jacket to check his watch: 11:48. The Bounty Office won’t open for another twelve minutes, and it only takes him three and a half to drive there from Osamu’s arcade. Traffic around this part of the city is light, the visitors few and far between in favour of regulars who know how to traverse the streets without finding themselves on the wrong end of a blaster muzzle.

Often Atsumu finds himself thinking it’s a damn good thing that Osamu’s arcade is just a business front for his weapons workshop in the back, or the lack of any real customers would have had him filing for bankruptcy years ago.

“I’ve got long enough for one last game,” Atsumu concludes. He turns to insert another coin into Space Invaders, but Osamu throws something – a wrapped lollipop from the tub of consolation prizes – at his head to stop him. It hits his cheek stick first with a sharp sting, then thumps against the obnoxiously patterned arcade carpet.

“Not that one,” he warns with some bite. “Not again. No video machines at all. Your yellin’ is gonna make my fuckin’ head explode.”

Atsumu picks up the lollipop, pulls the wrapper off with his teeth, and spits the rubbish out in Osamu’s general direction. The bastard has some nerve. He’s just as loud whenever Atsumu nudges him off the track in Daytona USA, or when he blames the game for his two left feet and pathetically small combos in Dance Dance Revolution.

Sparing a final glance at Sakusa’s stupid initials, Atsumu acquiesces with a shrug and makes a beeline for the claw machines nearest the door instead. He puts the lollipop in his mouth to free up his hands and grimaces when the bitterness causes his tongue to shudder. “Why’d ya throw strawberry? Tastes like crap.”

Osamu glances down at the rubbish on his floor. “That’s just the residual flavour of bullshit in your mouth,” he says. “Thought you’d have gotten used to it by now.”

Atsumu raises a sceptical eyebrow. “You sure it’s not ‘cause they expired fifteen years ago and you’re too lazy to change ‘em?”

“Wish you’d fuckin’ expired fifteen years ago,” he grumbles.

To make a point, Osamu plucks out a sweet of his own and tries it. Atsumu knows him too well not to notice the twitch of his lip that means he’s concealing disgust.

Atsumu snorts and plugs enough coins into the claw machine for three plays. It’s the only game in the whole damn arcade Sakusa can’t beat him at. Nobody can, because the bastard thing is rigged not to give out any prizes at all. He knows Osamu’s done something to the settings to make it that way, but Atsumu wants the dishevelled-looking fox toy sitting near the prize chute too badly to really care. The more Osamu tells him he’ll never win it, the more money he wastes attempting to prove him wrong. It’d look great sitting on the dashboard of his car.

“When’s that new piece you’re workin’ on ready?” he asks as he wiggles the joystick and angles the claw above the fox; the positioning looks perfect.

“A while yet. I’m still waitin’ on some parts,” Osamu tells him with a sigh. He leans back and crosses his arms over the bright yellow chest of his uniform. “Aran said somethin’ went down at the harbour a few days back. Some thugs makin’ trouble with shipments of crystal cores. Three whole batches were stolen and a buncha guys ended up dead over ‘em.”

The claw descends. It closes around the fox. It opens again and returns to the start. Atsumu sniffs and tries again. “That’s about to be a whole lotta new blasters walkin’ about the city from fuck knows who,” he says. And a whole lot of extra trouble, too. How exciting.

Osamu makes a noise of disinterest. As he always does when weapons that aren’t his design are brought up. “They probably won’t last long,” he says. “Ya need more than just cores to make a good piece. Few rounds and the heat’ll melt right through ‘em. Make ‘em less than useless. Might even backfire and fuck their hands up.”

The claw blatantly drops the fox a second time. Atsumu kicks the machine. Osamu throws another lollipop that hits the illuminated glass beside Atsumu’s head with a sharp clink. He doesn’t bother picking it up this time. It probably tastes like shit.

“So… no blasters for me?”

“None that’ll actually fire.”

“Got anythin’ else I can have?”

“My fist in your face?”

Atsumu sends him a look over his shoulder and tries again. “Got anythin’ else I can have?”

Osamu drums his fingers atop the counter then gets up out of his chair. “S’pose I’ve got somethin’ you can test. It’s a prototype though, so don’t blame me if it takes your fuckin’ face off.”

He sounds serious, but Atsumu knows Osamu won’t let him touch anything unless it’s safe. He abandons his last play of the claw to vault over the arcade counter and follow his brother through to the back room.

The flashing of the lights, the hum of the machines, and the din of layered theme songs all stop dead the moment he steps into the hallway and shuts the door behind him. It’s cold, concrete, and lit by a single moth-addled bulb in the ceiling. Atsumu can still feel the memory of music over its buzz, muffling the nonsense about specs and design intricacies Osamu is spewing as he leads Atsumu down the steep staircase.

Osamu stops at the bottom to input the room code – a secret even from Atsumu after stealing one too many weapons without permission – and opens the door.

The workshop is a mess, almost as bad as Osamu’s half of their shared childhood bedroom. There’s no better way to describe it than a horde of confusing junk, lit by more fluorescent bulbs that make Atsumu’s eyes ache to look at, and a perpetual smell of burning lingering in the air that makes his nose wrinkle.

The counters are drowning beneath scrap metal, hefty tools, and bulky reams of wire. There are crates of waste and excess materials jammed beneath and on top of tables, with failed experiments and glowing racks of crystal cores lying around in the gaps between. To cover the burn marks on the walls, Osamu’s tacked up blueprints and posters of scientific-looking formulaic equations, and there are huge, hulking pieces of machinery pressed up against the wall furthest the door for welding or printing or whatever the fuck else Osamu does when he magics metal into the shapes of blasters.

“Stand there and don’t touch anythin’,” Osamu tells him with a pointed glare. “I find a single spring outta place this time and I’m blastin’ your head off for good.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu says with a roll of his eyes. If he had a coin for how many times he’s heard that one, etcetera etcetera.

“I mean it, Tsumu. It may not look like it, but I know where everythin’ is. I’ll know instantly if your gross, stinkin’, shit-ridden hands have touched a single—”

“Just gimme the tech and shut the fuck up, Samu. I’ve got a few minutes to spare, not a week to listen to ya whinin’.”

Osamu lets out a loud huff to conceal the curse hidden beneath it, but he walks over to the metal cabinet that contains his finished pieces anyway, and Atsumu stuffs his hands into the high pockets of his cropped jacket to ensure good behaviour.

A jingle of keys later, and Osamu opens the cabinet to reveal an impressive array of blasters. There are streamlined assault automatics, heavy-punching revolvers, and small, yet nonetheless deadly, pocket pistols, each with the distinct glow of a crystal core lodged into their barrels.

Atsumu already has two rapid firing SMG pistols resting in the buckled pockets of his tactical joggers, and an ordinary standard blaster at his hip. There’s a sniper rifle with a ridiculously long optical zoom attachment sitting in a box in the boot of his car for special occasions too, and a hefty two-handed shotblaster propped up against the back of his passenger seat.

There isn’t really a need for another, but Osamu doesn’t pass him a blaster. He pulls open a drawer, rustles around inside, then shoves something cold into Atsumu’s chest.

“Here,” he says.

The force he uses makes Atsumu stumble backward and take his hands out of his pockets to steady himself.

It’s a switchblade; when he slides the button on the handle, a knife pops free.

Osamu points to another button on the reverse side. “Press that.”

Atsumu ‘presses that’ and the blade lights up with a layer of hot, neon-red light. Even under the fluorescents it tinges the air crimson, makes Osamu look like he’s about to tell Atsumu he’s his long-lost father. “Oh shit,” Atsumu whispers, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

The logistics of crystal cores are still alien to Atsumu; he knows how to fire them from blasters and how to wreak as much havoc with them as possible, but not much else. He does know enough to understand that this is impressive, however. Until now, crystal cores have only ever been harnessed to create energy for homes and force hot bullets through blaster muzzles. To Atsumu’s knowledge, nobody has ever succeeded in keeping a steady, concentrated stream of that energy still for this long, never mind find a way to wrap it around a blade.

“You’re a fuckin’ genius, Samu.”

“Yeah, I know,” Osamu grins. He leans back against the open cabinet door. “Still workin’ on the charge length though. The crystal can only remain on for three minutes at a time before it starts to heat the handle too hot. I made that one with an emergency coolant, but you should probably try to turn it off yourself before it gets to that stage. Just in case. Or don’t,” he shrugs. “See what happens. I’ll probably find it funny.”

Atsumu holds the blade up to his face to inspect it closer. There’s a dense buzz of energy, a heat so intense it feels as though he’s holding a dozen opens flames to his cheek than just one knife. If pressed to the skin it would undoubtedly be agonising, tear through flesh and bone in an instant. Pressed to a bounty’s throat the fear alone could get them to talk. The thought makes Atsumu’s brain sing with new possibilities.

When Atsumu tears his eyes away and looks back over at Osamu, bright white lines mar his vision and mark the back of his eyelids no matter how many times he tries to blink them away. He retracts the blade with a snap and pockets it.

“I’m keepin’ it,” he tells Osamu.

“Do whatever the fuck you want with it.” Osamu turns and closes the cabinet with a rowdy clang and locks it back up. “Swing by next week and I might have an upgrade for ya. If my shipments ever come in, that is.”

Atsumu closes his hand around the warm weight of the blade handle in his pocket. It feels good in his hand. Safe. He always feels safe carrying Osamu’s creations with him, no matter how dangerous the night gets.

“Maybe I’ll steal ya some stuff myself,” he says. “Force ya to make me a whole sword outta that shit.”

“Absolutely fuckin’ not. The last thing this city needs if you wieldin’ a sword.”

“Why not?” Atsumu grins. “Scared I might tear the whole place down and make myself king?”

“Scared ya might chop your own dick off before ya get out the door, more like.”

The shrill beep of Atsumu’s watch cuts him off before he can argue back. It’s his five-minute warning, his prompt to leave immediately if he wants to get to the Bounty Office as it opens, before the rabble swarm it with noise.

Atsumu silences it and sends his brother a salute with the expired strawberry lollipop. “Time to go and play,” he says.

“If you’re gonna die,” Osamu starts.

“Die where you can find me,” Atsumu finishes on his way out. “Heard ya the first ten thousand times, scrub.”

Atsumu knows that means don’t die at all.

Atsumu’s car is his pride and joy; a sleek, black contraption that took him two years and four and a half S-Grade bounties to save up for. Suna’s tricked it out for him, modified the dashboard with a fuck-ton of gadgets to make Atsumu’s bounty hunting life easier, and a whole lot more that serve no greater purpose than to look cool.

It’s loud, obnoxious, and sexy. Atsumu thinks that means they were made for each other.

The streets are far too narrow to park it outside of Osamu’s arcade. Atsumu has to jog to the end of the road and find it amongst a row of older, uglier, and less impressive models lined up beneath the dancing lights of a hundred towering buildings. He smooths a hand over the bonnet before he climbs inside, completes his lap of the exterior to check it for scratches and kicks each of the tires.

As predicted, the drive takes less than three minutes. Partly because the roads are empty, but mostly because Atsumu pretends not to know the meaning of speed limits.

The city rolls by in a muted blur against the dark tint of his windows, and Atsumu mentally checks off the neon-lit names as he passes them – clubs, restaurants, shops, casinos. They act like a guide: passing the sleazy strobes and thumping music of The Flightless Crow tells him he has two more lights to run; the long street housing Johzenji Casino House warns him to take the sharp left of a shortcut; the thick crowds lining up outside the Calico Cage urge him to pull over and kill the engine.

Blink and you’ll miss the staircase leading down from the clamour of the main street to a dingy, hidden alleyway. To those who don’t carry a bounty license, it’s just another seedy stairwell steeped in shadow, pressed between two tall buildings of significantly more interesting and brightly lit glass. To those in the know, it leads down into a cosy vintage bar, run by the city’s sole Bounty Officer, Kuroo Tetsurou.

Atsumu parks across two open spaces on the off chance it might ruin someone’s night or make them late, then he weaves his way through the throngs of partygoers to take the steps down two at a time.

The code of the door changes every night. Atsumu memorised it the second the message came through an hour previous, but he’s still forced to wait forty-five seconds before it officially opens to try. When the door finally clicks and Atsumu wrenches it open, it’s like stepping back through time. He’s hit with a past he’ll never truly know or understand, the same sort of vacant nostalgia he feels every time he steps into Osamu’s arcade.

The walls of the hallway are layered with dark, crimson wallpaper, the ceilings hung with varying sizes of crystalline chandeliers. The light emanating from them is warm with the life of old electricity rather than the cold, fluorescent glow of crystal energy, and the doors and floorboards are thick, dark mahogany.

The bar itself is impressively expansive, like a place so big shouldn’t exist beyond such a narrow staircase. It houses dozens of booths meant for business and pleasure alike, all plush with dark cushions of crushed red velvet, and with a distinct smell of old cigar smoke about them. Atsumu walks past the tables and the podium housing a grand piano and settles into a stool before the stretch of wooden counter that separates him from the bounty boards and hordes of expensive alcohol.

“You might as well sleep here, Miya,” Kuroo says over the soft, dulcet tones of jazz from the gramophone. He doesn’t need to turn around from where he’s busy organising a cabinet of glass tumblers, he knows Atsumu is always the first to arrive.

With a hungry eye, Atsumu’s gaze flickers over the broadness of Kuroo’s back and down to the tightness of his waistcoat-cinched waist. “You finally offerin’ me a night in your bed, Tetsu?” he asks, working the lollipop around his mouth to rest it in his cheek. “Knew ya couldn’t resist me for much longer.”

Kuroo throws a look over his shoulder, the same lazy smile he offers every time Atsumu tries to charm his way over the other side of the counter (and preferably up against it).

Atsumu grins back. “Bokkun won’t mind. He can join in too.”

Kuroo turns to face him entirely and leans back against the closed cabinet, raising the only eyebrow Atsumu can see through his artfully messy hair. “One of these days, someone’s going to pay a whole lot of money to shut that mouth of yours for good,” he says. “Maybe I’ll spare everyone the trouble and start saving now.”

“I’m an S-Grade at least,” Atsumu says. “You’re gonna be savin’ a while.”

“It’ll be worth it.” Kuroo reaches beneath the counter and then slides a palm-sized metal disc across it towards Atsumu. “But for now, I’ll have to settle for getting rid of you the old-fashioned way.”

Atsumu snatches the disk. It’s blue, to his surprise – the colour of an A-Grade bounty. It’s been a little while since he’s had a job so substantial, stuck for weeks with nothing but boring green B-Grades that were starting to wear thin on his patience for a challenge, and bullshit purple C-Grades that were making him feel more like a delivery boy than a Bounty Hunter.

He presses the small button in the centre and watches as the holo-screen flickers to life. It displays the disgruntled face of the bounty, all currently known information on him, his last recorded locations, and a general estimate of his perceived threat level. As he studies the face he’ll be chasing, Atsumu wonders if this guy has anything to do with the stolen shipments, if he’s carrying a ticking time bomb of a blaster.

“Came in this morning but you’re the first to get one,” Kuroo says. “Guy they’re after is a real piece of work. Should have been an S-Grade if you ask me, but he’s a little too reckless and the sponsor doesn’t care if he’s found dead or alive.”

“Pay well?” Atsumu asks as his eyes scan the information.

“Twenty thousand either way.”

Atsumu takes the lollipop out of his mouth to whistle. “Does sound a little more like an S-Grade.”

Twenty thousand coins will boost Atsumu’s bank considerably. It’ll allow him to buy that new visor he’s been eyeing up at the tech shop, the one that synchronises with bounty discs and displays information upon the lenses in real time.

Kuroo tugs a cloth free from his pocket and starts wiping a shot glass clean. “It’s worth a thousand bounty points too,” he says, tilting his chin at the screen behind him. “Might want to work a little smarter on this one if you want to keep that lead on Sakusa. He’s catching you up.”

If Sakusa has a monopoly on Osamu’s arcade, then Atsumu is the undisputed champion of the Bounty Guild’s leader board. He’s been at a comfortable first place for three years, with no rivals and no threats to his standings. But then Sakusa entered the scene a year back, and he’s climbed the board worryingly fast ever since. Atsumu’s lead is only a paltry two thousand now, as opposed to the clean ten thousand of three months ago.

Atsumu switches off the disc and shoves it into his pocket alongside his switchblade. “He can fuckin’ try,” he grumbles, staring at the leader board and Sakusa’s name sitting threateningly beneath his own.

It’s not even as though it really means much. The top ten all get access to the rarest and highest paying bounties and being number one bags Atsumu no extra benefits aside from bragging rights. It’s just that bragging is his favourite pastime.

Kuroo puts the shot glass down on the counter and fills it with something clear. “For the road,” he says. “On the house.”

Atsumu downs it quickly and swears at him when he realises it’s just water. He should have known. Kuroo never lets him drink before a job.

“You can have a few of these too.” Kuroo reaches below the counter again and passes over a handful of green and purple discs. “Should keep you busy and away from my bar for at least a little while.”

“Ah,” Atsumu says as he scoops them up and pockets them too. “Because absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?”

Kuroo smiles, saccharine sweet, and says, “No,” but Atsumu knows he’s the only one of Kuroo’s Hunters that gets any extra bounties. Kuroo had gotten drunk once and told Atsumu it was because he admired his passion for cleaning up the city. Atsumu doesn’t have the heart to tell him he just really, really likes punching and shooting stuff.

“Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone,” Atsumu says, pushing his stool out and standing. “I’ll be back by sunrise for my twenty thousand. Maybe a cheeky kiss, too, if ya—aah! I’m kiddin’ don’t throw that.”

He runs away from Kuroo’s raised glass, but hears the usual, “Good luck out there, Miya!” that Kuroo calls before the door closes behind him.

Atsumu knows that means stay safe.

There’s a spring in his step as he skips along the hallway. An excitement in his veins at the prospect of a good hunt, a good fight, a chance to use his new weapon. It dies quickly, however, when he almost walks into the blindingly bright neon green of the world’s ugliest shell jacket.

“Sakusa,” he says, feeling the heat of irritation pooling in his gut instinctively. He widens his stance purposely so that by Sakusa’s standards, he blocks the way to the bar.

“Miya,” Sakusa replies tersely, hands deep in his pockets, voice muted beneath the thick black fabric of his mask. Atsumu’s known him a while now and has yet to see him without it. It covers the whole bottom half of his face, dips down to his neck and disappears below the zipped collar of his jacket.

Atsumu gives him an acerbic once over. He looks the same as always: hood up, mask on, stare cold. “You’re a little late today, huh? Can’t get ya outta my ass usually, followin’ me ‘round like a stray dog, pickin’ up all my scraps.”

“My apologies for disappointing you.” He says it as though it would physically pain him to infuse it with any sort of life or inflection, like the words are already taking an exhaustive toll to push past his lips, like talking to Atsumu is a chore in and of itself. “An idiot with a terrible taste in automobiles parked across two spaces. I had to report it to the traffic warden.”

Atsumu hums in a way he hopes sounds condescending. “Sounds like a tool. Hope he didn’t inconvenience ya too bad.”

“No,” Sakusa says. “It all worked out in the end. I had a wonderful time watching his tires get clamped.”

Atsumu’s gaze wavers ever so slightly. He never can tell when Sakusa is being serious about his threats. The last time he’d underestimated them Atsumu had returned home to his apartment to find the doorhandle missing. But Sakusa wouldn’t really fuck his car up, would he?

Who the fuck is Atsumu kidding? He definitely would.

“Well,” he says, forcing his tone casual so Sakusa doesn’t get any big ideas about his intimidations working. “I really fuckin’ hate talkin’ to ya, so I’m gonna go cash in on my head start now.” He steps closer and takes the lollipop out of his mouth with a pop. “Good luck catchin’ up, rookie,” he grins as he taps the sticky end lightly against Sakusa’s masked nose.

No sooner does the sweet make contact with cloth is his arm wrenched painfully behind his back and his face pressed into the wall. He goes with a thud and a surprised grunt, and Sakusa’s weight at his back is uncompromising. Atsumu could shirk him off easily, could have him in a tangle of limbs upon the floor in a few seconds, but he doesn’t move. He takes in a breath of musty wallpaper and tries to glance over his shoulder.

“That a blaster in your pocket, Omi-kun, or are ya just real happy to have your hands on me?”

There’s a rustle of synthetic fabric, then Atsumu feels the hem of his own shirt beneath the short crop of his jacket slowly riding up. He hisses and jolts as the cold metal of a muzzle presses against the bare skin of his side.

“It’s a blaster,” Sakusa says in his ear. There’s a distinct smell of pine about him, and the freshness of cold air that Atsumu knows is a result of riding his motorbike around the city.

Atsumu hums as he relaxes again. “Shame.”

Sakusa twists the blaster further into his skin so that it catches and bites. “The next time you do something as disgusting as that, I’ll make you choke on it.”

“The lollipop or the blaster?”

“I’ll let you decide.”

The blaster disappears with a click as it’s holstered, but Sakusa’s weight pressing him into the wall doesn’t subside.

“That’s awful generous of ya,” Atsumu chides.

“Not as generous as you.”

Before Atsumu can ask what that means, Sakusa’s gloved hand dips into Atsumu’s jacket pocket. He fishes around and picks out the A-Grade disc, flashing it in front of Atsumu’s eyes so that he can see he’s being robbed. “Thanks for saving me the trouble of walking ten extra steps, Miya.”

“You’re gonna wanna give that back,” Atsumu says, gaze unable to follow the disc as it leaves his sight and most likely slips into Sakusa’s pocket.

Sakusa presses Atsumu further into the wall and makes it hard for him to speak without choking on his own throat. “Am I?” he asks. “Why?”

“‘Cause it’s mine,” Atsumu says, voice taut. “Thievin’ bastard.”

“I’m sure Kuroo will give you another one,” Sakusa replies, patting Atsumu’s other pocket so that the low-grade discs clack against each other. “He seems to like you for some unfathomable reason.”

Sakusa’s presses a gloved thumb into the pressure point of Atsumu’s wrist so that his grip slackens on the forgotten lollipop behind his back. Sakusa tugs it from his loosened fingers and reaches around to offer it to Atsumu’s lips again.

“It’s ‘cause I’m not an asshole,” Atsumu says as he opens his mouth to take it.

“Oops,” Sakusa drawls. “Did I jostle you too hard? Shake a few too many screws loose? Have you suddenly forgotten who you are?”

“I haven’t forgotten shit,” Atsumu snaps, and he finally throws an elbow back and gives himself enough leverage to wrestle free of Sakusa’s grip. He spins around to snatch his disc back, but Sakusa dips out of the way and takes a few deep steps backward to put some distance between them.

If Atsumu could see beneath Sakusa’s mask, he wagers he’d be smiling. “Good luck catching up, Miya,” he says before turning and taking the stairs two at a time.

Even if Atsumu wanted to go after him, he couldn’t; Hinata’s rowdy group come barrelling in and make the chase impossible by filling the whole width of the hallway between them. Atsumu swears under his breath as he watches Sakusa disappear beyond the door. He bites and crushes the last of the lollipop in his mouth, straightens out his jacket, and reluctantly turns back towards the bar again.

Kuroo is neither shocked nor surprised to see him return so quickly. He laughs when Atsumu tells him he’s been robbed and makes an unwarranted quip about the integrity of Atsumu’s self-assigned S-Grade if he can get mugged that easily. He keeps the disc in his palm as he leaves this time, retains a tight hold of it until he’s sitting in the driver’s seat of his car. It’s decidedly un-clamped when he finds it, though there is a note tucked between the wipers that reads ‘Prick’ and nothing else. There’s no sign of Sakusa or his motorbike as he climbs inside, and Atsumu’s grateful. He’d probably feel inclined to waste more time picking a fight were he to see his smug face again.

The bounty’s name is Daiju – a twenty-nine-year-old escaped convict of death row. He’s been running amok for a week, burgling shops, shooting civilians, causing chaos. He’s desperate and reckless, will shoot anything and anyone that approaches him without a second thought and the authorities are less than competent in catching up with him. It’s why an anonymous sponsor has ordered the bounty, set the prize at twenty-thousand coins and, as Kuroo claimed, does not care a damn if Daiju is found dead or alive. By the way the order is worded, Atsumu’s sure they’d much prefer the ease of killing him.

He’s a danger to society, a loose cannon, and most importantly: a challenge.

The guy’s been spotted around the city at clubs and convenience stores, but gambling halls seem to be his preferred poison. He’s been known to throw away all the money he’s stolen in ridiculously high-stakes bets, and he’s shot and killed two croupiers for not dealing the right cards. He was thrown out of the Kitagawa Diamond two nights ago and nobody’s seen him since.

Atsumu plugs coordinates for all casinos, gambling halls, and betting houses that don’t require memberships across the city into his GPS and starts with the ones he knows pay out the highest.

It’s the residual resentment he has for Sakusa that pushes his foot so hard against the accelerator pedal. The burn of annoyance in his gut and the desperation to catch up that has him taking sharp corners and running lights as he pleases.

Atsumu’s always felt at home behind the wheel. The exhilaration of high speeds tickles something pleasant in his brain, makes him grin wildly, makes his heart sing. When he first started out as a Hunter and the only discs he could get his hands on were C-Grades, he spent months learning the city on the back of a rented motorcycle, delivering parcels and beating up thugs. To make some extra coin and pay the extortionate city rent, he’d spent a lot of time at the speedraces too, trying his luck against likeminded adrenaline junkies around the tracks for huge pools of prize money. He’d won it a few times, then he’d been forced to retire in order to keep up with the higher demand of jobs as he climbed the bounty ranks.

He presses the accelerator harder still as he remembers the thrill of the roaring crowds, revels in the loud honks of angry horns as he weaves his way in and out of traffic to get where he needs to be. Another perk of being the top ranked Hunter, he supposes, is that he can do with the law what he damn well pleases so long as he’s chasing someone.

Nohebi Palace is his first port of call. It’s one of the most popular casinos in the city, famed for its relaxed atmosphere and high stakes. If Atsumu had a lot of spare money to blow, it’d be his first choice. That Daiju hasn’t been spotted there yet means it can only be a matter of time before he is.

It's also where Atsumu knows he will get answers whether there are any to be found or not.

It’s loud with chatter when he steps inside, and every bit the palace it claims to be. The lights are bright, the walls a rich emerald with accents of gold. Snake-wrapped pillars hold the ceiling and its decorative light fixtures high, and if Atsumu stares hard enough at the marble flooring, he’ll find his own reflection in the polished sheen.

Large betting tables host groups of patrons, some bedraggled and desperate, others dressed up in a façade of wealth. As Atsumu weaves his way around the richer tables he can’t help but to feel a little out of place in his well-worn jacket and bulky joggers, even more so now that he’s wearing the cumbersome metal plate of his blaster-proof armour beneath it and his blaster at his hip.

With a hand around the disc he checks the face of each person he passes, looking for Daiju’s stern brow and the distinct scar running through it. Coins flow like water and bets pass with laughs and desperate croaks as croupiers make final calls, turn cards and spin wheels.

Atsumu doesn’t find Daiju at the tables, he doesn’t find him at the machines either, or sitting around the high-stake poker benches. He’s not smoking on the terrace, drinking at the bar, or cashing in a win at the front desk. He isn’t hiding out in the restroom or blending into the shadowy corner of booths where deals and bets of a different kind tend to take place.

“Dealt for this guy recently?” Atsumu asks a couple of croupiers. They all swallow with apprehension when Atsumu pats the blaster at his hip, look around nervously and drop their voices to low whispers. Ultimately, they all end up shaking their heads with sincere desperation, and Atsumu doesn’t spot the tell-tale sign of knowledge flickering behind their eyes when they do so, no wavering gazes of dishonesty.

He hangs around a while, spinning his blaster threateningly around his finger as he does a few laps of the casino floor. Once he’s planted the seed and sufficiently watered it, he settles into one of the plump cushioned seats of a booth near the bar and rests his boots upon the table to watch the casino breathe and wait for his machinations to bear fruit.

“Someone needs to tell that rooster-hair bastard to stop sending his filthy lackeys into my nice clean house,” a voice says, slipping into the seat opposite Atsumu’s.

Atsumu pulls his eyes forward and smiles at the expected intruder. “Big Boss Daishou,” he says, feigning surprise. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It’s not often the casino boss comes down from his office to mingle among the masses. Atsumu’s intimidation of the staff and patrons has paid off. Daishou is one of the most influential bosses in the city. If anyone has an idea of which casino Daiju’s stomping around it’ll be him.

“Miya.” Daishou looks him up and down, distasteful grimace lingering on Atsumu’s feet on the table. “You think there’s a criminal in my casino.”

Atsumu settles his hands behind his head. “I know there’s at least a dozen criminals in your casino,” he says, recalling the four cheaters, three substance dealers, and five members of a prolific gang hanging around the blackjack tables alone. “Whether or not the one I’m lookin’ for’s here is another question though.”

“And which one are you looking for? I might know a thing or two.”

There it is.

Atsumu raises a brow at him. “What’s it gonna cost me to tell ya?”

“Nothing.” Daishou fiddles with the gold cufflinks at his wrists. “The sooner you leave the better. I’ve had eight complaints already. Idiots with blasters are terrible for business. Nobody likes to gamble thinking a bullet will find them before their next pay out.”

Atsumu shrugs and pulls his feet down. He leans forwards, pulls up the image of Daiju on the disc, and slides across the table. “Better me here than this guy,” he says. “He’s been causin’ trouble across the city.”

Daishou’s icy glare hardens in recognition. “So I’ve heard.” Atsumu raises an eyebrow in a prompt to continue, and Daishou clicks the disc so that the image fades. “It’s about time someone did something about that maniac, but you won’t find him here. I’ve made arrangements to keep him away from his end of the city.”

“Oh?” That crosses off at least three potential spots for Daiju to be lurking in. Daishou’s influence and connections are nothing to scoff at.

“I don’t care for mindless violence. I prefer to keep it out of my casino. Like I said, it’s bad for business. People come to Nohebi to gamble their lives by way of coin, not blood.”

“That’s nice. Don’t care,” Atsumu says as he pockets the disc again. “Tick-tock, bossman. Gotta hear somethin’ worth my time if I’m gonna up and leave this place. The scenery’s so nice I might just wanna stay the whole night.”

Daishou clicks his tongue and leans back in his seat. “There’s gossip of a new fighting ring – an illegal one, of course.”

“The best kind,” Atsumu agrees.

“The bets have grown, shall I say, astronomically, over the last few days. There’s a fighter down there that’s remained undefeated since it opened last week. His first loss will make someone very rich indeed. I hear more are attending with each passing night just for the chance to see it with their own eyes.”

Jackpot.

Atsumu’s willing to bet his entire bank account that Daiju’s wasting away down there. It’s probably why he hasn’t been spotted for a few days – the thrill of fight betting is unmatched by the pulling of machine handles or the turning of cards. Especially for a man as dangerous as Daiju.

“Now we’re talkin’. You got a location?”

Daishou gets to his feet. “I will tell you as I escort you out.”

Atsumu joins him with a winning smile. “Sounds fair to me, boss.”

The fighting ring is on the other side of the city, a thirty-minute drive even for Atsumu. Daishou gave him the address on a crumpled scrap of paper, but it’s a well-kept secret from the masses. Exclusive word of mouth is what draws people in, because nobody wants to be the fool who invites the undercover agent that’ll shut the whole place down.

More importantly, it means stalwart Sakusa and his inability to play nicely with others will neither find it nor step foot inside it, and the thought puts the bounce back in Atsumu’s step as he arrives outside of an abandoned shop. It looks dead upon a first glance. The windows are smashed and boarded up with graffitied wood, and the crystal cores keeping it alive have long since emptied, but Atsumu knows better than to assume it’s vacant.

His boots crunch against broken glass as he walks inside. The torchlight of his phone is barely strong enough to cut through the intensity of shadow that surrounds him, and he stumbles over a few discarded cans of beer as he searches for the door Daishou told him about.

He knocks three times when his hands finally find it, then twice, then once, and then it opens for him automatically. As soon as it does, Atsumu is hit by the warm roar of a crowd, the frantic jeers of encouragement, and the heckles of a losing bet. He follows the concrete staircase downward into the noise and unbuckles the pockets holding his blasters, just in case.

“Have to place a bet to go in,” a woman says from behind the thick glass window of a ticket booth. “Rules are rules.”

She slides him a ticket and a pen.

It reads: WILL THE LITTLE GIANT LOSE?

Atsumu glances up at the odds displayed on the screens behind her and scoffs. He didn’t come here to lose money. He circles NO, tucks the ticket into his pocket, and drops a few spare coins into the betting tray.

The woman smirks and a buzz sounds as the door swings open. Atsumu follows it and steps into the arena.

The crowd is so thick it’s hard to breathe. Hundreds of bodies are gathered around the rope walls comprising the ring. They’re pressed against each other, shouting and yelling and swearing at the fighters inside it. It stinks of sweat and alcohol and there’s a haze of smoky dust lingering in the air that can’t find a vent to escape out of.

Through the gaps, Atsumu’s eyes find the fighters. There’s a short guy with cropped white hair pulverising the face of a guy three times his size. Judging by the intensity of the booing that accompanies him, he must be the famed Little Giant.

Atsumu starts working his way through the crowd. He slips past bodies, glancing subtly at each face he passes, careful not to linger for too long lest he invoke a fight of his own. There are all sorts down here: from criminals to businessmen, gang members to local celebrities all looking for a taste of the action, the thrill of a good fight. Atsumu can’t blame them, the atmosphere is electric. He feels it hum in his chest when the crowd roars and a siren blares to signify The Little Giant’s win, feels it reverberating around inside his skull when the crowd start drumming their feet against the floor as the loser gets dragged out of the ring.

It should be impossible to find any one person in a room packed so densely with noise, but Daiju sticks out for all the wrong reasons. Atsumu spots him knocking a guy unconscious for standing too close, hears him screeching and yelling above the din and waving a blaster around like it’s a beacon announcing, “Here I am Mr. Hot and Sexy Bounty Hunter! Come kill me!” The scar running through his eyebrow is unmistakable, and if that wasn’t enough to give him away, he’s still wearing the bright orange uniform of a convict beneath his unzipped jacket.

Atsumu grins at the thought of having found him first, but he doesn’t make a move immediately. He keeps a close eye on Daiju as the next fighter enters the ring, lies low as Daiju yells at the newcomer to “Win or I’ll kill you after the match!”

The Little Giant laughs as he limbers up – there isn’t so much as a scratch on him, Atsumu notices. The blood smattering his face is not his own, and the stains on the hem of his white vest are a result of him wiping his knuckledusters clean.

As expected, The Little Giant wins that fight. He wins the fight after that, too, and Atsumu becomes a part of the jeering crowd to blend in, gets jostled around and pushed by huge, boisterous hands. He almost forgets he’s on a job after a while, runs his throat hoarse and ends up enjoying himself as bodies line up and this hurricane of a fighter keeps knocking them down.

The fights are dirty and intense, and The Little Giant knows how to put on a good show. His loud voice taunts those who belittle him, and he finishes opponents with moves that leave them humiliated and infuriated and completely bewildered (though mostly unconscious).

Atsumu only remembers where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing when he makes accidental eye contact with Daiju across the ring. He expects Daiju to swear at him, like he has done every other person that’s looked his way for a beat too long, but Daiju doesn’t curse, doesn’t lift his blaster, or raise his middle finger. He stops and his eyes blow wide and his face pales instead.

Atsumu chooses not to think about the fact that Daiju somehow knows who he is despite being a recently escaped convict with no access to bounty information. He makes a little heart with the tips of his fingers and winks as he uses it to blow his mark a kiss across the room.

Daiju stumbles backward into those behind him, and then he’s turning and bolting, pushing his way through the crowd and scrambling away. Atsumu tears after him immediately, bumps into chests and bolsters his way past unyielding weights. People try to pull Atsumu back for no reason other than to cause trouble, grab handfuls of his jacket and yank him forcefully. Years of practice and a life spent with a twin make it easy for Atsumu to spin and wrench himself out of their grip. He shirks them off and carries on, eyes never wavering from Daiju a dozen steps ahead as he throws open the door and disappears beyond it.

The second Atsumu frees himself from the confines of the crowd he picks up the pace, hears the bounty discs rattle in his pocket and feels the burn in his thighs as he gives chase up the concrete steps and out into the empty street. Daiju’s fast – faster than Atsumu anticipated. If he loses him here, he’ll probably lose him for good now that he’s aware there’s a bounty on his head.

Luckily, Atsumu knows the streets just as well on foot as he does behind the wheel of his car or the handlebars of a bike. As Daiju disappears around the corner at the end of the street, Atsumu sprints down the alleyway to his left. He jumps over metal garbage crates and the outstretched legs of the hopelessly drunk, scales a chain-link fence and jumps down to emerge and fall into step right behind Daiju.

As he runs, Daiju throws a glance over his shoulder and his face twists around a curse when he notices how quickly Atsumu’s closed the gap.

“Fuck, right?” Atsumu shouts over the roar of wind in his ears. “Which way d’ya wanna try runnin’ this time, champ? Left? I like left.”

Right, is the answer apparently. Daiju throws himself into oncoming traffic to cross the road, forces cars to slam their breaks and blare their horns to narrowly avoid hitting him. It makes it a whole lot easier for Atsumu to close the distance even further – he just has to slide over bonnets and follow the path Daiju carves out for him.

Cold night-time air whips Atsumu’s hair out of shape, makes his eyes water, dries his open-mouthed laughs and heats his blood with adrenaline. Chasing bounties is always fun.

“You tryin’ to do my job for me?” Atsumu calls as they start racing down a quiet street of shopfronts. “I still get paid if a truck turns your face into a pancake, ya know. All I gotta do is scan your remains and I’m rich! You’re gonna buy me so much shit!”

“Fuck you!” He aims his blaster behind him and shoots wildly. Atsumu narrowly dodges a hot bullet as it hits the ground near his foot, and another that singes the soft leather shoulder of his jacket. He doesn’t fire a third; Daiju realises aiming is slowing him down and gives up with a frustrated growl.

“Hey, Daiju! You wanna know somethin’ else?”

Daiju’s voice is raspy with desperation, his frantic breaths audible even from a few paces behind. “No!”

Atsumu laughs. “I run eight kilometres a day as a gentle warmup! I’m just gettin’ started!”

It’s a lie – he doesn’t run any, at least not recreationally – but the knowledge makes Daiju let out a strangled cry of exasperation and turn into an alleyway that Atsumu knows for certain is a dead end.

When he rounds the corner it’s dark. Though the night is always bright with a million neon lights, they never quite manage to reach the deep recesses of the city’s cracks. It’s not the first time Atsumu’s had to fight without the advantage of visibility, and it definitely won’t be the last.

Daiju has his blaster aimed at him, his back pressed against the wall. Atsumu can hear the steady drip of something wet hitting the floor, can smell the acrid sourness of stagnant rot, can see the crystal core glowing in the barrel. It’s the unstable flickering blue of uncontrolled and untreated energy, and it casts long shadows across his terrified face as it shakes in his trembling hands. “Stay the fuck back,” he says, and Atsumu tilts his head at him and wonders just how many people Daiju made feel this way - helpless, scared, frightened – before he laughed and fried their brains with scalding bullets. The information on the disc had said he was sadistic and merciless. A real piece of work, Kuroo had called him.

He doesn’t look so scary now. In Atsumu’s experience, the knowledge of death humbles even the most arrogant of tyrants. 

Atsumu’s hand trails down to his hip. “Sure,” he says amicably, and then in one quick movement, he unholsters a pistol and fires a shot that hits Daiju’s fingers wrapped around the trigger of his blaster. It rips a scream from his chest, sends the blaster clattering to the floor, and amidst the chaos, Atsumu darts forward and wrenches Daiju’s burning hands behind his back and presses him into the wall.

He could kill him now. End the hunt here and finish up the night with a couple of relaxed B-Grades before cashing in at Kuroo’s, but there’s something off about the whole case that Atsumu’s not fond of. Something that leaves a taste far more bitter than expired strawberry in his mouth. Something that tells him there’s more to this than just an idiot running amok with a blaster.

“You’re a long way from your cell, buddy,” Atsumu says into his ear as he thrashes about. “How’d ya escape?”

He doesn’t answer, so Atsumu pulls him backward and slams him into the wall a little harder to knock the breath from his lungs and stop him from moving.

“Hold on, I’ll ask a different question.” Atsumu jams his elbow into his back to free up a hand and dips into his pocket for his new switchblade. He pops the blade free and switches the heat on just like Osamu told him, lighting the alleyway up red. “How’d ya know who I was?” he asks, holding the blade close to Daiju’s neck.

Daiju whines and strains to keep his face away from the heat. “W-What?”

“You’re fresh off death row. You’ve got no access to tech or guild information, yet ya knew who and what I was as soon as ya saw me. How?”

“Y-your pin,” he tries.

Atsumu makes the sound of an incorrect buzzer. Bounty pins haven’t existed for years. Too many members were getting assassinated just for wearing them around while off the job. Bounty Hunters became the hunted by gangs afraid of dying and the pins made it far too easy to identify them. “Not wearin’ it. Try again.”

Daiju neglects to answer, so Atsumu presses the blade lightly against his ear and singes the skin with a hot hiss. He lets out another agonised wail as he struggles to move away. “They told me about you when they got me out!” he cries. “S-said you’d probably be the first to find me and kill me if I didn’t lay low! They paid me a fuck ton of money to shoot some people at the harbour, then they showed me a picture of you and some other masked bastard. They said you were the top two hunters in the city. Said to run as fast as I could if I ever saw your faces! Or if I couldn’t do that, lead you back to them.”

“Who’s they?” Atsumu asks, because whoever they are, has some worryingly accurate information. They’re also quite the flatterers.

Daiju’s laugh is a little hysterical.  “Like fuck am I gonna tell you!” he spits. “They’ll kill me.”

“No,” Atsumu says with a smile. “I’m gonna kill ya, so you might as well tell me. Do one useful thing before ya croak and feed the worms.”

The blade starts to feel a little hot in Atsumu’s hand. It’s probably reaching the threshold of what the handle can withstand. “Few seconds before I use this to castrate ya.”

“Go to he—”

There’s a flash of light, and a blaster bullet finds Daiju’s head before he finishes his curse. Atsumu blinks. He didn’t fire. His blaster is back in its holster.

The stench of burning flesh is choking as Daiju slumps lifelessly in Atsumu’s arms. He’s about to whip his head around, about to reach for his blaster to engage whoever’s attacking, but then Atsumu feels a sharp prick against his neck. His own limbs turn so stiff he drops Daiju and falls uselessly upon the murky alleyway ground with a thud that’ll he’ll only feel once he regains the ability to feel at all. His switchblade clatters against the cement near his head. Bounty discs spill out of his pocket and roll across the dark alley.

It’s a trap he thinks as he lies unblinking on the ground, unable to do anything at all other than stare up at the foggy sky through the sliver of space between the alleyway walls. Daiju was successful in leading him to whoever the fuck they are, and Atsumu just followed blindly without a second thought. They knew Atsumu would be the first, they knew his name, his face – more than they should.

Osamu told Atsumu to die where he could find him - Atsumu’s not sure if he’ll be able to keep that promise tonight.

He hears footsteps behind him. Hears someone come closer as his vision starts to grow weaker. Not even his heartbeat cares to listen to him – it’s calm and methodical in his chest as his brain screams at his limbs to move.

Someone crouches down in front of him.

Someone clad in a neon shell jacket.

“Thanks for all your hard work, Miya,” Sakusa says, resting the muzzle of a tranquilizer blaster against his temple and scratching at the synthetic fabric of his hood. He considers Atsumu for a moment through the clear glass of his hunting visor, then reaches over and digs a hand into Atsumu’s pocket. “You really should pay closer attention to what’s in your pockets. Maybe if they weren’t so full of shit, you’d have noticed the extra weight.”

He holds up a small black square – a tracking device, it has to be. He must have put it there when he had Atsumu pinned against the wall. He’s probably been following him all night, watching in the shadows, waiting for Atsumu to do his job for him.

Atsumu wishes he could swear. He wishes he could pick up his switchblade and press it into the moles above Sakusa’s fucking eyebrows until it scrambles his brain.

At least, he reasons with himself, he’s not dead. Sakusa doesn’t hate him enough to kill him. Yet. When Atsumu gets his working hands on him, he’ll regret not having done so.

For now, Atsumu can do little but watch with fire heating his blood molten as Sakusa straightens and rolls Daiju’s lifeless body around with his feet. “Or maybe,” Sakusa says coolly, holding his phone up to Daiju’s face, “if you stopped playing with your food long enough to eat it, I’d have been too late to cash in.”

The alleyway fills with green light as it scans and registers the kill under Sakusa’s name. Atsumu can feel the loss of twenty-thousand coins forging a hollowing hole in his gut. Is this how Sakusa felt last month when Atsumu locked him in that office supply cupboard and blew the handle off with his blaster? Or the time before that when he stole Sakusa’s motorcycle keys and forced him to chase his bounty on foot?

Atsumu’s vision blurs and his heartbeat slackens again.

A gloved hand lifts Atsumu’s arm and positions it so his hand rests on his own chest. In the space between the newly created crook in his elbow, Sakusa crouches again and places the fox toy from the claw machine there so that it looks as though he’s hugging it. “There was a free play on the machine,” he says, the corners of his eyes creasing into a nasty smile. He pats Atsumu’s cheek. “Sweet dreams, Miya. I’ll spend the money well.” He stands again, dusting his gloved hands clean. “Oh, and tell Osamu the tranquilizer dart doses are just right.”

Fuck you, Sakusa Kiyoomi he thinks as his body finally gives out and succumbs to the endless darkness of sleep. Fuck you six ways to hell and back.

Chapter Text

Consciousness returns in pieces. Atsumu blinks groggily through the heaviness of his eyelids and winces beneath the dull ache filling his head like sawdust.

It’s light now. He’s been forced to sleep through the entire night, but he’s not splayed across the cold alleyway street like a useless slab of fresh carrion as he remembers. He’s…inside his car, he realises with some confusion. Lying across the back seats. It’s warm. Dry. His jacket is zipped up to his chin.

It takes some time for him to reacquaint himself with the workings of his limbs, to recall the infuriating events that preceded his descent into sleep. Everything aches, mostly his shoulder after taking the brunt of the fall last night, but his legs are a close second. The muscles hiss upon his inhales and scream upon each exhale. His neck hurts too. The area the tranquiliser hit feels bruised, and when Atsumu runs his fingers over the skin he can feel the raised lump of a forming scab where the needle struck.

When he sits upright pain thumps and pounds at the walls of his brain, and something cold and heavy knocks against his thigh. It’s a bottle of water he doesn’t remember buying; the needlessly expensive brand he always looks past in favour of the cheapest that tastes identical. He pushes it away. If it’s from Sakusa, it probably contains laxatives.

With several loud grunts, he climbs over the seats and settles behind the wheel. The fox toy sits tauntingly on the dashboard to his left, and it’s suddenly not as adorable as he remembers it being behind the claw machine glass. Its vulpine smile mocks him. Its mischievous eyes make him want to shoot it through his windshield.

As he focusses ahead, he realises he’s no longer where he parked last night either. Sakusa must have moved the car with him in it to collect his money, because instead of the street nearest the fighting ring, he’s sitting in the carpark closest to the Bounty Office.

He swallows against the bile rising in his throat at the mere thought of Sakusa touching his precious car.

His keys are still in his pocket when he searches for them, alongside all the bounty discs he lost and the safe weight of his switchblade. You should pay closer attention to what’s in your pockets, Sakusa had said. Atsumu pulls everything from them now, even the ones on his legs, and throws it all onto the passenger seat alongside his shotblaster. His phone, betting tickets, snack wrappers, bounty discs, drained crystal cores, and tokens from Osamu’s arcade all tumble out. There aren’t any extra surprises, no tracking devices or ticking explosives. He shrugs out of his jacket just in case and throws it onto the back seats.

It’ll be a while before his brain and body are ready to drive, so Atsumu grabs his phone, leans back against the headrest, and calls Osamu.

“Whaddya want? It’s nine in the—”

“Why the fuck did ya sell Sakusa a tranq blaster?” he spits into the receiver with as much volume and intensity as is possible without splitting his skull. The words scratch his throat on the way up. He knows he sounds hoarse and pathetic, but he’d rather wreck his vocal cords beyond repair than drink the water Sakusa left.

Osamu snorts. “‘Cause he paid a shit tonna good money to commission it. Why?”

“Ya just lost me twenty thousand coins and about a million braincells the way my head’s meltin’ from the inside out.”

“Don’t think ya have that many to lose.” Atsumu opens his mouth to call him a bastard motherfucker and a whole lot more, but Osamu carries on before he can. “He used it on you?”

“Yeah, Samu,” Atsumu groans. “He fuckin’ used it on me. How long am I gonna be stuck feelin’ like I spent the night gettin’ spit roasted by Bigfoot and friends?”

Osamu laughs so loud Atsumu has to hold the phone away from his ear. “Coupla hours? I dunno. Didn’t really look up the side effects. How fast did it take ya down?”

“Instantly.”

“Ha. Cool.”

“I’m gonna set your arcade on fire with you in it.”

“Sure. Take some medication, have a nap, and try growin’ up before ya do it though.”

Atsumu ignores that and when his gaze stumbles upon the bounty discs again, his mind wanders to the desperate words that had tumbled from Daiju’s lips before Sakusa had sniped him. “What else d’ya know about the harbour incident?”

“Only what I told ya last night.” Osamu pauses. “Somethin’ else happen since?”

With a hum beneath his tongue and his eye on the Bounty Office alleyway, Atsumu taps an irregular rhythm into the steering wheel. “Latest mark said he was involved. Whoever paid him warned him ‘bout me and Sakusa. Had pictures. Knew our ranks.”

“Shit. You told Sakusa?”

“No,” Atsumu scoffs, hand tightening around the wheel. “Haven’t seen the bastard since he knocked me out.”

He knows he’ll have to. It’s not safe to be known as a Hunter. The whole city’s crime syndicate could be on their doorstep within hours with the right information, brandishing knives or blasters or both to make themselves feel safer. It doesn’t seem like a problem right now – Daiju had known Atsumu’s face for a whole week and he’s still alive – but it can only be a matter of time before it becomes one.

“You should talk to Aran,” Osamu says. “He’ll know more.”

“Was already plannin’ on it,” Atsumu says bitterly with a pained glance over his shoulder at his jacket. “Need to ask him some shit about trackin’ devices.”

Aran’s a Hunter of a different sort. A Hunter of information, of secrets. He’s got a billion eyes across the city, holds more knowledge inside a single one of his computers than Atsumu will ever know in his entire lifetime.

They’ve known each other since Aran was just a teenager with a laptop and a bright mind, living in the cramped single bed apartment above Atsumu’s. With their mother out more often than not, both Atsumu and Osamu would trek up to badger him on a daily basis, force their meddlesome ways into his life, offer to run errands for him across the city no matter how dangerous just so that they stopped beating each other up through boredom.

It was Aran who got Osamu interested in tinkering, in inventing, in designing. And it was Aran who pointed Atsumu in Kuroo’s direction, who helped him locate his first few bounties with the aid of his tech. They’d all worked their ways up the city’s food chain together, forged paths for themselves to become the respective leaders in their fields.

Atsumu refused to let them settle for anything less, and now Osamu’s the city’s go-to weapons dealer. The guy with blasters so sophisticated and innovative the high price tags are a mere afterthought.

Now Atsumu’s the top ranked Bounty Hunter, so competent he’s had Kuroo hand him bounties with specified requests for his involvement, so feared, apparently, criminals need to be warned of his face.

And Aran – Aran owns it all. There isn’t a corner of the city he can’t see. He lives in a penthouse apartment now, one with the best damn view the whole place has to offer. He’s got two dozen computers, unearthed enough secrets to humble the city’s leaders with the click of a button, a brain worth more coin than the city’s capable of holding, and a set of twins who still make their way up there at least once a week to bother him.

Atsumu blows a kiss to the elevator camera as he rides it up to the top floor, because he knows Aran’s watching him, because he knows it’ll make him roll his eyes at the screen.

The door opens for him before he even raises a fist to knock it. Atsumu steps into the apartment and winces beneath the brightness of the lights, his headache still not yet subsided, well on its way to worsening.

“Ya really should turn all the lights off,” he says as he kicks his boots off and throws himself down onto one of Aran’s nice sofas to cover his eyes with his forearm. It’s one of the only sections of his apartment not overtaken by monitor screens – a small living room of curved sofas surrounding a coffee table and a TV screen so large it could double as a dining table. “Would make this place look more like an actual hacker den and less like a museum security office.”

Replacing the house plants with giant lava lamps or the authentic Gauguin painting on his wall with a piranha-filled fish tank would probably do the trick too, but Aran never listens to Atsumu’s suggestions. Says they’re of a ‘unique taste’ which Atsumu thinks is just a fancy way of saying tacky.

“That’s how ya ruin your eyesight, Tsumu,” Aran says from somewhere deeper inside. “Dark rooms and bright screens.”

Atsumu hums. “Ya look hot with glasses though.”

“I know,” Aran calls back. “But I’m not gonna cause irreversible damage to my eyes just to keep your dick hard.”

“You’re so mean to me,” Atsumu grumbles. “You’d do it for Samu.”

His voice is considerably closer when he says, “No I definitely wouldn’t.”

Something cold touches Atsumu’s elbow, and when he peeks over his arm, he finds Aran hovering above him, glass of water extended, headache medication resting on the rim. “The effects should wear off in a few hours,” he says. “Samu used a brand that’s safe for people. Drinkin’ water will help. You should have taken the one Sakusa left for ya.”

Atsumu glares at him as he sits up and takes the glass. “You saw it then?”

“Yeah,” Aran snorts. “Saw the whole thing. Shoulda got a bucket of popcorn it was so entertainin’. Sakusa’s hilarious.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Yeah, so are you. If I were Sakusa, I’d have left you in the alley after what ya did to him the other week.”

Atsumu knows he wouldn’t. Aran’s a stickler for safety. “It wasn’t that bad,” he grumbles.

“You pushed him into the canal and destroyed all the working tech on his person,” Aran scoffs. “You owed him that money anyway.”

“That was an accident,” Atsumu lies. “I mistook him for a buoy. Y’know. ‘Cause of the jacket and the uncanny resemblance to a lifeless, inanimate object.” He pops two pills from the packet and swallows them. The water he drinks to wash them down helps instantly. It soothes his sore throat, makes him feel less like a dried-out husk and more like what vaguely constitutes a human being again.

Aran takes a seat opposite him with a mug of coffee. He’s wearing his pyjama bottoms and a sweatshirt, one of the ugly novelty ones Suna bought as a joke last Christmas. Atsumu set his on fire over the New Year. Aran’s still wearing his in October.

“How do I stop trackers from workin’ on me?” Atsumu asks him.

Aran sips his coffee and raises an eyebrow at Atsumu over the mug’s rim. “Don’t be gullible enough to get tagged in the first place?”

“I’m bein’ serious,” Atsumu says.

“So am I.” When Atsumu scowls, Aran laughs and holds his hand out. “Gimme your phone. I’ll put some scramblin’ software on it for you. If ya think you’re bein’ tracked, it’ll kill the frequency and connection of whatever’s on you.”

Atsumu doesn’t need to tell him the passcode. Aran already knows it. He grabs something small from the dish atop the coffee table and plugs it into Atsumu’s charging port, then he sets it down as a download bar slowly starts to creep towards completion.

“You’re not here just for that though, are ya?” Aran asks and Atsumu wonders if he’s finally cracked the code and started dabbling in software that allows for mind-reading. “Somethin’ happened. Other than Sakusa. You don’t usually threaten marks like that unless they cause real trouble.”

Aran can see conversations across the city, but he can’t hear all of them. Most of the time a single picture is more than enough. In situations like this, Aran needs a little filling in.

Atsumu takes a long swig of water and sighs as he sits back to regale Aran with the tale of the night. He tells him about the fighting ring, about the chase, about Daiju, his shaky information and the risk now hanging over both Atsumu and Sakusa’s heads. Aran’s frown deepens the more Atsumu reveals. His coffee grows cold and untouched in his hands until he puts it down in favour of getting up to retrieve a laptop and his protective, yellow-toned screen visor instead.

“I can show you the incident,” he says taking a seat on the sofa next to Atsumu. “I have it saved.”

The screen is split in to two. Each half displaying a different angle of the scene. One is pointed at the strip of air ship landing pads, and the other is angled at the platforms in front of them.

A ship lands. One of the big ones with the huge propellor fans churning at its stern. It’s accompanied by guards and escorts to keep the precious cargo safe, clad in the grey uniforms of city wardens. Steps unfold from the hull, then crewmates start to unload crates of glowing crystal cores onto trolleys.

“Watch the left side,” Aran tells him, and Atsumu nods and focusses on the screen.

One man enters – Atsumu recognises Daiju’s black jacket and the arrogant gait of his walk – and then he pulls a blaster from his pocket and unloads on the staff. They’re all wearing protective gear – the bullets bounce from them and crash into the surroundings but the ones that find heads are lethal. Electrics spark and things explode, then ten more men rush in, and an old-fashioned brawl breaks out.

Men fall with punches and knocks with lead pipes. Atsumu can’t hear anything, but he can imagine how loud the sounds of yells and shouts and sirens must have been. Some crates get stolen in the meantime and Atsumu can see Daiju laughing maniacally as he beats an already unconscious man’s face into the ground by the back of his hair.

Aran points to a masked figure standing calmly amidst the chaos. “Watch this.”

As the violence starts to die down, the figure turns and looks directly at the camera on the left side of the screen. They lift an arm, point at it, and then the screen goes dark as the connection cuts. Atsumu finds them again on the right side’s camera. He watches them turn, point, and then the whole screen is blank and all he can see is his own bedraggled reflection staring back at him in the dark glass.

“I don’t wanna be big-headed and say that little performance was for me,” Aran says. “But I think it was. They waited until after the crime was committed to turn the cameras off. Almost like they only did it to show that they knew where they were. That they could.”

Atsumu runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “I’m not likin’ this,” he says.

Stolen crystal cores, unearthed secrets, stolen knowledge; it’s the beginning of something big, Atsumu knows it. That they somehow managed to break Daiju out of a max-security prison is worrying enough. It was fine when it was just him and Sakusa at risk. That they’ve got an eye on Aran and a way past him too is unnerving. It screams of a city-wide shake up.

“Neither am I,” Aran says. “I’ve seen the same mask in other parts of the city. I’ve been keepin’ and eye on them, but there’s nothin’ to show for it really. A few visits to tech shops and abandoned buildings, disappearances into alleyways. Whenever they’re about to do somethin’ of interest the cameras cut. I’m workin’ on upgradin’ them all to bypass whatever they’ve got that’s overriding me, but it’s gonna take a little time. Whoever they’ve got is good.”

Aran closes the laptop and stands. He disappears beyond a door, then returns with two rucksacks. “I made these for you and Samu in case of an emergency,” he says. “But Sakusa needs it more right now. Use one yourself and give the other to him when ya see him.”

Atsumu unzips one and looks inside. It’s full of security equipment – alarms and locks and items of self-defence. Notably, there’s a box containing one of those new visors Atsumu was hoping to buy with his bounty winnings, and some other expensive pieces Aran had a hand in designing. He looks up at Aran. “Aw. Ya worried ‘bout me?”

“Always,” Aran says. “Contrary to popular belief you pose a bigger threat to yourself than ya do to society. Samu just eggs ya on. Someone’s gotta reign ya back in. Make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Atsumu grins up at him. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Made it this far, haven’t I?”

He stays a while with Aran. Has some coffee, breakfast, and a nice long shower that eases his sore muscles. They talk out some possible theories – someone embarking on a dangerous power trip, infighting amongst the undercity’s gang rings, a coup of the incompetent government – but ultimately end up with nothing concrete. It’s all speculation for now. All Atsumu can do is carry on as usual and play it all by ear.

There’s no time to go back to his apartment. Since the whole night was wasted, Atsumu scrambles the frequency surrounding his jacket and slips it back on for a day of Hunting. He’s only got the pocketful of low grades to work through, but anything is better than nothing considering Sakusa’s just closed the gap between their ranks significantly.

It’s gruelling work, but it’s completed a little more efficiently with the help of the new visor Aran gave him. It displays all the information Atsumu needs immediately so he doesn’t have to keep checking the bounty disc every few minutes. Under its guidance he spends the whole morning chasing local thieves around the city, beating warnings into them, shaking them of coins and delivering the collections back to the benefactors. He’s lurking in sluggish alleyways, knocking doors of rich apartment blocks, searching illegal markets, throwing punches in rowdy bars. The only mildly interesting job among them is the one in which Atsumu chases a naked guy out of a pleasure house, and even that ends unsatisfactorily when the idiot runs into a wall and knocks himself unconscious before Atsumu can laugh through a fight with him.

By the time his alarm is ringing to make his way to the Bounty Office his body is exhausted, but there are enough energy drinks circulating his system for his brain not to pay the fact much attention.

Sakusa’s bike is already parked up when Atsumu arrives. Seeing it draws ire from his chest like a cough, but he swallows it along with his pride and grabs the spare rucksack of security devices before he locks his car. If he wasn’t so acutely aware of the possibility of Aran watching him, he’d have thrown it into a sewage drain hours ago and called it an accident. As it stands, he’s forcibly mellowed himself out over the course of the day. There are better ways to get back at Sakusa Kiyoomi than to blow up into a tantrum after all. It’s a talent and an artform Atsumu’s been cultivating for quite some time.

Plus, if Atsumu’s calculations are correct – which they usually are – there’ll be plenty more A-Grades where that came from, and plenty more opportunities to make Sakusa’s life miserable.

The doors are already open to the bar. In a direct effort to test Atsumu’s mental fortitude, Sakusa’s sitting in Atsumu’s favourite seat. He’s locked in conversation with Kuroo, and neither of them notice him lurking in the doorway. Atsumu’s fist tightens around a bounty disc in his pocket as he quells a wave of anger, but when Sakusa’s short laugh grates against his eardrums like a barstool against wooden boards, a little leaks through. He takes the disc out, flips it once like a coin, then he lobs it across the room, aiming for Sakusa’s hooded head.

Kuroo catches it millimetres before it hits him. He slides an unimpressed glance over at Atsumu. “Whoops,” Atsumu says feigning innocence. “Clumsy me. Dropped my disc.”

“Violence is forbidden at the bar, Miya,” Kuroo says with a click of his tongue. He drops the disc into a basket below the counter. “You know that.”

It’s one of the only rules Kuroo imposes upon his Hunters. They can do what they want to each other outside, but the bar is sacred, he says. Most of the pieces cost him a fortune, are antique, and can’t be replaced should a blaster shot tear them apart.

“Like I said, boss,” Atsumu says, making his way towards the bar. He drags the rucksack along the floor as he goes, hoping something inside might break each time it hits the back of his boots. “It was an accident. Why on earth would I wanna harm my good pal Omi-Omi after he helped me with my job and tucked me in so nicely afterwards?”

“I trust you had a nice nap, then?” Sakusa asks. “Certainly looked like it.”

Atsumu takes the seat directly next to Sakusa’s. “Had a great one,” he says. “Thanks, best friend!”

He slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, grip tight and hopefully bruising. Sakusa stiffens beneath him, tries to shirk him off with a sharp elbow, but Atsumu holds tight. He spent hours with a headache sent forth from the depths of hell, a day with aching muscles, a stiff back, and next to nothing to show for it – Sakusa can endure a minute or two of Atsumu’s proximity. It’s the least he deserves. He’s lucky Atsumu’s not wrapping his hands around his pretty neck and squeezing until life really does drain from his cold, dead eyes, rules be damned.

“Get your filthy hands off me, Miya,” Sakusa drawls. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

A year ago, Sakusa would have knocked Atsumu’s arm out of its socket for touching him. These days he seems to settle into resignation, even goes so far as to initiate it himself like in the hallway yesterday. He’ll do anything, it seems, not to make Atsumu feel as though he’s won, even if he hates it.

“Yeah, bet it’s hard to stalk me without your little trackin’ device makin’ it easy, huh? Lemme help ya out.” He pulls Sakusa’s hood down and leans in. “Spent the last few hours playin’ around at Pinch Pleasure Palace,” he says lowly, pressing so close his lips almost touch the shell of Sakusa’s ear. “You like the smell of jasmine, Omi-kun? They say it’s a natural aphrodisiac.”

“You were far more tolerable unconscious,” Sakusa says through gritted teeth. He still hasn’t bothered to look at Atsumu, far too preoccupied with the coin he’s making dance over his gloved fingers. “The whole city seemed quieter without you stomping around it. I have a few darts to spare. Do you want that desperately to taste the sting again?”

Atsumu grabs Sakusa’s masked chin, wrenches his head to the side and forces him to meet his eye. The coin clatters against the counter and rolls off the side. “You can try,” Atsumu tells him, a surge of excited satisfaction tightening his grip when he spies angry heat in Sakusa’s eyes rather than the usual icy disinterest. “But nothin’ works on me twice, vulture.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to think of something new, foghorn.” Sakusa tries to throw a jab into his gut, but Atsumu catches it with his spare hand and holds the offending fist up between them. He raises a brow at Kuroo. “That’s against policy, is it not, boss?”

“I’ll allow it,” Kuroo says. “Since you very obviously deserved it. Play nice, Miya.”

Play nice? Kuroo had better be joking.

Atsumu lets go of Sakusa’s face and wrist and holds his hands up in surrender. While Kuroo dips beneath the bar to grab a cloth, Sakusa kicks violently at the exposed part of stool between Atsumu’s legs so that he has to scramble and stand not to topple over.

“I am playin’ nice, Tetsu-chan,” Atsumu says, righting the stool and sitting back down on it. “Look.” He picks up the rucksack and slams it down on the counter, narrowly missing one of Sakusa’s hands. “Care ‘bout him so much I got this to him in once piece insteada runnin’ over it with my car.”

“What is it?” Sakusa asks.

“Security tech from Aran,” he says. “It’s probably gonna save your life or whatever. Send him a card or a buncha flowers if you’re feelin’ grateful. He likes those.”

A crease forms between Sakusa’s brows. He doesn’t usually pay much attention to the shit that comes out of Atsumu’s mouth, but Aran’s name alone is reason enough to stop and listen. “Save me from what?”

“Not what,” Atsumu corrects. “Who.”

“So tell me, idiot.”

Atsumu hums as he leans an elbow on the bar counter and his cheek in his palm. “That information’s gonna cost ya. Twenty thousand coins to be exact.” He winks. “You know my transfer code.”

Sakusa scoffs and faces forwards again. “I’d rather die the twenty thousand richer, thanks.”

“Sure thing.” Atsumu knocks the counter twice and turns to Kuroo. “I’ll take my jobs and leave, then.”

“You two are impossible,” Kuroo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stay seated, Miya.”

“Nah, it’s fine. He can work it out himself. Hopefully once it’s too late and there’s a blaster muzzle aimed at his fuckin’ forehead.” Atsumu goes to stand, but Kuroo sends a nod to someone over Atsumu’s shoulder and suddenly two broad hands are on him, pushing him back down into the stool with enough force to knock the breath from his gut.

“Oof—ah.” He leans his head back enough to look upward and finds bright gold eyes and a familiar smile staring back at him. “Heya, Bokkun. When did you get here?” Atsumu didn’t hear him come in. He never does, despite how large and clumsy Bokuto is most of the time.

“Hey, Tsum-Tsum! Just now!” He ruffles Atsumu’s hair then pats his cheek. “You causing trouble again?”

Atsumu grins. “Always.”

Bokuto’s grip softens, and he leaves to hop over the bar and wind a hand around Kuroo’s waist. He pulls him in and presses a sloppy kiss against his cheek that Atsumu heckles, then steals a pint glass from behind Kuroo’s back and dispenses himself a drink from the beer tap. “Tetsu says you’re aging him before his time,” Bokuto says, sipping his drink and leaving behind a frothy moustache. “Both of you.”

“All accordin’ to plan,” Atsumu jokes with a smirk. “Wine tastes finer with age and I’m a patient boy.”

“God,” Sakusa says with a disgusted sneer, “you’re pathetic.”

“Jealous, Omi-kun? Ya should be.” He slides a look Sakusa’s way. “Nothin’ can improve the taste of somethin’ that’s already gone rotten.”

“Miya,” Kuroo clicks his fingers to gather Atsumu’s attention. “We live by two rules, here. Remember them?”

“Sure,” Atsumu says and holds up one finger. “Don’t fuck up your bar.”

“And?”

Atsumu stops and slumps slightly on his stool. “And always alert the guild to potential threats,” he grumbles.

Kuroo’s guild is run a little differently than most. Other cities don’t care about the Hunters who come and go; they take their discs from lockers and cut out the middleman entirely. But Kuroo’s insistent on being there for his whether they care for it or not. He offers support, gives people second chances, extends a hand to the desperate and treats them all like one large, incredibly dysfunctional family because he wants to make a difference, or whatever.

Atsumu thinks it’s bullshit, but Kuroo’s never given a damn when Atsumu tells him as much. It’s the stupidest dream he’s ever heard of, to want to teach love and compassion to a group of trained killers.

“Precisely,” Kuroo says. “So share it with the class, Miya. Now.”

“Can I at least get a drink first? Injurin’ my pride’s thirsty work.”

Bokuto goes to pull him a beer, but Kuroo stops his hand and fills his pint with juice instead. He even garnishes it with a straw and a tiny paper umbrella before sliding it across the counter. “Since you want to act like a child,” Kuroo tells him.

Punctuated with loud, obnoxious sips of his drink, Atsumu tells the whole story again for the third time that day, amalgamating all the information he has from his own memory with what Aran told him and what he remembers of the footage from the harbour. There are no interruptions, no unnecessary quips or stabs – aside from Bokuto’s loud interest in wanting to watch The Little Giant for himself. The only time Sakusa says anything is as Atsumu reaches Daiju’s confession.

“So who hired him?” Sakusa asks.

“Gee, I dunno, Omi. Maybe I mighta figured that out if ya hadn’t fuckin’ blown his head to smithereens before I got the chance.”

Sakusa’s eyes scowl at him but it doesn’t quite feel like he’s the intended target. It looks more like Sakusa might be a little angry at himself. Or maybe that nasty glare is just one of contemplation. It’s hard to tell with Sakusa. He’s always such a grumpy, prickly bastard. It makes Atsumu want to rip his mask off, to see if it’s just his eyes that act that way or if his whole face follows suit.

“Something tells me Daiju wouldn’t have been able to tell you much anyway,” Kuroo says with a thoughtful hum. “I doubt he even he knew the identity of who hired him, only that they broke him out, paid him handsomely and armed him. He didn’t seem like the sort to care for pointless details.”

Atsumu shrugs and moves the ice in his glass around with the straw. “My knife to his balls mighta jogged his memory though. Coulda gotten a location, at least. Maybe a vocal description. Name of another minion.”

He knows that’s bullshit. Daiju was about to tell him to ‘go to hell’ and likely would have done so until Atsumu got fed up and shot him himself, but he lays it on thick, hoping it might make Sakusa feel guilty.

“We’ll look into the situation,” Kuroo says, and Atsumu knows that means he’ll be sending Bokuto and Kenma out in his stead. Kenma’s stealth paired with Bokuto’s brawn is a surprisingly efficient pairing. They find the secrets Aran’s cameras can’t reach, the conversations whispered behind hands, spoken beneath masks, lingering in minds.

“You two carry on as normal,” Bokuto grins, punching his own palm. “I’ll beat the answers out of whoever I need to. Or maybe Kenma will. If he’s in the mood for it.”

Kuroo pats Bokuto’s back with a nod. “It’s possible your names and faces are no more than cautionary tales so the puppeteer can keep their marionettes in check,” he says. “But I don’t like that they’re out there at all. You should stay on your toes. Keep your eyes open.” He reaches beneath the counter and pulls out two handfuls of A-Grade discs. Atsumu’s never seen that many in a week, never mind one day. “I don’t think it’s coincidental that problems around the city have doubled recently. Most of those came in just this morning. Take your time with them and don’t run into anything blindly.” He looks between them both as they pocket their discs. “Do you have each other’s numbers?”

“No,” they both say with equal amounts of revulsion.

Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest. “Exchange them now, kiddos. I’ll wait.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sakusa says.      

“No?” Kuroo asks with a quirked brow. “Enlighten me as to why, O’ Great and Wise Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa sniffs. “Because I don’t give a fuck about what happens to him.”

Atsumu slurps the last of his drink. “The feelin’s mutual, Hazmat.”

Kuroo smiles placatingly as they bicker. “Can you believe this shit, Kou? Knives at their throats and they’re still measuring their dicks.”

Bokuto laughs. “Two of the cleverest people I know and they become two of the stupidest the second you put them near each other. Fascinating!”

“That’s just called dislikin’ someone, Bokkun,” Atsumu says. He doesn’t even know why; Sakusa just pisses him off. Has done since he walked into the bar for the first time and refused to return Atsumu’s cordial greeting of introduction with anything but an upturned nose and a scowl.

“I don’t really care what you think or feel about each other,” Kuroo sighs, tapping a patient rhythm into the bar counter. “But I do care that my two most competent Hunters are in danger. I trust you both to take care of yourselves, but this might be bigger than you realise. You’re going to exchange numbers and alert each other amicably to any incoming information as soon as you find it, or I’ll refuse you any future bounties until it’s all sorted out. Understood?”

It’s easy to forget that Kuroo’s the boss sometimes, he’s so relaxed and easy-going, but Atsumu knows better than to assume Kuroo’s being anything other than totally serious. Kuroo’s expelled and banished plenty of Hunters for not playing by his rules before now. “There are plenty of cities that’ll tolerate that bullshit better than I do,” he’d said when Atsumu had asked him why. “We have standards here.”

Moving cities and starting over won’t be fun for either of them. Atsumu’s worked too hard to throw away all he’s earned because of someone like Sakusa.

“Understood?” Kuroo asks again.

“Yeah, boss,” Atsumu says as Sakusa grumbles a “Yes.”

With a huff, Sakusa grabs a napkin and Kuroo hands him a pen. He scribbles his number down on it so forcefully and illegibly it looks as though Atsumu will need a few hours to decipher the mess. Atsumu leans forward and swipes it away with two fingers as he’s writing the last digit. He does it so fast the pen rips through the corner of the napkin and makes Sakusa’s head snap up to him in confusion. Never one to deny an opportunity, Atsumu grins and slots the tiny umbrella from his drink behind Sakusa’s ear while he’s sitting still.

“And I didn’t even have to ask ya to dinner to get it,” Atsumu says. “Thanks, sweetheart. Can’t wait to tell ya about every wakin’ moment of my life. Send ya hot pictures of my appendages.”

Sakusa snatches the umbrella, crumples it, and flicks it at Atsumu’s head. “Use it for anything other than the relaying of information, and I’ll put enough darts in your neck to knock you out permanently. There are at least a dozen people that would agree with me when I say you falling comatose would be a cause for celebration.”

Atsumu’s not sure Sakusa even knows a dozen people. At least not ones who would willingly talk to him.

“Sure thing, Omi,” he says. He blows Sakusa a kiss as he picks up the rucksack and starts off for the door. “Let’s see which one of you masked bastards can put me down first.”

“It’ll be child’s play,” Sakusa drawls. “Since you appear to enjoy sleeping on the job so much.”

Atsumu holds up a middle finger and hopes Sakusa trips on the way out.

Kuroo doesn’t let them leave at the same time. He keeps Atsumu behind for at least twenty minutes so that Sakusa can get as far away from him as possible, and forces Atsumu to save Sakusa’s number to his phone under his watchful gaze.

“It’s fine,” Kuroo says when Atsumu complains about the unfair time advantage Sakusa has over the bounties. “The sudden influx in jobs allowed for me to give you both completely different assignments. I don’t think the city could survive you standing on each other’s prissy toes again.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, and they land on the leader board behind Kuroo’s head. Sakusa’s only 1340 points away from overtaking him now, even after the game of catch up with the low grades.

“I meant it when I said take your time,” Kuroo says when he spots Atsumu glaring at it a beat too long. “You burn through those in a day and I’m not giving you more. There are better ways to die than running yourself needlessly into the ground. Especially since I just got through telling you to keep your ear to it.”

It’s a rare occurrence, but Atsumu listens and takes his time now that he knows he’s alone on the hunt. He finally goes back to his apartment and takes extra care to set up all of Aran’s security pieces. There are laser trip wires for the doors and windows, pinhole cameras that sync with his phone so he can keep an eye on the place while he’s not there, remote sleep-gas cannisters to down intruders at the touch of a button, sweepers to detect hidden devices, and a dozen different kinds of lock that require thumbprints, and eye scans, and ten-digit codes.

It’s a small place, but Atsumu’s never minded. He only ever returns to it to eat, sleep, wash, and change. A bigger place would be a waste of money, considering he spends more of his time in his car or at Kuroo’s bar.

He changes into some clean clothes – equally as bulky combat trousers with plenty of space for his blasters, and his second-favourite jacket, the black one with the souvenir patches his mother sewed onto it from all the different places she used to leave them at home alone to run off and visit. The old ones get thrown into the rapidly growing heap ready to be washed the next time he finds a free enough day to visit the dry cleaners, and he tosses his jacket onto the kitchen counter so he’ll remember to patch up the bullet singe and clean the back of alley bilge.

With a cup of instant noodles and another energy drink, Atsumu picks a disc at random and settles onto his sofa to get to work. He knows it’s the best thing for him right now, to busy himself with a job. There’s no use in dwelling, nothing to be gained by waiting around for something to happen. Bokuto and Kenma will go searching for answers, and if he’s lucky, he’ll stumble upon something first to expedite the process and make some headway.

The disc he chooses is an instant kill bounty, the kind that’s asking Atsumu to put the mark down without questions and without hesitation. It’s paying a meagre twelve thousand, the bare minimum price of a life. The client’s probably more of a bastard than the mark, but that’s none of Atsumu’s business.

The more Atsumu studies the holo screen file, the more he comes to realise that it’s a far more complex case than Daiju’s. The mark – some guy called Hirugami – was a part of a gang, one of the nasty ones, the violent ones that haunt the city’s underbelly and cause problems nobody knows how to control. He’s run away, taking with him a brain full of faces and information that’s sensitive enough for his ex-leader to put a bounty on his head in order to stop it from leaking.

There are no last known locations, no possible leads. He possesses no known habits, hobbies, or vices, and the sponsor hasn’t provided Atsumu with anything other than an unhelpfully old picture, one of Hirugami as a kid, scowling at the camera with a shaved head.

He pulls out his laptop – one of Aran’s old hand-me-downs since Atsumu hates wasting money on the practical in favour of the flashy – and pulls up the encrypted guild website. It’s a digital library of information, compiled by the guild’s overworked and perpetually exhausted tech support Akaashi Keiji. It helps in cases like these, where Atsumu has less than scraps to work with, throws him a bone, so to speak.

It holds superficial knowledge on gangs, groups, villains, and criminals, as well as government officials, wardens, politicians, and the unsavoury upper classes. If the sponsor isn’t willing to part with any useful information regarding Hirugami, then Atsumu will surely find something on him here.

He types Hirugami Sachirou into the search bar, then sits back as the site trawls through itself and compiles any mentions of his name.

While he waits, Atsumu shrugs out of his jacket, squashes his arm together so that the crook of his elbow looks like the crack of an ass, takes a closeup picture, and sends it to Sakusa captioned: saw this and thought of you <3

Kuroo had told him to message Sakusa so that he received his number. He didn’t specify he had to be nice about it.

What a coincidence, Sakusa messages back not a minute later. I just stumbled upon this and instantly thought of you. The attached picture is one of a trodden-on pile of dog shit. Atsumu barks out a laugh and throws his phone aside as his laptop chimes with an alert.

The database only knows three concrete things about Hirugami.

One: he’s twenty-five now and well over six feet tall. Nothing like the angry bald kid in the picture.

Two: his nickname on the streets was Hirugami the Immovable. Pretty cool, if Atsumu’s being honest.

Three: he was one of the gang’s best fighters.

None of it is particularly helpful, but that’s not what catches Atsumu’s attention. Aside from that scant information, the search also yields another picture. It’s another old one, fuzzy with the age of an out-dated device. Hirugami must have uploaded it to a social media site years ago, before his entire digital life got wiped from existence in favour of a life of crime. Somehow, it’s slipped through the cracks.

Hirugami’s happy in it, Atsumu notices as he leans in to get a closer look. There’s a smile on his face; wide and cheerful. He’s got one arm wrapped around a big, fluffy dog, and the other wrapped around another boy. A boy that if Atsumu adds a dozen years and a set of knuckle dusters to looks eerily similar to the The Little Giant.

“Well, well, well,” Atsumu grins at the screen. “How about that?”

The roar of the crowd is tame and muted when the door to the fighting ring opens for Atsumu this time. He steps up to the betting counter and winks at the woman behind the glass, then gets handed a ticket to place his bet.

“No Little Giant?” Atsumu asks her when he glances down and finds two unfamiliar names to choose between rather than the simple Yes or No question of whether the Little Giant will win.

“No,” she says with a bitter twist of her lips. “He lost last night.”

“What? How?”

Atsumu thinks of The Little Giant’s face, the unshakable determination in his eyes, the force behind his punches, his impressive agility, and wonders what the fuck kind of person in this city managed to take him down. Whoever it is, they’ve lost this establishment a shit ton of money.

The woman doesn’t elaborate. She takes Atsumu’s ticket after he circles a random name and shakes the tray impatiently until he drops some coins into it.

Fights are still an exciting thing to watch. There’s a buzz about the crowd when he steps inside, but it’s not as thrilling an atmosphere as the one that enveloped the place last night. The two in the ring are evenly matched and Atsumu can hear each fist as it finds flesh and bone, each thud and grunt of pain.

It’s easier for Atsumu to walk around now – bodies are evenly spaced rather than packed together. He doesn’t get pushed by hard hands, doesn’t get groped or shouldered. Through the clear glass of his visor, he scans the faces he passes, reads the information that accompanies their glares and searches for someone who he remembers from last night that simultaneously possesses a temperament that might make them amenable to a friendly chat.

He finds a suitable pair on the outskirts, wearing roughed-up business casual. One’s got a shaved head – Tanaka Ryunosuke, according to the visor – and the other – Nishinoya Yuu – is on his shoulders, waving his fist at the ring and yelling. The visor also labels the pair as ‘businessmen’ though Atsumu’s not sure what sort. They could be legitimate, they could be conmen, he doesn’t really care. They look cheerful enough and that’s all that matters.

They’re shouting obscenities when he approaches, encouraging the guy they’re betting on to “Stop being a coward and rip his dick off, already!”

Atsumu shuffles nearby, tucks his hands into his pockets and says over the noise, “Not as fun as last night, huh?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Tanaka asks, yanking Nishinoya around with him to pull what he probably thinks is a face comprised of pure, unfiltered intimidation but is actually just ridiculous.

“Woah, hey,” Atsumu laughs, holding up his hands. Maybe he’s misjudged this one. “Just tryin’ to make some friendly conversation.”

“You see anyone else making friendly conversation? Piss off. Pretty boy bastard.”

“No, wait, Ryu!” Still atop his shoulders, Nishinoya slaps Tanaka’s bald head excitedly. “Ask him if he wants to buy a laser pen.”

“Oh! Yeah!” In the time it takes Atsumu to blink, Tanaka’s scowl switches to a bright smile. “Want to buy a laser pen, pretty boy bastard?”

Nishinoya digs around in his pocket and retrieves what looks like an ordinary pen. He holds it out to Atsumu and says, “Two-hundred coins and it’s yours!”

Atsumu reaches up and takes it. When he turns it around in his fingers it is an ordinary pen. One that looks identical to the novelty spy equipment types he’s seen in the local toy shops. Conmen, then. Atsumu quirks a brow. “What’s it do?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Nishinoya says with a loud laugh. “It shoots deadly lasers, and it writes words! Dual functionality for half the price!”

When Atsumu clicks the end of the pen a decidedly non-lethal, run-of-the-mill laser casts a dart of green light towards the ceiling. He follows the beam and lets out a low, impressed whistle. “That’s quite somethin’,” he says. “You sure ya can’t cut me a better deal?”

“We’re already offering it at a huge discount,” Tanaka says solemnly. “Our houses burned down, our warehouses burned down, we’re sick, our dogs are sick, and there’s a sad baby somewhere that’ll get sadder if we don’t sell that pen for two hundred.”

Atsumu feigns distress. “Damn,” he says. “Sure, I’ll take one. Can’t stand to hear ‘bout no babies cryin’.”

“Shit, really?” Tanaka asks.

“Yeah, here—you got wireless?”

Nishinoya nods earnestly and pulls out his phone while Atsumu reaches for the card in the wallet of his trouser pocket. It’s a piece of tech Aran made for him his first year on the job. A card that completes a transaction of an infinite amount for an hour, then deletes itself from the recipient’s bank with no traceable history. It allows Atsumu to earn people’s trust, to sweet talk conmen and buy his way into places without wasting money. It only works if Atsumu gets as far away from the mark as possible once the hour is up, like he’s the world’s shittiest, nastiest, and universally despised Cinderella. He’s used it to swindle marks into following him, to buy items for hunts without breaking the bank and to keep up with the nonchalance of high rollers.

Right now, it’s going to make these idiots like him enough to give him answers about The Little Giant. Oh, and a pen.

They both light up when Atsumu holds his card up to their device and the alert signals a successful deal. “Thanks,” he grins, slotting the pen behind his ear. “Ya never know when ya might need a laser pen.”

Nishinoya climbs down from Tanaka’s shoulders to shake Atsumu’s hand properly. “Exactly!” he says. “It’ll be worth every penny, I promise!”

He charms them a while, lets them ramble about their business ventures and their supposed ‘sick dogs’. Atsumu’s always been good at manipulating conversation – he moves it on to money, to betting, and back around to The Little Giant in record time.

“I was hopin’ to get rich on The Little Giant tonight,” Atsumu sighs with a wistful stare at the ring. “Seems like I missed out though. You guys here to see it?”

“Sure were,” Nishinoya says. “I had so much riding on that tall bastard and the office keeps telling me it doesn’t count. That my winnings are forfeit because the match was nulled!” Nishinoya clicks his tongue. “Whole thing’s probably just a scam.”

Atsumu tilts his head. “The match was nulled?”

“Yeah, they’re saying The Little Giant lost,” Tanaka supplies. “But he didn’t. Not really. The guy they say he lost to – he didn’t even fight him. He took one look, clammed up and dropped his dusters. Walked right out of the ring and the guy ran after him.”

Atsumu finds it hard to believe that any one person could scare The Little Giant, which means there must be a better explanation as to why he forfeited the match. An explanation Atsumu’s pretty sure he’s already cracked. “Who the hell’d he fight?”

“Dunno,” Tanaka says. “He had his hood up, could hardly see his face. Must have been like, over six-feet tall though. Looked double The Little Giant’s size.”

“That’s an exaggeration, Ryu,” Nishinoya scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “He wasn’t that big.”

Tanaka shrugs. “Might as well have been. You see the way his eyes widened when he looked up at him? Was like a kid who’d seen a ghost.”

Atsumu watched The Little Giant pulverise a guy twice his height and triple his width last night. He’s not scared of tough opponents. Atsumu’s willing to bet his brand-new laser pen it was childhood friend Hirugami Sachirou that made him throw the fight. To The Little Giant, it probably was like seeing a ghost.

Which means find The Little Giant, and he’s a step closer to finding Hirugami.

Easy.

Putting The Little Giant’s name into the guild search yields far more results.

Atsumu finds out that his real name is Hoshiumi Kourai, that he’s 5’8”, that he’s got an older brother who works at a local school, and that he’s got a small mid-floor apartment on the outskirts of the city.

For the next three days and nights he scopes out the area surrounding Hoshiumi’s apartment, waiting for the right time to approach. He hasn’t seen anyone leave or enter the place since he started his surveillance in his car nearby, but this part of the city is so busy anyone could be hidden in the huge crowds of people clambering around during the morning and evening rush hours.

He could storm the place, break in through a window, but Atsumu can’t afford to fuck up a search and kill bounty. Hoshiumi could very well hate Hirugami, could help Atsumu on his way to his twelve thousand coins, or he could put a knuckle duster in Atsumu’s jaw for looking at him the wrong way. Atsumu’s an excellent fighter but he’s not so sure he wants to test his mettle against The Little Giant. He’ll wait patiently for him to leave and follow him somewhere agreeable to ask about Hirugami, somewhere he’s comfortable escaping if it all goes to shit.

On the fourth night, he isn’t given that choice, and it’s probably his own fault for being a little too complacent.

Atsumu’s leaning back in the reclined driver’s seat, tapping along to some music as he re-watches the harbour incident on his phone. Before he knows it, the passenger seat and the right back seat doors are opening, and two bodies are sliding into his car with him.

Knives find the delicate skin of his throat, one at his left, one at his right. A hand grabs his hair and yanks his head back against the headrest and Atsumu sighs and tucks his phone into his pocket. “Good evenin’ gentlemen,” he says. “How can I help ya?”

“Who the fuck are you and why have you been watching me?” Hoshiumi snaps beside him, punching Atsumu’s radio until it cuts off.

“Woah, hey, easy little guy,” Atsumu says calmly. The pair probably think they have the upper hand, but Atsumu’s got at least a dozen buttons in this car that’ll knock them both clean out in under ten seconds, one of which his foot is currently resting on. “I’m not here for you.”

Hoshiumi twists his hand around and hits Atsumu in the throat with the handle of his knife. It makes him gag, makes him lurch forwards and cut the side of his neck slightly on the second blade.

“Who are you here for?”

Atsumu coughs a few times, swallows to check his windpipe still works, then says hoarsely, “Your pal Hirugami the Immovable in the back there. Heya, Sachirou. Wanna ease up a little, buddy? I’m good-lookin’ but I’m not so sure I could rock bein’ bald like you did.”

The grip on his hair tightens until it makes Atsumu’s eyes water. “Are you a Bounty Hunter?” Hirugami asks.

“Sure am.” Atsumu finds Hirugami’s eye in the rear-view mirror and grins at him. He’s wearing his hood up, but Atsumu can still see his handsome face beneath the low light of the nearby streetlamps. It’s marked with fading bruises and scabbed cuts, and Atsumu wonders if they’re from his old line of work, or the fighter sitting next to him. “You’ve pissed a whole buncha people off, princess. I’m s’posed to put a blaster bullet between your pretty eyes.”

“You’ll have to get through me first.” Hoshiumi raises his fist to punch Atsumu’s throat again, but Atsumu catches his wrist and bends it back until the blade drops down into the crack between the seat and the console. Hoshiumi has two hands, however. He uses the other to punch him in the gut instead. He tries to double over, but Hirugami’s grip on his hair makes him wince and lean back again.

“Fuck, okay. Damn,” Atsumu wheezes. Hoshiumi’s not wearing the knuckle dusters, but it definitely feels as though he is with how hard he hits. “Take it easy.”

“What’s your rank?” Hirugami asks.

“That’s a secret,” Atsumu says. “You boys know that.” Well, it’s supposed to be. Everyone could know it by now.

“Looks and sounds like bottom of the barrel,” Hoshiumi scoffs. Not everyone apparently. “He’s probably embarrassed to tell us. I would be, leaving yourself vulnerable like that.”

“I’m never vulnerable,” Atsumu says with a flash of teeth. “This is my car. It’s cute you think you have the advantage.”

Hirugami’s grip slackens slightly on Atsumu’s hair and Hoshiumi’s eyes dart around uncertainly. “How much are you being paid to kill me?” Hirugami asks.

Atsumu cocks his head. “Does it matter?”

“Just answer the damn question shit-for-brains!” Hoshiumi spits.

“Fifteen thousand,” Atsumu lies. Nobody wants to hear they’re only worth twelve. “Why?”

“I’ll pay you the same to pretend you killed me and leave us alone.”

Atsumu scoffs. Hirugami looks as though he’s just crawled out of a dumpster. His clothes are streaked with mud and grassy blemishes, the sleeve that’s sagging around his knife-wielding hand is ripped, and his knuckles are wrapped with blood-stained bandages that should have been changed yesterday. “You even got fifteen-thousand, beanpole?”

“I stole a hundred before I left.”

Atsumu hums. “And what happens, say, a few years down the line when your boss finds out you’re still kickin’ and tries to drown me in the sewers for wastin’ his time and money?” He nods towards Hoshiumi. “You and your pet chihuahua gonna keep me safe?”

“You’ll die before then if you kill me,” Hirugami says holding out his hand to stop Hoshiumi from punching Atsumu again. “The gang’s already helping to wipe out the guild of Bounty Hunters in exchange for immunity under the New City. They probably aren’t expecting you to live. They were probably hoping I’d kill you. But I won’t. I can help you. Just promise that you’ll—”

“Woah, woah, hey, back track a second. What?”

Wiping out the guild? New City? Immunity? Atsumu’s brain feels like a blender whipping up a smoothie of confusion. This was not what he’d been expecting.

“Say we have a deal first,” Hirugami says, tugging Atsumu’s hair. “And I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Atsumu shouldn’t agree. He should immobilise the pair, shoot Hirugami, and send the sponsor the proof. But if Hirugami’s telling the truth, if the sponsor is actively taking part in plans to wipe out the city’s Bounty Hunters, then they’ve broken the contract long before Atsumu, and he’ll need as much information as he can if he wants to kill whoever the bastard is for crossing him.

He releases his foot from the button and turns slightly in his seat. “Make it twenty,” he says. “And I’ll pretend I never even saw ya.”

Hirugami pulls his knife away and lets Atsumu go. “Fine. Let’s go inside.” He glances out of the car window. “I don’t like it out here. It isn’t safe.”

Atsumu follows them both across the street and into Hoshiumi’s apartment. It’s far nicer than his own – cleaner, and more spacious. The blinds are drawn, the lights dim, the door decorated with more locks than both Atsumu and Sakusa’s rucksacks of security equipment combined. There’s a dog that probably shouldn’t be there, too. It looks exactly like the one from the photograph of them as children, though Atsumu knows that one’s probably long since gone.

It licks his hand as he takes a seat on the sofa, wags its tail so excitedly it knocks a few things over. Atsumu gives it a pat and tells it it’s a good puppy, then he slides his phone across the table, open and ready on the money transfer app. He taps the wood next to it. “Pay up.”

Hirugami and Hoshiumi exchange a look that Atsumu can’t quite decipher, then Hoshiumi scoffs and leaves the room, mumbling, “Should have just let me kill him,” under his breath as Hirugami fishes his own phone out of his pocket. Their phones buzz once the transfer is complete. Atsumu checks everything to make sure it’s all correct, then opens a voice recording app and presses ‘record’.

“Stage is all yours, runaway,” he says. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“You’ll stop hunting me?” Hirugami asks.

Atsumu moves aside so that the dog can jump up onto the sofa and sit on his lap. “Sure.”

“Don’t you need to like… pretend I’m dead or something? Take a picture? Make a phone call?”

“Nope.”

Once Atsumu returns to Kuroo with this information he’ll nullify the whole bounty and strike the sponsor from the client list. The cardinal rule of buying a Hunter’s time is that you both operate on trust. Atsumu trusted the sponsor to let him do his job, not conspire to assassinate him. The contract is therefore broken. Hirugami can do whatever the fuck he wants starting now, but his first port of call is to take an awkwardly stiff seat opposite Atsumu. “Okay,” he says warily. “Well…uh, what do you know of the New City, exactly?”

“Fuckin’ nothin’,” Atsumu says. “Sounds stupid.”

“It’s not, jerk,” Hoshiumi sneers. He’s returned from wherever he went, armed with an apple and a knife, and he takes a seat next to Hirugami to start peeling it. “It’s serious. You’d better listen up if still want your dick between your legs by the end of the week.”

Atsumu does want to keep his dick between his legs by the end of the week. He sits back and shuts up.

“There’s unrest,” Hirugami explains, “among the city’s gangs. A bigger fish was thrown into the pond a few months back. He started by making some waves, pissing the right people off and earning the trust of the hardest hitters. I thought it was nothing to worry about at first, just some guy trying to climb the ladder, I’ve seen that a dozen times before. But then he started getting bold.”

The dog rolls onto its back and Atsumu tickles its exposed belly until its leg thumps happily against the sofa cushions. “Bold how?”

Hirugami watches him do so with an odd sort of expression, then shakes his head. “Did you hear about the harbour incident the other week?” Atsumu nods. “He wanted those crystal cores for weapons. He’s amassing an army. Fancies himself a king. Wants to tear the city to the ground and build it anew.”

“The New City,” Atsumu concludes.

“It’s supposed to be a criminal’s haven,” Hirugami says with a nod. “No rules, no regulations. Unlimited access to crystal cores and raw resources. Too many people like the sound of it. My old gang included.”

“Stupid,” Atsumu says again. Schemes like that are almost always built on lies, but the idiots who support him won’t find that out until it’s too damn late and they’re drowning in their own shit. “And I’m gonna need a name, champ. Enough with the he’s.”

“I don’t know it. They call him the Director, but that sounds—”

“Stupid?”

Hirugami huffs out an exasperated laugh. “Yeah.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a dog treat. Atsumu takes it when offered and feeds the dog with a gentle coo.

“Before I ran,” Hirugami continues, “my old leader was approached by the Director guy. In exchange for immunity, for a place in the Director’s upper circle, he’s pledged to wipe out the Bounty Hunter Guild for him so there’s less resistance when it all goes to hell.”

“That’s really stupid.” It’s no wonder Hirugami got himself out of there. Atsumu probably would have done the same thing were he in that situation.

“Stupid or not, they’ve been working on killing you all for weeks. They’ve been stirring trouble on purpose, getting bounties placed on their heads so they can lure you all in and take you out, one by one. The Director guy, he has access to all sorts of information. He’s no joke.”

That much is true at least. Aran had said something similar.

Hoshiumi cuts a chunk of apple and feeds it to himself on the blade of his knife. “If you’ve got any bounties on you now, you should throw them out,” he says as he chews. “They’re fake. You get to the end of one and you’ll find a dozen blasters waiting for you instead. You’re lucky you ran into Sachirou first. Anyone else and you’d be dust by now, airhead.”

Atsumu sits up and fishes an A-Grade out of his pocket. The weight feels odd in his hand now, like it’s contagious, dangerous. He pulls up a picture of a bounty and shows it to Hirugami as a test. “That mean you know who this is?”

With a nod, Hirugami says “That’s one of the new grunts. Ogawa, I think his name was.”

It checks out – the name matches. Atsumu tries another one. “This one too?”

Hirugami nods again. “Arai.”

It matches. “Huh.”

That means Sakusa’s got a pocketful of duds too, and he’s completely oblivious. He could be about to walk into a goddamn death trap, could already be sitting in one, could be face down in an alleyway. Atsumu would laugh if there wasn’t a real chance Sakusa might actually be dead. There are better ways to kill Sakusa, after all, than a crooked ambush – Atsumu promised long ago he’d be the one to deliver death to him, he’ll be damned if he loses that opportunity.

When he ends the recording and dials Sakusa’s number, it rings once, twice, three times, then it gets declined. At least he’s alive enough to reject the call.

“Stupid bastard,” Atsumu spits. He goes to dial back, but a text comes through instead, and the unexpected buzz of the alert makes him curse in surprise.

Fuck off, it reads. I’m about to finish a job. No interruptions.

When Atsumu presses ‘call’ anyway, he’s met with the droning voice of Sakusa’s answer machine that means he’s turned his phone off.

Atsumu runs his hand through his hair and groans. “Fuckin’ shit.”

Chapter Text

Atsumu leaves Hoshiumi and Hirugami with Kuroo’s official Bounty Officer business card. No matter how many times Atsumu refuses him, Hirugami’s insistent on offering his help, and Hoshiumi seems to support whatever he says without so much as a breath for contemplation. The only way to placate him and stop them both from following Atsumu into the fray, is to point them towards Kuroo.

Ordinarily, Atsumu would tell them where to stick their unnecessary assistance, but Hirugami could know a whole lot more than he’s already spilled. If he takes matters into his own hands and embarks on his own vigilante adventure story, odds are he’ll get put down within a week. There’s a decent chance something else useful is hidden in the recesses of his brain, something that’ll help the guild further if he’s allowed to talk for longer with someone that possesses a far wider attention span than Atsumu.

In exchange for their cooperation regarding…whatever the fuck this whole thing is, Kuroo will undoubtedly offer them shelter and protection. There are rooms behind the bar, the safest beds in the whole damn city. If they want slightly more honest work, Kuroo will give them that too. In a heartbeat, considering their skills.

When they finally let him leave, Atsumu takes the steps down two at a time and sprints across the street to get to his car. He locks himself in and fumbles with his phone, calling Aran up through speed dial and synching it to the dashboard so he can drive and talk.

“Tsumu,” Aran says, “What’s u—”

“Can you ping Sakusa’s phone?” Atsumu asks as he peels away from the curb. “Give me the last known location?”

“Woah, hey. Yeah. Why? What’s going on?”

His grip tightens on the wheel. “No time to explain. That asshole’s smothered in some nasty smellin’ shit and won’t answer me. I’m about to ride in on my noble steed and make his damn day.”

The GPS of Atsumu’s car buzzes and starts to reroute him. “There,” Aran says. “He’s in a high-rise midcity. I’ve got eyes on it, but there’s nothing happening outside. Looks dead, as far as I can tell.”

Maybe that’s a good thing. Or maybe that’s a really really bad thing.

“Thanks. Hopefully, you’re a not lifesaver, Aran-kun,” Atsumu says. “You can extract the recent recordin’ from my phone. There’s a conversation that’ll explain everythin’ ‘bout that masked guy. Tell Kuroo for me too, make sure he gets the message out to the rest of the guild.”

“I’ve got it covered. Go get ‘em, Prince Charming!”

Atsumu laughs. “Thanks again, Muffin Cake.”

“And be careful, Atsumu! Make sure ya don’t rush into any—”

He cuts the call and slams his foot on the accelerator. The building is fifteen minutes away – seven if Atsumu has anything to say about it. Five-and-a-half if he pretends the city is a speedrace track.

Music blares from the speakers as he tears along the roads; oddly enough, the unrelenting noise helps him concentrate. As he takes sharp corners and runs red lights the loud beats help him visualise what he’s going to do once he gets there, allow him to orchestrate fights in his mind’s eye, to rehearse his performance. He keeps the windows down too, so that the air cutting through it sobers him like a cold slap and prepares him for the worst.

Horns blare at him, cars swerve dangerously to avoid him, and he narrowly avoids hitting a few drunk – and sober – pedestrians, but he pulls up a street away from the building and gets out a record-breaking six minutes later.

Unsure of what he’s about to walk into, Atsumu decorates himself with the contents of his car boot: his protective vest and visor, a belt of smoke cannisters across his chest, another of throwing knives around his waist, a watch he got from Suna that emits a horrible, shrill sound when pressed, and his laser pen, for good luck.

He’s got his personal arsenal equipped, too. Two SMGS in his pockets, an ordinary blaster at his hip, his shotblaster now slung over his shoulder, and his switchblade - also for good luck – tucked into his sleeve.

It’s been a while since he’s entered a job so decked out – a single blaster usually suffices with Atsumu’s breadth of skill, but no amount of ducking and diving will save him if he comes face-to-face with the dozen arms Hoshiumi warned him about. He needs the whole damn armoury.

Sakusa’s motorcycle is parked up outside the building when he reaches the entrance. It’s a handsome thing, sleek, clean, and well-kept; Atsumu supposes not all vehicles can resemble their owners, or else it’d be way gaudier and headache-inducing to look at.

When Atsumu looks up at the building, only a few of its lights are on. It’s an office high-rise, the sort that during the day makes a thousand cold calls and slowly sucks the will to live out of its desk-ridden inhabitants. An odd location choice for an assassination, but Atsumu’s chased marks around far stranger places before now – the dance around the local carnival funhouse was as confusing as it was nauseating.

The doors slide open automatically for him. Two grunts stand to attention near the lobby’s elevator when he does so, and their eyes widen in recognition as they catch his eye. Atsumu spies the same blue cores as Daiju’s glowing in their barrels when they take aim at him – they’re makeshift blasters. Unsafe. From this Director guy most likely.

“Heya, boys,” Atsumu says with a friendly wave of his blaster. “Was wonderin’ if you could help me out. I’ve lost my pet sea urchin ‘round here somewhere, ya seen him? He’s about this tall, always scowlin’, dresses like a traffic cone.”

“How the fuck did you find out about—”

Atsumu holds up a finger. “Ah-ah. That’s not the answer to the question I asked, is it? Pay attention this time, yeah?” He says the next bit slowly, so they understand him. “Which floor is the Big Bad Bounty Hunter on?”

One of the men scoffs. “You don’t scare us. You can get fucked if you think we’re gonna—” Atsumu’s blaster bullet finds his leg and he ends the sentence with an agonised scream, slumping back against the wall and dropping to the floor.

The corners of Atsumu’s lips quirk up into a smile as he turns his attention to the second guy. “Don’t make me check ‘em all. That’s more weight than I’m willin’ to pull for that guy.”

“Stop standing there and fucking kill him already,” the guy on the floor groans.

In the nick of time, Atsumu tilts his head aside as a bullet flies by his cheek and shatters the glass door behind him.

Atsumu’s sigh pulls from deep within his chest. He puts bullets into both of their faces and steps over their bodies to access the elevator. “If they’re all as stupid as you,” he tells them as the doors close. “This’ll be a piece of cake.”

He tries the first of twelve floors. The doors open to reveal a deserted room of desks and not much else. He sweeps it once just to be certain, holding an ear to closed doors to check for noise beyond them, then he gets back into the elevator and works his way up.

They’re all time-consumingly empty until he reaches the fifth floor. When the doors open there, Atsumu’s not met by a vacant room, but with the surprised eyes of another grunt. The guy yelps when Atsumu grabs his shirt and pulls him inside, but as they ascend another floor together Atsumu learns the higher up he goes, the harder they hit.

“This is so easy, easy, easy!” Atsumu laughs as he blocks his punches with a solid forearm and redirects the muzzle of the guy’s blaster so that his shots find the ceiling and the floor. Atsumu’s knee to the soft muscle of his stomach makes him double over with a groan, and whilst he’s catching his breath, Atsumu slams the point of his elbow into the guy’s exposed back until he’s a heap of winded limbs on the polished elevator floor.

“Maybe you can help me out a little better than your friends did,” Atsumu says as he takes a heavy seat on his back and the guy lets out a pained wheeze. “Which floor is the party on?”

“Don’t bother,” the guy spits out, words taut and sharp. “Your friend’s already dead by now.”

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” Atsumu says as he ruffles the guy’s hair. “He’s not my friend.” And he’s probably not dead. Sakusa’s the second ranked Hunter for a reason. As vehemently as Atsumu wants to deny it, he’s seen Sakusa fight; he’s a force to be reckoned with.

“Then why the fuck are you here?”

Atsumu’s been asking himself that question since he left Hoshiumi’s place. Why am I even considering helping this guy? No matter how many different ways he phrases it, he can’t seem to find an answer. He digs around inside his mind for a facetious one and makes himself believe it.

“Huh. Dunno, really,” he says. “Guess I just don’t like the thought of him having more fun than me. It’s probably obvious, but I really like attention.” Atsumu shakes the switchblade free of his sleeve so that it slides into his palm. He flicks the blade free and holds it to the guy’s face without the heat. “So could ya please do me a huge favour and tell me which floor my not-friend is on so I can go play hero?”

“Fuck you.”

Damn, people are rude these days. Atsumu switches the heat on. “Which floor, asshole?”

“Just kill me already,” the guy says, and it would sound impressively daring, if Atsumu couldn’t hear fear constricting the words. Or maybe that’s just Atsumu’s ass crushing the guy’s diaphragm. “If you don’t do it, the Director will once he finds out we’ve fucked up.”

“Better me than him, huh? He that scary?”

“You Hunter assholes have no idea. Death will be a mercy if he finds you.”

“Cool,” Atsumu says “Guess I’ll meet ya in hell one day and we can exchange stories ‘bout our grisly deaths!”

He knocks the guy unconscious with a thump of the switchblade handle against his temple and gets to his feet as the doors open for the sixth floor. Light greets him this time; a sign of life and hopefully someone courteous enough to give him the damned answers he needs.

The switchblade goes back up into his sleeve as Atsumu strolls out of the elevator and rounds the corner to the offices. He counts at least seven heads turn in his direction from the main section of the floor, and two more guarding the steps up to the next level. Nine isn’t the most he’s ever taken on at once, but it definitely won’t be easy. He subtly loosens a cannister from the lowest rung of the belt across his chest and holds it in his palm, slowly working the pin free with his thumb, eyes watching the hands of his enemies for movement.

“It’s Miya Atsumu,” one of them says. “Rank One!”

“Heya!” Atsumu waves with his free hand. “It’s your lucky day! Two for one offer on Bounty Hunters! You survive the rotten bastard upstairs, ya get the sexy one down here free of charge!”

A few of them glance upward as he says it, and Atsumu thinks Sakusa must be kicking about up there somewhere. It’s the only explanation for the heightened security down here. While they’re busy looking up, he pulls the pin free entirely and throws the cannister in a high arc so that it lands somewhere in the centre of the room.

“Kill him!” one of them shouts as smoke pours out and fills the air; it’s a non-lethal kind, one that’s only effect is to limit sight and cause chaos. “Kill him now and we’ll live like kings!”

“Make it painful, and we’ll be emperors!”

“Newbie says he knows how to take people’s eyes out. We’ll polish them up and present them to the Director as a gift!”

“Haha! I like your spirit!” Atsumu says. “Let’s play a while! Ready?” The room is thick with smoke now, and coughs sound all around, muffled in the crooks of arms. A few blaster shots fire randomly and hit the computers sitting at empty desks with loud explosions of glass and a hiss of heat. “Set!” He aims his own blaster at the light switch above the door and fires so that the room plunges into darkness. “Go!”

The only light available comes from the sparking switch on the wall and the glowing of cores in the grunts’ hands. Atsumu taps the button on the side of his visor so that the outlines of bodies become visible through both the darkness and the smoke.

Then he gets to work.

Though he’s brought the whole damn cavalry, one blaster is all he needs, but he makes use of everything so that his effort isn’t wasted. Atsumu hears cries and thuds as his shots find their marks in faces, necks, heads, shoulders and guts, and send grunts crashing to the ground.

“One! Two! Three!” he counts aloud above the din of war cries and profane promises of his painful death.

He presses the button on his watch so that the horrible noise Suna created drowns it all out and he sees the outlines of men wince and attempt to cover their ears. Atsumu’s long since gotten used to it; Suna used to play it to wake him and Osamu up whenever they’d sleep over too long at his place. Kind of loses its edge after hearing it for the eightieth time.

A bullet bounces from the plate of his chest as someone fires at him from his right, and Atsumu ducks before another one finds his head. They’re wild with raw energy, not controlled like the ones fired from a usual, standard blaster. They crackle and hiss and spark as they fly past him, and he slides over desks and kicks monitors out of his way to carve a path for himself towards the door.

“Four and five!”

He spots a flashlight cut through the smoke, someone trying to find him among the haze. Atsumu tugs a knife free from his belt and hurls it through the fog. There’s a wet thunk as it finds flesh.

“Six!”

Someone’s blaster explodes - just like Osamu said they would – with a blinding flash of light, a scream, and the unmistakable stench of scorching flesh. “Ooh, a free seven! Lucky!”

As he’s distracted watching the spectacle, a hand grabs Atsumu’s arm and he twists out of the way just before the sharp glint of a serrated blade gets plunged into his side. Using the momentum, he hurls the assailant forwards so that they sprawl across the floor at his feet. He aims. Fires. “Eight!”

He approaches the only grunt remaining - the newbie, he supposes, judging by the way it looks as though he’s just pissed his own pants - the one nearest the stairwell door who was supposed to take out Atsumu’s eyes and polish them for the Director. “Nine,” he says as he spins the blaster around in his hand and knocks him unconscious with the grip.

His blaster is hot when he holsters it. Atsumu can feel the heat against his leg as he climbs the stairs two at a time to the next floor. It’s disorientating to leave pure darkness and face the artificial brightness of fluorescent lights so quickly, but the tech in the visor helps mediate the adjustment for him. It tints everything a pale gold and fades over time to reduce the burn against his eyes.

With a hum beneath his tongue, Atsumu reaches the top and skips down the ensuing hallway, stopping once he reaches the pair of armed guards standing outside a door.

“This the final boss?” he asks them.

They look at each other first, then back at Atsumu like there’s something they’re missing. “Must be, right? You wanna just… scoot aside, gentlemen?”

They snarl and lunge at him in response. Atsumu dips out of the way and shirks his shotblaster free to pump two large rounds into their backs that blow them against the wall with considerable force.

When he kicks the door open, he enters what looks like a conference room, except the tables have been thrown aside and the floor is littered with more bodies. Atsumu’s gaze flickers from the singed ground to the scene playing out in the middle of the room: Sakusa, on his knees, with two burly guys wrenching his arms behind his back, and the muzzle of a gun pressed to his forehead by a scrawny third.

There’s a trail of smoke rising from Sakusa’s thigh where a blaster shot has torn through his clothes and skin. Though his mask is still firmly in place, Atsumu can see pain etched into the pull of his blood-split eyebrow, can see his chest heaving in exertion beneath his jacket, and sweat plastering his curls to his forehead. Sakusa’s never look so dishevelled, he’s always so particular, so cautious.

“Fear not, my dearest Omi-kun!” he beams as he leans against the doorframe. “Your astonishingly handsome knight in shining armour has finally arrived!”

All four of their gazes snap to him. Sakusa’s eyes widen like a flinch then close as he groans and nudges his forehead encouragingly against the blaster. “Do it,” he says, voice a little guttural. “Shoot me. Quickly.”

“Nooo,” Atsumu says without inflection. “But I worked so hard to get here.”

The guy holding the blaster moves it from Sakusa’s head to Atsumu’s, eyes blown in surprise yet still framed with anger. He doesn’t look like anyone special, just a run-of-the-mill grunt, shoulders squared with unearned confidence, lips curled in a sneer. Atsumu supposes he’s just another of Hirugami’s acquaintances who got lucky enough to have Sakusa pick his bounty out of the pile.

And here the guy thought the job was a done deal after ambushing Sakusa with a whole damn army. If Atsumu looks hard enough, he can see the cogs turning in his head, can see his shoulders sagging beneath the knowledge that the job’s fucked, that two people are going to leave this room alive and he won’t be one of them. “H-how did you get here? How did you even know?”

“I’m not just a pretty face,” Atsumu says. He taps his temple. “I’ve got a brain, too.”

Sakusa scoffs. “Debatable on both counts.”

“Shh,” Atsumu coos. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared, Omi-Omi. I’m so big and strong I’ll get you outta this little pickle in no time.” He turns to the two holding Sakusa’s arms. “That’s the fundamental difference between Rank One and Two, ya see,” he says, gesturing vaguely in Sakusa’s direction. “I’d never let that happen to me.”

Sakusa straightens out of his pained hunch with a hiss and shuffles forwards. “Shoot me,” he says again. “Death is preferable to a life indebted to that clown.”

“And that’s precisely why I’m gonna save your ungrateful ass right now. Omi-Omi’s gonna owe me owe me big time!”

With all eyes on him, Atsumu reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves the laser pen he swindled from Tanaka and Nishinoya. He holds it up, twirling it around in his fingers so that the metal catches the light. “Look here! This is a new prototype weapon my genius brother made,” he lies. “One click and a concentrated beam of deadly crystal core energy will take your fuckin’ head off. Ready?”

He aims it at the bald head of one of the men holding Sakusa’s arms and clicks the button with a “Pew!” The light rests on the man’s forehead, and he frowns, unscathed. “Haha, just kiddin’. It’s a fake.”

The guy holding the gun lowers it slightly and looks at Atsumu with some concern. “What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Atsumu asks. “What’s wrong with him?” He nods at the guy with the laser on his head again and when everyone turns, he pulls out his blaster and shoots a real bolt that kills him instantaneously.

In the ensuing chaos, he also downs the second guy and shoots the hand of the third guy that’s holding the blaster so that it and he both fall to the floor.

Atsumu laughs again. “Woah! How ‘bout that? Guess it was worth the money after all! You good down there, plague doctor?”

Sakusa slumps forwards now that the men aren’t forcibly holding him back, and his right hand reaches up to clutch at his left shoulder with a wince. There’s another blaster mark there, Atsumu realises. It’s torn right through flesh and bone to the other side and ruined his ugly jacket. Maybe now he’ll finally feel inclined to throw it away.

“Why did you come here, Miya?” Sakusa grits out, glaring at him from across the room. “To inflate your ego another three sizes? Isn’t it large enough?”

Atsumu offers a shrug from the doorway. “Same reason you put me in my car and left me that bottle of water, I guess.”

“You didn’t drink the water. You’d still be vomiting if you had.”

“Looks like my instinct is never wrong, huh? I knew you’d done something to it, you nasty motherfucker. Maybe I should put you outta your damn misery now for the greater—”

“Neither of you are going to get out of here alive,” the guy on the floor wheezes out, clutching at his hand in a daze. He looks between them with a nervous flickering of his eyes and an obvious tremble of his lips. “There are more people downstairs who will—”

Atsumu takes aim at him for interrupting, but Sakusa picks up the discarded blaster and shoots him before he gets the chance, eyes burning with so much hatred Atsumu now has a pretty solid idea as to who put the holes in him.

“Is there anyone left alive downstairs?” Sakusa asks, voice taut. It probably hurt considerably to move like that. Atsumu’s felt the heat of a blaster shot once before; it’s commendable that Sakusa’s not unconscious to cope with the pain.

Atsumu straightens from his lean and walks over, stepping over the bodies Sakusa took out before he arrived.

“Nope,” he says as he crouches down in front of him. The smile that unfurls upon his face can’t be helped; there’s probably something to be said about shoe swapping, table turning, and medicine tasting – all that good shit, all at once. And he didn’t even have to put a single brain cell through its paces concocting revenge. The universe truly is a beautiful place.

With the tip of the laser pen, Atsumu lifts Sakusa’s chin to check him over for more injury. The cut through his eyebrow is superficial, just a split where someone’s smacked him with a blaster, nothing too serious. His eyes look fine; the blood from his brow is trailing down the side of his face and has avoided blurring his vision. There could be more cuts and bruises hidden beneath his mask, but Atsumu doesn’t really care to check, especially not when Sakusa wrenches his head away and tells him to “Get away from me, you piss-haired waste of oxygen.”

“But ya look so pretty, beggin’ on your knees like that,” he grins. “Kinda wanna stare at ya like this forev—Oh! Wait! I’ve got a better idea.” Atsumu retrieves his phone from his pocket and opens the camera. He turns and shuffles over so that he’s almost knocking shoulders with Sakusa and holds up his fingers in a peace sign to take a picture of them together. “Say ‘Karma!’”

Sakusa tries to hit him, but the movement pulls on both of his wounds so harshly he lets out an agonised sound instead. “Sit still, silly,” Atsumu tells him with a frown and an impatient click of his tongue. “That last one was all blurry and I need this to be good so I can make it my background.”

Maybe he’ll get it printed on a shirt too, buy out a billboard, make keyrings.

“Get that camera out of my face or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Atsumu ignores him, because Sakusa couldn’t move far enough to kill him even if he wanted to, and he takes a better picture. Atsumu looks dashing, if he does say so himself, with a wink and a smile and two fingers up teasingly behind Sakusa’s head. Sakusa looks like he’s plotting the demise of Atsumu’s entire bloodline – it’s perfect. “Okay! Great!” he says as he pockets his phone. “Let’s go find you a coffin to rest in before sunrise.”

Without warning, Atsumu winds a hand around Sakusa’s waist and in one swift movement, hoists him up to his feet. The groan that rips from his chest is ragged and hoarse, but Atsumu ignores it and starts dragging him towards the door.

“Get off me,” Sakusa spits around heavy breaths, trying his hardest to push Atsumu away. “I didn’t need your help then, and I don’t need it now.”

“You don’t want my help? Sure, okay.”

Sakusa’s shot leg buckles immediately when Atsumu loosens his hold and leaves him in the lurch. Desperate hands fist in Atsumu’s jacket as Sakusa tries to steady himself, his grip so tight it’s a wonder he doesn’t tear a patch off the back. Atsumu scoffs and slides an arm back around his waist. “That’s what I thought.”

They stumble out of the door. Atsumu has to lift Sakusa into a hop over the bodies in the hallway, but he doesn’t lead him back towards the stairwell. He’s not that cruel.

“That guy tell you anything about the New City?” Atsumu asks him as they shuffle along. “About the Director? I just got through talkin’ to this guy Hiru—”

“Don’t talk to me,” Sakusa snaps. “Being saved by someone else is bad enough. That it’s you is my worst fucking nightmare.”

“Why? Scared I might get distracted and drop ya? Like this?” Atsumu dips and pretends to fall, making Sakusa stagger forwards with him. “Whoops! Haha!”

“God, I can’t stand you,” he seethes, but judging by the involuntary tears wetting his eyes, Atsumu wagers it’s more likely that he just can’t concentrate on anything other than the searing pain of blaster shots.

“Then sit,” he says, pretending to drop him again with another laugh. “Whoops again!”

“Miya,” he chokes out. “Please.”

Atsumu’s laughter cuts like a snipped wire and his head snaps to the side. Sakusa’s no longer scowling, his eyes are pinched closed and Atsumu can hear his breaths fraying beneath his mask.

“Geez, ya must be hurtin’ if your pullin’ pleases on me, huh? Here,” he sighs angling his shoulders in a display of unfathomable kindness and selflessness. “Hop on. I’ll carry ya the rest of the way.”

“Did you not just hear me say I don’t want your help? Just—ah fuck. Just move.”

With a roll of his eyes, Atsumu takes on more of Sakusa’s weight and walks a little faster.

The guy he knocked unconscious is still in the elevator room when they get to it. Atsumu has to kick and roll him further inside so that there’s space for Sakusa to stand, and as soon as the door closes Sakusa slumps back against the wall, head hitting the glass mirror with a thud that makes Atsumu wince.

The reflective material of his jacket turns the whole elevator an ugly shade of green. It makes the room feel radioactive, makes them look sick when Atsumu catches a glimpse of them both in mirror. Not even the visor can help against that.

“Pass out,” Atsumu tells Sakusa, because he looks dangerously close to doing so, swaying unsteadily on his feet. “Heard people say not to do that a lot. Means it’s probably bad. Means you definitely should.”

Sakusa takes a deep, steadying breath in before saying, “I would never give you the satisfaction.”

Atsumu knows that means he’s good for now.

The air turns awkwardly quiet then. Sakusa can only muster up enough energy to breathe through the pain, and Atsumu finds himself humming an elevator appropriate tune just to fill the silence because he’s already used up his nightly quota of nasty quips. Anything else would be overkill now, wouldn’t be worth saying when Sakusa’s too out of it to retaliate properly. He already looks hassled enough, and Atsumu isn’t totally devoid of empathy, even if he does hate every lanky inch of him.

They make it to the front door without any stragglers accosting them. Atsumu must have either taken out the last of them on floor six, or sufficiently scared the dregs into leaving them alone. He half expects another round of violence to be waiting for them outside, for vans to pull up with more blasters, but the street is just as empty as Atsumu left it. The only vehicle parked up is Sakusa’s motorcycle.

He drags Sakusa through the broken door, lifting him over the glass and out into the street. It’s raining now. It falls in thick sheets and bounces atop the pavements, wets through Atsumu’s hair in the blink of an eye and collects on the glass of his visor to blur his vision.

Sakusa groans again when droplets assault his injuries through the singed holes in his clothes. He shudders and flinches with each laboured step they take towards Atsumu’s car until Atsumu tires of him silently complaining and stops.

“Here,” he says as he shrugs out of his jacket.

It’s cold, and Atsumu’s shirt gets soaked almost immediately, but he pulls Sakusa’s hood up over his wet hair for him and drapes his own jacket over Sakusa’s shoulders, careful around the injury on his left.

The compliant silence he’s met with, the fact that Sakusa accepts it and doesn’t shirk it off and throw it to the wet ground, is just as loud and unexpected as a ‘thank you’ would have been. Atsumu doesn’t quite know what to do with it. A ‘fuck you’ would have been easier to work with.

He chooses not to comment at all and carries on staggering forwards.

His car is where he left it, still sitting pretty and gloriously sexy beneath the flickering light of a streetlamp. He pulls open the passenger side door and eases Sakusa in slowly, valiantly resisting the urge to throw him and slam the door.

When he slides into the driver’s seat he starts the car up, but he doesn’t pull away immediately. He turns the heat on, dials Kuroo’s number, and taps the steering wheel with his free hand as he waits.

“Are you in one piece?” Kuroo asks by way of hello. Aran must have filled him in on everything like Atsumu asked, he must have figured out what Atsumu was planning on doing.

“I am.” He glances over at Sakusa who’s leaning back against the headrest and clutching urgently at his thigh with shallow breaths. Atsumu never thought in a million years he’d ever let that bastard set foot in his car. Now he’s been in it twice within the space of a week. “Count Sakusa’s got at least two chunks missin’, though. Might wanna give Shirabu a call. We’re on our way back.”

“Already called him. Use the back door when you get here,” Kuroo says. Atsumu hums affirmation, mind a little distant with thought. “And good work tonight, Miya. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu says. “Pour me out a goddamn whiskey for when I get there.”

“On the house,” Kuroo says.

“It better be,” Atsumu replies before hanging up.

Unthinkingly, he throws his phone aside to the passenger seat like he usually does after a call and forgets too late that Sakusa’s sitting in it.

“Fuck you,” Sakusa chokes out when it lands in his lap and the proximity to his injured thigh makes him flinch.

If Atsumu were to tell him that was an accident and that he genuinely feels bad for doing it, Sakusa would neither believe him nor care. He looks at Sakusa again, frowns instinctively, then climbs carefully over him to reach for the seatbelt. It takes some manoeuvring to get it across his chest without tugging the wound. Atsumu has to adjust Sakusa’s seat and ball up his jacket to provide extra padding against the cut of the belt.

“Why are you suddenly acting like my caretaker?” Sakusa snaps, pushing Atsumu’s face away when he gets close enough to smell the rain on his hair over the citric scent of his air freshener. “I don’t need your pity or your warped idea of kindness. Just drive the car.”

“I’m not bein’ kind. This is so ya don’t fly through my windshield and break it with yer huge, rock-shaped head,” Atsumu tells him, struggling to find the plug in the dark. It’s a cold and wet endeavour; Atsumu’s bare arms keep brushing against the soaked fabric of Sakusa’s jacket and beads from his hood drip onto the exposed skin of Atsumu’s neck. “I don’t give a fuck about you, remember? I give a whole bunch of fucks ‘bout this car though, and you’re already killin’ its vibe just sittin’ in it.” He looks up from the buckle to Sakusa’s blood-streaked face and drops his voice with a nasty smile, the beat of rain against the windshield and the hum of the heater suddenly overwhelmingly loud. “Now be a good boy for Tsumu and behave, yeah?”

Sakusa’s eyes meet his and widen an imperceptible fraction before darting away. Interesting, Atsumu notes. His breath hitches quietly too when Atsumu’s hand accidentally brushes his, so softly that Atsumu wouldn’t have caught it had he not been leaning across him. Sakusa covers it with an awkward clearing of his throat and slackens to let Atsumu finish buckling him in without further complaint. Atsumu doesn’t bother to comment – that would be far too easy. He plucks his phone out of Sakusa’s lap and throws it into the cupholder between the seats, then he buckles himself up and peels away from the curb.

They drive in silence, an infinitely more awkward one than earlier, and for the first time in his life Atsumu adheres to the speed limit like he’s an eight-thousand-year-old geriatric pensioner with a passenger seat full of uncapped drinks. Every light he hits he finds himself wishing he could just pull ahead and slam the accelerator, but when he looks over at Sakusa and his white-knuckled grip on the door handle, he sighs and forces himself to wait in impatient resignation.

“Hey, I was kiddin’ when I said pass out, y’know,” Atsumu says a little while later as they roll by the colourful street of Johzenji Casino. Sakusa’s leaning his head against the window, eyes closed, breaths mellowed into an even rhythm, lights dancing over the planes of his rain-slicked face and mask.

Atsumu doesn’t know the next thing about first aid – he’s the one making wounds, not fixing them. It could be fine for Sakusa to sleep for all he knows, wounds from blasters are instantly cauterised on account of the heat, so there’s no need to worry that he’ll bleed to death. That doesn’t mean Atsumu wants to risk him dying in his car though.

He takes a hand from the wheel to click his fingers in Sakusa’s general direction. “Yo, tennis ball, you hear me? I said don’t go to sleep.”

Sakusa sighs and his eyes flicker open slowly and blearily. He looks a million years away, so Atsumu turns the radio on and cranks the volume up until it’s almost skull splitting so that Sakusa comes crashing back down to earth and doesn’t feel inclined to try floating away again.

Eyes red-rimmed and tired, Sakusa turns and scowls wordlessly out of the window instead, and he stays that way until Atsumu’s driving down into the hidden carpark on the street opposite the Bounty Office bar.

The sudden loss of noise when he kills the engine makes his ears ring and his chest feel a little empty, like he’s just stepped out of a club and the memory of it is still reverberating around in his bones.

Kuroo is quick in buzzing the door open, but Sakusa loses energy with each passing second. By the time Atsumu gets his unhelpfully limp body into the elevator he’s slumped almost completely against Atsumu’s side, leg refusing to support his weight, arm attached to his injured shoulder hanging like dead weight.

The elevator opens out into spacious living quarters - the section behind the bar that’s meant for Hunters with nowhere else to go. Kuroo’s got four spare rooms, a kitchen, and a decently sized living room to boast about. Atsumu’s stayed there a few times before, after particularly exhausting nights of Hunting, or on the celebratory occasion he’s gotten himself too drunk to drive himself home. It’s nicer than his own apartment, the only downsides being that there aren’t any windows and the bathroom is communal.

Kuroo is waiting for them in the living room with Shirabu, their local physician, when they stumble inside. The guy’s a genius – has access to all sorts of medical tech that makes patching people up a breeze. The recovery times are decent too, and the briefcase he carries everywhere with him has all sorts of medication in it that’ll make the process a little less painful.

Even though Atsumu can see through the hole in Sakusa’s shoulder to the other side of the room, under Shirabu’s care, it’ll probably only be a week or so before he’s back to his nasty, rotten, miserable, prickly, bastard self.

Atsumu helps Sakusa onto the sofa and then dusts his hands clean with several loud claps. “There ya go, Omi-kun,” he says with mocking satisfaction. “Safe and sound in the arms of an angel. I’ll be expectin’ my ‘thank you’ bouquet in the mail within the comin’ days, along with your eternal gratitude and a ten-step plan on how you’re gonna repay me.”

Even if Sakusa had the strength to reply, he gets cut off when Shirabu rushes over. With nimble hands, he flicks open the clips on his briefcase, tugs on some nitrile gloves, and starts filling a needle with fluid. “What happened to him, exactly?”

“Dunno,” Atsumu shrugs. “Couple of blaster wounds. Guessin’ he got into a tousle with a bear, maybe?” Nobody looks amused. Not even Kuroo. “Tough crowd.”

“Bad material,” Kuroo corrects.

Atsumu sniffs and throws himself down into one of the open armchairs with an indignant huff. He pulls his switchblade out of his pocket to busy his hands and is about to enact a dramatic retelling of his heroism, when Sakusa leans back to stare at the ceiling and grumble, “Three shots point blank. Once in the left shoulder. Twice in the left thigh.”

Atsumu winces. He can only see one bullet hole in Sakusa’s leg. Which means the bastard must have lined up the shot to purposefully shoot him again in the same wound. A bullet to the face was too simple a death for him, Atsumu thinks. He should have picked one of his knives out of his belt and made the guy suffer first.

The unfamiliar sensation of guilt pulls a little strangely on Atsumu’s insides when he thinks about what else might have transpired before he got to Sakusa, what he could have stopped if he’d been a little faster. Then he remembers the sting of the tranquiliser in his neck and the heat of fury in his gut the night Sakusa had tucked that fox toy in his arms and pushes it aside. I don’t give a fuck about him, he reminds himself.

He does still find himself wondering how and why Sakusa didn’t just power through and strangle him to death the first time Atsumu pretended to drop him, however. Maybe Sakusa’s patience is infinite. Maybe he’s just waiting until he can move both arms again to enact his revenge. Maybe Atsumu will wake up one day next week and find Sakusa’s hands around his throat. He’s not sure why the thought makes him smile.

Shirabu hums and administers something to Sakusa via his good thigh then closes his case and studies the wounds with a featherlight touch.

As he repeatedly opens and retracts the switchblade, Atsumu watches Sakusa sigh in relief as medication starts to ease his pain. He watches his brow relax, watches tension melt from his muscles, watches his shoulders sag and his fists unclench in a way so distinctly unlike Sakusa it makes him look like a totally different person.

“Standard blaster?” Shirabu asks.

“No,” Atsumu cuts in. “It was raw crystal. Bootleg blasters. They all had ‘em.”

Shirabu’s face twists. “Wish they wouldn’t use those. The sparks make wounds so much harder to treat. Get inside the muscles and frazzle them.”

Atsumu thinks that’s probably the point, but he keeps his mouth closed for once and continues playing with his knife.

“Great,” says Sakusa.

“It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s not hard, really. Just more time consuming.” Shirabu turns to Kuroo. “Help me move him to a bed. We’ll start right away before it gets any worse.”

Kuroo nods, and they both help Sakusa up considerably more gently than Atsumu ever did. They only make it a few steps before Sakusa says, “Wait,” and retracts his arm from Kuroo’s shoulder to rustle around in his pocket. He turns and throws a set of keys that Atsumu catches. “Get my bike.”

“And drown it in the canal?” Atsumu asks.

The pain relief must be working already, because Sakusa sounds almost normal when he says, “With you still on it, preferably.”

Atsumu scoffs and hooks the keys on the end of his fingers. “What? Run outta your pretty little pleases all of a sudden?” Sakusa scowls at him, and Atsumu holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll get your stupid bike. Go get yourself filled in, pothole.”

Nobody laughs at that either.

“There’s not much else to be done tonight,” Kuroo tells him before they disappear into the hallway. “We’ll all talk this over in the morning. Go and get some rest. If your mind can find any.”

Atsumu takes a taxi back to the high-rise. It drops him right beside Sakusa’s motorcycle and he’s suddenly glad he made the trip back down to his car for his jacket because the rain is relentless.

There’s a helmet waiting for him when he pulls up the seat. He tugs it on and removes the ridiculous number of chains and locks keeping Sakusa’s bike from getting stolen, then he familiarises himself with the bike’s weight and feel.

It’s been a while since Atsumu’s ridden a motorcycle. He’s forgotten how freeing it is, how light the snap of air against his skin and clothes makes him feel as he flies around the streets. The rain soaks him through to the skin, but he finds he doesn’t really mind. There isn’t much room left in Atsumu’s brain to think of anything other than the Director and his plans to take over the city, to wipe out the guild, to send Atsumu on his way to meet his maker.

Sakusa can deny it all he wants, but he’d gotten really close to dying tonight, and it could very easily have been Atsumu in that situation too, only, he’s pretty sure nobody would have been there to obnoxiously bail him out.

To find some semblance of normalcy during a night that’s been anything but, Atsumu stops in a convenience store along the way and buys a ridiculous amount of confetti, glitter, and streamers, two multipacks of glowstick necklaces and a deepest condolences sympathy card.

When he pulls into the underground carpark, he parks terribly and yanks up the bike seat to unload the packets of glitter inside and pop the streamers over it. He fills the helmet too, then he stuffs it back inside and starts the time-consuming process of lighting up and tangling the glowstick necklaces around the handlebars and wheel trims. Only once the bike looks as though it’s been to ten consecutive hen parties does he turn his attention to the sympathy card.

‘With deepest sympathy on the loss of your loved one’ the front reads. Atsumu crosses out ‘loved one’ and uses his laser pen to scribble ‘DIGNITY’ instead, then he opens it up and fills the blank space with hearts and a crudely drawn laughing emoji from memory. He takes the card and Sakusa’s keys up to the living quarters and leaves them on the living room table, then he skips back down, forgoing his drink at the bar to drive himself home.

Now that there isn’t a dying Sakusa in his passenger seat, he lets the engine roar as he settles into his preferred speed and races the rain across the city, tries to override the feeling of uncertainty with the confidence that no matter what this Director guy throws at him, he’s better, faster, and stronger - he’s Rank One.

But Atsumu is also still human; the night’s catching up to him fast. Exhaustion weighs his muscles down as adrenaline relinquishes its hold on his system, and by the time he undoes the four-billion locks on his apartment door, Atsumu’s ready to crawl into bed and not leave it until the morning.

He forces himself to shower, because he’s drenched, because his neck is still bloodied where Hirugami’s knife grazed his skin, and because the smoke from the cannister has coated him in dusty grime. When he gets out, his phone is buzzing on the bedside table with an incoming call from Osamu. He lets it ring out as he makes himself comfortable, then calls him back.

“Aran told me what happened,” he says immediately. “You good?”

Atsumu hums up at the ceiling, phone on speaker, arms tucked comfortably behind his head. “So good I need assassinatin’. How ‘bout that? You regrettin’ not becomin’ a Hunter with me yet?”

“I’m physically shakin’ with jealousy.”

“Thought ya might be.”

Osamu’s laugh is short, the kind of obligatory laugh Atsumu’s gotten used to in response to his jokes over the years. It’s also slightly drowned by the familiar buzz of welding sparks as he works on something. He must have finally gotten his crystal shipments in. “If you let those guys kill ya I’m gonna change my name outta embarrassment.”

Atsumu remembers how easily the men went down earlier, how disorganised they were, how naïve. “Pfft. If I let those idiots kill me, I’ll help ya choose it myself.”

“You couldn’t. You’d be dead.”

“Fine, guess I’ll help ya pick it now: Ojiro’s good.”

“Huh.” Osamu pauses, and the sound of him working ceases too as he contemplates it. “Ojiro Osamu does sound way better. Maybe I should change it to that anyway, just so I’ll finally be rid of all association with ya.”

Atsumu stretches out across his bed with a scoff. Of course Ojiro sounds good to him. Osamu’s had the world’s most transparent crush on Aran since he was thirteen, even if he hasn’t quite realised it himself yet.

“Finally,” he says around a deep sigh of relief. “I’ve always wondered what the freedom of bein’ an only child would taste like.”

“Like shit, hopefully.” The welding starts up again and Osamu raises his voice to speak above it. “You’ve got a plan, right Tsumu?”

“To stay alive,” he says.

“Yeah. What is it?”

“No. That is the plan right now. Stay alive long enough to find the bastard and carve his brains out. Easy.”

That’s the only way this is going to end, with Atsumu putting the Director down. Remove the queen and the whole hive devolves into chaos. He’s taken on some tricky and risky S-Grades before now, ones that have taken him months of work to complete, ones that have taken him across multiple cities, ones that have left him with scars that’ll never fade no matter how expertly Shirabu sews him up. This is no different. It’s just another job.

Atsumu can hear the frown in Osamu’s voice when he says, “On your own?”

“What? Ya don’t think I can?”

“Dunno. Maybe if it was just one guy, but it’s not. It’s a whole gang of ‘em. Half the damn city by the sounds of it. Aran said they almost took out Sakusa. Put a buncha holes in him. I thought it was impossible to catch that guy off guard.”

When he blinks, Atsumu’s closed lids show him Sakusa’s surprised eyes during that moment in the car, and his ears echo the hum of the heater and the quiet clearing of his throat. “Well, it’s not,” he says with a huff. Then, “And I’m a way better Hunter than Sakusa.”

“God you’re so fuckin’ obnoxious.” He pauses, then says, “All I’m sayin’ is maybe you should consider workin’ together with him on this one. Just ‘til it’s safe. You could probably end it all in a week if ya put your heads together.”

Atsumu turns and lifts his phone to scrutinise the caller ID and check he’s still talking to his brother. “Did ya seriously just say that to me?” he snaps. “Get fucked, Samu.”

“Fine. Whatever. I dunno why I bother. Die alone, scrub. See if I care. Fuckin’ idiot.”

There are many things Atsumu would rather do than set aside his differences and work together with Sakusa Kiyoomi, like peel, pickle, and salt his own testicles, for example, or drown himself in a full toilet bowl. Atsumu doesn’t need help - he’s fully capable of taking care of himself. Besides, he’s pretty sure Sakusa would rather die than join arms, and the feeling is goddamn mutual.

“Wouldn’t be alone if you’d just make me the death sword.”

“I’m not makin’ you a sword.”

“Just a small one. Like a machete.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Atsumu sits up. “Really?”

“Fuck no.”

“Samu,” he whines. “If there was ever a time to be carryin’ a death sword it’s now! I could—”

The shaking of the apartment door handle interrupts him. Atsumu narrows his gaze at it through his open bedroom door, then he startles as something bangs against it harder. It doesn’t sound like a courteous knock. It sounds more like—

“What was that?” Osamu asks.

Atsumu gets up and rushes over to the pile of discarded clothes to find his blaster and his blade.

“Dunno,” he says quietly as he rifles through the mess. “Company, I’m guessin’.”

“What kind of company? You don’t have friends.”

“The kind that I could really use a death sword to welcome. Gotta go, baby bro. Got some big boy work to take care of. Bye bye.” He ends the call, then swears when he realises he’s forgotten to say something important and calls Osamu back. “Almost forgot,” he says as soon as Osamu picks up. “I always have been, and always will be the smokin’ hot twin.”

“Tsumu! Stop tryin’ to make those your last fuckin’ words to me I swear to god if you actually die right now and I’m left with that as—”

He ends the call again and tucks his phone into his sweatpants pocket as another loud bang rattles his front door in its frame. Voices follow it. Several. They’re battering his door down, he realises, not just knocking impolitely. With what, is a question Atsumu doesn’t really care to think about. His landlord is going to be pissed whatever it is.

So much for a good night’s sleep. And so much for security, too. Aran’s locks don’t account for good old-fashioned battering rams or hatchets or whatever the fuck is tearing through his apartment door. The sleeping gas cannisters are useless too if Atsumu’s still in the apartment when they go off.

All of his good equipment is in his car, because people aren’t supposed to know where he lives. He pays extra so that his name isn’t tied to the contract on this place.

As quickly as he can manage beneath the threatening sound of rhythmic thumps, Atsumu stuffs his bed full of his wet clothes so that it resembles his sleeping form, turns all the lights off, slips his visor on, and hides in the darkest corner of his room. There’s an app on his phone that allows him to remotely employ the installed security equipment, so he sets it up, ignores the incoming texts from Osamu, turns his phone on silent and tucks it back into his pocket.

The door goes down after a few more hits. Atsumu hears it smash against the floor with a thud and a ringing clank of metal bolts, then he hears two subsequent screams as the laser trip wires fire two blaster shots into the empty doorway. One less, Atsumu concludes when he hears the thud of a lifeless body.

“Shit! Watch out!” one guy snaps. “Guy’s a total tool from what I’ve heard. Place is probably crawling with all sorts of shitty traps.”

Atsumu suppresses the urge to snort.

“Why can’t we just light this place up like the last one?” a nasally voice chimes in above the knocking of boots against the apartment floor.

“Because that guy wasn’t even in his apartment. Nakamura’s squad already fucked him up so good he’s in hiding. We only did that to send a message. Let ‘em know we know where they live.”

“So… what’s this? Another warning?”

“This,” the guy sneers, voice growing closer to Atsumu’s open bedroom door with each word that leaves his lips. “This is revenge. We’re putting a bullet between Miya Atsumu’s eyes and dragging his body back to the Director so he can plaster the walls of his palace with it.”

Atsumu’s fingers tighten around the grip of his blaster. He brings his hand up to the barrel to stifle the glow, takes a breath in, and holds it.

The visor shows the outline of four men as they stomp inside. They’re reasonably built, carrying the same shitty blasters in their hands as their other idiot friends. There might be more out in the living room or on their way up the stairs. Atsumu’s not sure. For now, he’ll have to work under the assumption that these are the only men here.

Without turning the lights on, they walk over to the lump that looks suspiciously like Atsumu’s sleeping form in his bed, blasters raised with caution.

“It’s not him,” one says as they peel back the covers. “Just a decoy.”

“Guess stupidity runs in the family, huh?” Atsumu says as he straightens out of his crouch. “Or maybe you’ve all signed onto the same death wish.”

He fires two shots that find their marks in skulls before the others disperse around his room and fire in return. Atsumu dips out of the way as a shot finds the plaster of the wall behind him and explodes in a shower of dust, then someone wrangles enough brain cells together to slam the light on and deprive Atsumu of his advantage. The room flickers to life and Atsumu can see the carnage; multiple shots in his walls and furniture, two dead bodies on his bed, and two men lunging at him with blasters raised.

They try to fight him in tandem, throwing punches under the assumption that Atsumu won’t be able to dodge both, but he doesn’t need to. Their punches are too soft and too slow. He grabs the fist of the scrawnier one and twists it harshly until he yelps and drops his blaster. Simultaneously, he smacks the hard metal muzzle of his own blaster against the other guy’s wrist with a sickening crack and cuts off his cry with a quick follow-up blaster shot to the throat.

“How do you wanna go?” Atsumu asks the only one left. “Any requests?”

With a dry, angry sob he manages to yank himself free of Atsumu’s grip. He stumbles backwards until he hits the nearby wall and fumbles around in his pockets, breaths ragged with fear.

Atsumu follows until he’s standing mere inches away and raises his blaster to the guy’s head. “Headshot, right? Painless, I think. Or maybe I should throw you out the window. That way ya might live long enough to crawl back to your little Director friend and tell him that I’m coming for him next.”

“Sh-shoot me,” the guys says. “Please.”

“Alright.” Atsumu shrugs. “Since ya asked so nicely.”

He pressurises the trigger, but before the bullet heats and fires, something in the guy’s pocket emits a shrill screeching sound. The lights blow with a spark and a pop and the grip of the blaster suddenly burns so hot it scorches Atsumu’s hand and melts the skin of his palm. With a pained hiss he throws it aside as it explodes barrel-first in a burst of green light, just like the bootleg blaster had done earlier.

The resulting force knocks them both aside, but while the intruder blows back against the wall, Atsumu gets thrown into a nearby shelf and he feels a rib crack against a jutting corner as his breath is wrenched from his lungs.

“What the fuck?” He coughs the impact out of his chest and wheezes beneath the sharp burst of pain. Atsumu’s ears are ringing, his palm is burning, his mind is swimming with iterations of why and how and then more pain blossoms in his side when the guy crawls over and reaches up to plunge a knife into the flesh above his hipbone. 

The blade is sharp and it goes in deep. Atsumu can feel it hit a bone when the guy loses his balance and tries to drag the knife downward. It tears a low, agonised shout from Atsumu’s throat, makes his vision swim and his knees buckle. He holds on to the shelf for balance and throws a wild backhand into the guy’s face. The guy tumbles backward and takes the knife with him, but he loses his grip and Atsumu hears it clatter to the floor. Atsumu can only see his faint outline through the visor – whatever that screech was has destroyed every crystal-energy-run appliance in his apartment.

Atsumu’s not sure what burns more – his side and ribs as he crouches down to get the knife, or his palm as his fist tightens around the handle and sticks it into the bastard’s throat. He waits until the guy goes limp beneath him, then groans as he pulls himself to his feet and staggers into the wall for support.

When he clutches at his stabbed side his hand comes back wet and sticky and he clutches at it to try and stem the flow of blood. Blasters are so common these days he’s forgotten what it feels like to bleed. It fucking sucks and he fucking sucks for letting it happen.

Breaths sporadic and teeth clenched, Atsumu stumbles into the living room. It sounds quiet and his visor isn’t detecting any signs of life in the darkness, but he doesn’t let himself relax. Five is a small number compared to the two dozen at the high-rise. Though the guys there didn’t have access to blaster-exploding tech.

It seems the reach of the device only goes so far as the inside of Atsumu’s apartment. The hallways are still bright and humming with life and they cast a rectangle of light through the frame, illuminating the body on the floor and the sledgehammer they’d used to break in.

Though it hurts, Atsumu forces himself to find his switchblade in his pocket and pulls it free. The heat still works when he turns it on, and he doesn’t really care to think about why or how right now. Osamu will probably figure it out once Atsumu gets to him alive.

It lights up a little more of the room with its red glow when he holds it out like a torch. Atsumu glances down at his side, and it makes the huge patch of blood staining his white shirt look black. It coats his hand and arm and drips from the tips of his fingers and his fist clenches, aching to punch something. For a moment he debates attempting to cauterise the wound himself – it can’t hurt more than it already does – but his mettle isn’t quite that sturdy. The thought of the heat touching his skin makes him nauseous.

He needs to get to his car, he realises in a daze. Standing here and bleeding out won’t help. He’s starting to feel lightheaded, his vision is swimming, his limbs feel unnaturally heavy too, like something’s pulling him down. Shirabu will be able to fix him up easily so long as he gets to him in time. He’ll fill Atsumu with that same pain-relieving shit he’d given Sakusa, and he’ll finally be able to breathe.

He uses the light of the knife to search his apartment for his keys, but his mind is so scattered with pain and his eyes feel so heavy he can’t seem to remember where the fuck he left them.

He’s throwing his sofa cushions aside when footsteps thunder into his apartment - three more men carrying blasters and hammers. There’s no time to hide; Atsumu musters what little energy he has left and lunges for them before they can think.

The heat of the switchblade becomes too much, and the emergency coolant plunges them into darkness again. The fight is fast and furious – adrenaline eases a little of the pain in Atsumu’s stab wound, but his rib screams with each knife-infused punch he throws, with each twist of his body as he ducks and blocks. The longer he fights, the more it seems apparent something is wrong; his limbs are uncooperative and sluggish no matter how hard he tries to command them.

He takes a hit to the gut that almost makes him throw up, but it’s worth it for the angle he earns that allows him to stab into his assailant’s chest. The guy goes down with a wet cough and Atsumu feels something splash against his cheek when he retracts the knife.

The air changes; there’s a breath of wind to his left that Atsumu only just manages to bring a forearm up to protect his face against. But it’s not a punch. It’s a hammer. It collides with his bones and Atsumu hears them crack and shatter. Feels them crunch sickeningly beneath his skin as he screams around the pain and drops his knife.

Something wraps around his legs and pulls them together and Atsumu finds himself falling to his knees. It’s another new piece of tech - some kind of malleable metal rope with weights offsetting either end, that no matter how hard he struggles against, won’t budge.

“This is so easy, easy, easy!” a guy cries, and when Atsumu’s tear-blurred eyes focus on his backlit face he realises it’s the man he knocked unconscious in the elevator earlier. “Not laughing now, are you? Karma never is kind. You should have killed me when I asked.” He holds up a hand and the other guy Atsumu wasn’t able to down wrenches his arms behind his back, uncaring of his mutilated bones.

Elevator guy crouches down until he’s eye level and smiles. “The others want to kill you now, but after today’s fuck-up, I’m going to earn my place in the New City by bringing you to the Director myself. He really doesn’t like you for some reason. Can’t imagine why.”

Atsumu tries to shake him off, but he’s lost too much blood, endured too much pain. He’s starting to feel a little numb, a little dizzy. All he can do is shake and breathe and blink.

“I watched them shoot your friend here,” the guy says, pressing the blaster muzzle into Atsumu’s thigh. “Right before I left to check the commotion in the lobby. Before I had the displeasure of running into you.”

“Your memory’s n-not that great, huh?” Atsumu grits out, eyes unwavering from the trigger as he waits for the new wave of pain that’ll come. “He’s not my friend, remember?”

“Ah yes,” the guy says. “You did say something like that. You also said you love attention. Well, here’s some.”

Atsumu hears more footsteps thundering down the hallway and lets out a shaky laugh – he’s well and truly fucked now. At least he left Osamu with the right words.

The blaster fires into Atsumu’s left thigh and he bites his own lip to hold back the pain. He can taste blood in his mouth almost instantly.

That’s the fundamental difference between Rank One and Two, he’d boasted not a few hours ago. I’d never let that happen to me.

Maybe it will be a mercy to die now. At least that way he won’t have to listen to Sakusa humiliate him tenfold. Though the frustrated anger of loss that burns inside his gut tells him he’d deserve every nasty word to leave his mouth.

“Guess you’ll be going to hell first,” the guy says before he hits Atsumu across the head with the blaster and he meets dark unconsciousness. “Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

“I think he’s awake,” someone says. They sound angry. Really angry. “Can I smother him now?”

“No,” someone else says, and they don’t sound angry. They sound tired.

Atsumu lies there. He’s not sure how they know he’s awake. He can’t seem to open his eyes - they’re too heavy. He can’t move any of his limbs either – they feel tied down. It’s taking a lot just for him to force his chest into the rhythm of breath. Something hurts. Everything, actually. Everything hurts.

“Are ya sure?”

There’s a sigh. It sounds familiar. Atsumu’s brain tries hard to place it. “Are you even sure ya wanna smother him?”

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”

“Shh, Samu,” Atsumu whispers, and that hurts too. His throat feels like there are billions of thumbtacks embedded in it and his brain feels too large for his skull.

Hands find his face and hard fingers pry his eyelids open whether they’re ready to or not. Osamu’s hovering over him. Aran, too. They both look haggard, like they haven’t slept in days. Atsumu offers them a weak smile, and that also hurts, because there’s a tight scab on his bottom lip from where his teeth had cut clean through it.

Osamu glares back. “First of all,” he says, voice thick in a way Atsumu rarely ever hears it. “I’m really glad you’re alive because I dunno what the fuck I’d do without ya.” Atsumu blinks as Osamu takes his hands back and crosses them over his chest. “Second, I fuckin’ hate you.”

“No he doesn’t,” Aran says. “He hasn’t left this room in two days.”

Two days. Huh. That’ll be why Atsumu’s throat feels the way it does. Why his chest feels like a breath too full might make his lungs explode. Why he really needs to piss.

“Ew,” Atsumu says hoarsely. “Freak.”

Osamu grabs a nearby pillow and tries to hold it over Atsumu’s face, but Aran pulls him back by his shirt and steps forwards with a glass of water. He helps Atsumu up to drink it, and it’s then he realises where he is: in one of Kuroo’s guest rooms. How he got here is a goddamn mystery. One his mind is too addled with sleep and what is probably two days’ worth of strong painkillers to comprehend.

He’s not actually tied down - his left arm is resting in a sling, tightly wrapped with something hard and itchy, and his whole right hand is bound into a restrictive bandage-mitten. There are blankets over him too, thick ones tucked up beneath his chin. It means Shirabu’s fixed him up; it means he’ll be fine.

It dizzies him to move. Whatever medication he was on has worn off and the aches across his body radiate and thump with their own pulses – his arm, his leg, his side, his ribs, his hand – though it’s not as intense as he remembers it being. He doesn’t quite feel the need to scream, but he does groan when he straightens, and Osamu and Aran put steadying hands on his back until he’s comfortable enough to relax against the headboard.

The water soothes his throat and wets his cracked lips. He blinks some more, until the bleariness and grogginess marring his vision fades, then he sighs and asks “How did I—”

“Get here?” Osamu cuts in.

Atsumu’s nod is small as he braces himself for the oncoming scolding.

“Aran has an alert on his system that rings any time suspicious activity occurs around our apartments. He saw the men piling in and called Kuroo, then Kuroo called Bokuto, and he and Kenma happened to be close by investigatin’ somethin’. You’re goddamn lucky they were. Or you’d be dead. You’ve got smoke bombs and grapplin’ hooks for a fuckin’ reason, Tsumu. To escape goddamn ambush. You shoulda just run.”

Atsumu blinks again and he’s back in his apartment, kneeling in a pool of his own blood. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “I know.”

That means the footsteps Atsumu had heard before he’d been knocked out hadn’t belonged to more grunts, but to Bokuto and Kenma. A few more seconds conscious and he’d have been awake to see them, to not seem as pathetic. Their faces might have given him the boost he’d needed to wrench himself out of the guy’s grip and that strange trap. He could have fought back, he could have—

“What the hell happened?” Osamu asks, quietly this time, like all the anger’s been squeezed out of his voice and only muted exasperation remains. “You never get beaten up this bad.”

Atsumu knows Osamu better than to take that personally, but he does anyhow, because it’s one of the few occasions that Osamu is actually right. Atsumu chastises others for getting hurt all the time, calls them scrubs for not being good enough to take care of themselves. He prides himself on his abilities, his adaptability, his skill. Rarely is he ever caught off guard. Especially not enough to end up unconscious for two days and with enough bandage wrapped around his person to wallpaper the apartment. He’s supposed to be Rank One. Nobody’s angrier at him than he is at himself.

He frowns as he loses himself to thought, as he recalls in which moment, exactly, it all went to shit. “Was doin’ great ‘til the blaster exploded,” he concludes. If he focuses hard enough through the pain, he can still hear the ringing in his ears, feel the pressure and heat of the explosion upon his skin.

“Tch. Knew they would. Those things were probably built by an ama—”

Atsumu lifts his mitten-hand and scowls at the clean bandages. “Mine.”

Osamu stops and stares at him, eyes wide and confused. Atsumu watches his throat bob as he swallows, watches his fists clench as he says, “That’s not funny.”

“I wish I was jokin’.”

“My blasters are safe, Tsumu. I’d never give you anythin’ that would hurt ya, you know I spend extra on yours so that they—”

“Stop cryin’, ya fuckin’ baby. Wasn’t your fault. Guy had a… somethin’. I dunno what. Some kinda device that screamed and blew all the crystal cores in the apartment.”

It had happened so fast Atsumu hadn’t had time to react. The force of the explosion wasn’t enough to kill him on impact, but it was enough to knock him backwards. Enough to catch him unaware and give the other guy the advantage. That was all he’d needed to stick a knife in him. Any higher up and Atsumu probably wouldn’t be here.

Aran frowns. “That’s…”

“Impossible?” Atsumu scoffs.

“No. I was gonna say reckless. He coulda taken the whole apartment block down.”

Atsumu shrugs and instantly regrets it. He closes his eyes and waits for the pain to become manageable, then he says, “I had my blaster to his head. I don’t think he cared.”

“Wait…It blew everythin’?” Osamu asks, and the defensive stiffness to his shoulders is gone now, replaced with a forward lean of intrigue. “Even the lights?” When Atsumu nods, his face twists. “How?”

“Hell if I know. Only thing it didn’t break was the switchblade. That still works fine.”

“Huh, in that case, maybe it wasn’t the crystals that blew,” Aran says contemplatively. “Maybe it was the regulators.”

Osamu hums. “That makes sense. Blasters use the same ones as everyday appliances, but the knife needed a new kind to concentrate the external beams and keep ‘em steady. I made one special.” He turns back to Atsumu as though he understands a word coming out of either of their mouths. “Do ya remember what it looked like? What it sounded like?”

“Dunno, Samu. Can’t really remember shit right now.”

More than that, he doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want to think about each careless, stupid, reckless mistake he’d made one after another – the explosion, the knife, the hammer, the trap. He closes his eyes and pretends exhaustion has found him again. “Device might still be in my apartment somewhere,” he says with some bite. “Ten gallons of my blood marks the spot. Go crawl around and find it yourself.”

There’s a silence, and Atsumu cracks an eye open to check why. Osamu’s gaze is narrowed at him, his eyes scrutinising. Atsumu sniffs and turns his head away.

“Oh my god,” Osamu mocks. “You’re poutin’, aren’t ya? Yer really throwin’ a fuckin’ baby tantrum ‘cause ya didn’t…what? Take on a whole army alone and unscathed? Because ya sustained more injuries than Sakusa?”

Atsumu scrunches his eyes closed tighter and wishes he could smother himself to drown out Osamu’s voice. Sometimes having a twin is a goddamn personal privacy nightmare.

“You are! It’s written all over your ugly face!”

“Samu, ease up,” Aran says. “He’s been through a lot.”

“No! If he’s coherent enough to act like a dumbass, then he’s fine for me to treat him like one—Stop pullin’ that face!”

Atsumu affects his voice with an exaggerated imitation. “Stop pullin’ that face.”

He feels a rush of wind as Osamu picks up the pillow again, but the hit never comes. “Samu’s delivery isn’t the best, but he’s got a point, Tsumu,” Aran says. Atsumu cracks an eye open again, and Aran’s throwing the pillow aside, frowning at him in that disappointed-friend-kind-of-way that makes Atsumu feel guilty and a little stupid. Not stupid enough to stop pouting. “You’ve been the Hunter all your life, of course you’re gonna feel a little weird bein’ hunted.”

“There weren’t even that many,” Atsumu grumbles. “I shoulda been able to handle it.”

He’d taken down fourteen men altogether whilst rescuing Sakusa, without so much as the barest hint of an injury to show for it. In the end, all it had taken was one guy with a crystal-killing-banshee button to throw him off. Pathetic.

“Yeah, maybe you could have if they were just ordinary guys, but they’re not anymore. That rope we found ‘round your legs… that was new, made especially, never seen anythin’ like it before. Bokuto said it took Shirabu two hours to remove it safely. And they found other stuff on the guy too; tranq darts, sleepin’ cannisters, cuffs and long-distance tasers. Whoever this Director guy is knows how to fight Bounty Hunters and it shows. They’re makin’ all sorts of plans and devices specifically to kill ya, Tsumu, because you’re such a threat, because they know they couldn’t ordinarily. You can be mad at them for hurtin’ ya, but you can’t be mad at yourself. You’re only human.”

Atsumu scoffs and wishes Aran would take a damn day off from talking so much sense all the time. “Then maybe it’s about damn time I became a cyborg or somethin’.”

They can dress him up with pretty words and nice ideas and coddle him all they like, but the fact still remains that he lost, and as much as it pains him to admit it, Sakusa’s probably the only person alive right now who truly understands that feeling.

He tries to sink back down beneath the covers. “I’m goin’ back to sleep,” he says. “All this whinin’ is makin’ me tired.”

“Sure,” Aran says, putting a hand on Osamu’s back to stop him cursing and nodding towards the door. “Now that we know you’re okay, we’ll leave ya to rest some more. I’ll tell Shirabu to come check on you.”

“Don’t even think about tryin’ to move while we’re gone,” Osamu warns him. “I’ll know.”

Atsumu closes his eyes. “Couldn’t if I wanted to.”

Shirabu pumps him with enough medication to put him out again until…Atsumu’s not sure, exactly. The lamp is always on, there aren’t any windows, and he can’t reach his phone to check.

When wakes he’s alone, and he feels marginally better. The bandages on his hand have been removed and his palm is wet and sticky with a rapid-healing cooling salve usually meant for blaster bolt grazes. It’s healed considerably already; the blisters are small, and when he wiggles his fingers he no longer feels the need to wince, can no longer feel that phantom heat making his frazzled nerves thump.

Though it aches and makes him groan and grimace, Atsumu’s able to sit up on his own this time. Before knocking him out, Shirabu had told him he’d broken two ribs, but whatever miracles he’d performed over the days Atsumu was unconscious will see them healed in a week. His side and thigh will take a little longer to repair themselves, his arm too, considering how many different pieces the hammer left it in. If he adds it all together, he should be right as rain within a fortnight.

That means two weeks of stewing in helpless frustration. A week and a half if he lies about how good he’s feeling. Atsumu wants to get back up now and kick every damn door down in the city until he finds the Director and flays his skin from his bones for the pain he’s suffered, for the humiliation pulling at his gut. But he can’t – he can’t do much else than scowl at the ceiling and piss into an empty water bottle.

Three odd naps and an indeterminable amount of time later, Bokuto and Kenma drop in to check on him. Atsumu thanks them, begrudgingly, for both saving him and the bag of snacks they leave on the bedside table, but he can’t muster up his usual enthusiasm no matter how loudly Bokuto tries to cheer him up.

“Man! You can take a hit, huh, Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto says with some amazement. “They threw the kitchen sink at you and you’re still kicking!”

“That’s not how the saying goes,” Kenma says from where he’s still lingering in the doorway, tapping away at his phone with disinterest. He looks up at Atsumu, eyes sharp and piercing under the blue light of his phone. “You should technically be dead though. Shirabu didn’t tell Osamu because he didn’t want to worry him anymore, but he said the knife that stabbed you was laced with a coating of poison just below the lethality dose. You got really lucky.”

That’ll be why he felt so sluggish fighting then, why his senses felt dulled, and why his vision was so blurred. It wasn’t just the blood loss.

“Seems like they really want you dead!” Bokuto laughs. “Shame you’re way too strong for ‘em!”

Atsumu offers no more than a tired hum in response. It certainly doesn’t feel that way.

“You should get some more rest! Myaa-Sam and Aran-kun are working on that device from your apartment. They said they’re going to find out how it works so we can all protect ourselves against it in the future. In the meantime, just take it easy! Let us help you for a change! Kenma and I have already picked up some leads for you to chase!”

I don’t need help, Atsumu bites his tongue against spitting. I need my limbs to work and a new blaster in my hand.

“Kuroo’s busy talking to the other guild officials across the country,” Kenma adds. “I think he’s going to drop by here to talk with you and Sakusa about something tomorrow.”

Atsumu frowns. “Sakusa’s still here?”

It must have been at least four days since the rescue. Atsumu had thought Sakusa would be long gone by now, stumbling around the city on his confetti-covered motorcycle with his arm in a sling and a crutch keeping him upright just so he can claw himself ahead a few steps.

“Yeah! He’s sulking next door too!” Bokuto says with a nod to the wall behind Atsumu’s head. “They burned his apartment down, but he couldn’t go back even if he wanted to - he still can’t walk yet. Shirabu said his leg’s gonna take a long while to recover because the bad blasters are worse than he thought. They really messed his muscles up. First shot went wild, down into his calf, second went up into his hip.” Bokuto’s brows furrow. “Sounded like he was in a lot of pain.”

It shouldn’t, because Atsumu knows it’s really fucking horrid to think so, but the knowledge that Sakusa’s doing just as bad as he is makes him feel a little better about his own injuries. Atsumu doesn’t say as much out loud - Osamu would probably sense it and fly across the city in a heartbeat just to punch him, but it also wouldn’t surprise him if Sakusa was internally smiling in his own bed, thinking the exact same thing.

Bokuto and Kenma leave him alone again once they realise he’s not in the mood for conversation, and Atsumu finally works up enough of an appetite to delve into the bag of snacks. Bokuto must have asked Osamu for his preferences, because it’s packed full of his favourites: tuna onigiri, spicy chips, chocolate cookies, energy drinks, and the brand of orange-flavoured boiled sweets that remind him of the souvenirs his mother would bring home from her trips.

He wipes his hand clean of salve and works his way through them all, tearing the packets open with his teeth and covering his sheets and the surrounding floor with crumbs and wrappers. Filling up helps to abate the nausea of an empty stomach, even if the motion of swallowing does pull slightly at his stitches.

There’s also a card addressed to him. One stuffed haphazardly into a crumpled envelope. The flap hasn’t been stuck down or tucked in, so Atsumu pulls the card free easily with his one good hand.

‘Congratulations on the birth of your baby boy’ it had once said, swathed in flowers and pastel shaded confetti. Now, ‘baby boy’ has been crossed out harshly and replaced with the words ‘MANY INJURIES’.

The picture of the crying newborn child on the front has also been defaced. It’s been doodled over in incredible detail to resemble Atsumu, down to the hair, the eyebrows, the black jacket, and the crudely drawn blaster in its tiny infantile hand.

When he opens it up, an Uno reverse card falls out into his lap, and the inside message reads: Oh dear, that’s embarrassing!!

In a weird, twisted sort of way, it boosts his mood more than any pep talk could, because if Sakusa still considers Atsumu a rival enough to go to such lengths to taunt him, then it means he also still considers him Rank One, even after almost dying.

He’s not sure why Sakusa’s opinion, of all things, is the catalyst to start seeing this all from the right perspective, but as he places the card on the bedside table and stares up at the ceiling again it suddenly strikes him that maybe Aran is right. Atsumu is still alive against the heavily stacked odds, and a whole bunch of people are probably furious about it. Maybe they did try extremely hard to kill Atsumu because he’s just that good. Maybe the Director is kicking and screaming in his little metaphorical palace right now because his cronies have failed to kill both him and Sakusa with all that special tech and now the secret of the game is up. Now the whole guild is angry, now they’re all going to tear the New City down before it gets a chance to stand up.

Through the ache in his side, he reaches for the crutch beside his bed and stands it upside down on the sheets. He lets it fall so that the rubber bottom hits the wall behind his head with a dull thud, then he picks it back up and lets it fall over, and over, and over, until a muffled “Shut the fuck up!” and a loud crash and smash of glass against the wall returns it. It pulls a laugh from Atsumu’s chest, and the resulting pain makes him drop the crutch beyond his reach, but when he sinks back into the sheets and falls asleep, the flame of defeat has dulled to a small, dying flicker.

The following morning brings a small increase of energy and a slight expansion of Atsumu’s realm of reach. He’s able to grab his phone from the furthest corner of the bedside table and when he unlocks it and wades through the ten-thousand messages from Osamu, Aran, Kuroo, and Suna, he finds that it’s nearing nine.

As Kenma promised, Kuroo does arrive an hour later. Despite the bombardment of questions Atsumu fires at him, he deflects them all with an “I’ll tell you in a moment,” as he helps Atsumu out of bed to shuffle into the living room.

“Morning, glowstick,” Sakusa quips as he enters. It’s inflectionless, as usual, like acknowledging Atsumu’s existence is simply a begrudging part of the job he’s paid to do.

He’s sitting on the same piece of sofa Atsumu dropped him onto a few days previous, a sanitary mask covering his face in place of his hunting one, clad in a plain set of black sweats. Atsumu hopes that means his green jacket is rotting in a dumpster somewhere.

His bruised eyebrow has two paper stitches holding it together, the arm attached to the shoulder that was shot is tied into a sling, and there’s an intricate mechanical brace around his injured leg that covers his foot like a boot and extends all the way up to his hip. Sakusa sits awkwardly to accommodate it, leg out straight and resting on top of the coffee table, his opposite side tilted into the cushions.

“Ah, because of your bike, right?” Atsumu grins.

“No, I meant because you got your ribs snapped…like a glowstick.” Sakusa narrows his gaze. “What the fuck did you do to my bike?”

“Nothin’ drastic. Just a few minor improvements, that’s all.”

He bites back a groan as Kuroo eases him into the armchair furthest from Sakusa’s, and though he pinches his eyes closed to wince through the painful process of making himself comfortable, Atsumu can still feel the weight of Sakusa’s stare on him from across the room. When he catches his breath and meets Sakusa’s eye to wink, he’s not met with a scathing remark or a nasty laugh. Sakusa just looks away and Atsumu’s left disappointed when he keeps his mouth firmly shut and ignores him.

While they wait for everyone else to arrive, Kuroo deflects more questions by making them both coffees and setting up some extra seating.

Atsumu’s halfway through his bitter mug when Bokuto and Kenma arrive. He’s finished it by the time Akaashi settles himself between them, and Kuroo’s long since thrown the empty mug into the sink by the time Hoshiumi and Hirugami finally show up.

The pair have cleaned up well, Atsumu notes. They’ve changed out of their blood-stained clothes into casualwear that makes them both look startingly normal as they refuse seats to stand awkwardly on the outskirts.

Hirugami’s eyes widen when he notices the state Atsumu’s in, but he’s polite enough not to say anything.

Hoshiumi isn’t. “Your dick still between your legs, amateur?” he asks.

“Dunno, pipsqueak,” Atsumu says. He opens his legs a little and offers him a smile and a suggestively quirked brow. “Wanna check for me?”

“I’ll pulverise it for you,” Hoshiumi says as his face twists in revulsion. “Save the world from the threat of your cursed offspring.”

Kuroo ends the fight before it can begin by pointedly and noisily pulling up a seat of his own at the head of the coffee table and settling into it.

Now that he’s sitting still, Atsumu can see that his hair is more dishevelled than usual, and his face is shadowed with uncharacteristic stubble. A glance around at the sea of faces reveals he’s not the only one either; they all look just as fatigued. It seems the only two people well-rested around here are Atsumu and Sakusa. Perks of almost dying, he supposes.

Kuroo rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and leans forward. “I want to begin by apologising,” he says, mostly to Sakusa. “I should have realised something strange was happening when all of those bounties came in at once. I thought it was just a result of heightened violence, but I wrong. Careless.”

Atsumu scoffs. “Like hell ya coulda guessed they were traps. That was the whole point.”

The sigh that pulls on Kuroo’s chest is deep, and alongside exhaustion, Atsumu can see how heavily guilt seems to be weighing on him too. It tugs downward at the corners of his mouth, leaves his hands restless in his lap. As head of his self-proclaimed Hunter family, he’s always unnecessarily insisted on shouldering everyone’s burdens with them, like the weary eldest sibling nobody asked for.

“Yeah, well, we were lucky you found that out in time. A few more Hunters were about to close in on bounties. I managed to recall them all before they walked into the traps. Nobody else was hurt.” He turns to Atsumu. “Thanks to you.”

“If you wanna thank someone, thank Lamppost over there and his generous wallet,” Atsumu says with a nod towards Hirugami. “I woulda killed him before he had the chance to tell me otherwise.”

“No you wouldn’t have,” Hoshiumi snaps.

Atsumu waves him off. “Sure, kid. Whatever helps ya sleep at night.”

“How much?” Sakusa asks.

How much was my life worth? Atsumu hears.

Atsumu levels him with a smile. The nicest one he owns. “Wouldn’t you like to know, pretty boy.”

He imagines the scowl behind Sakusa’s mask is the nastiest he’s capable of mustering. “That’s precisely why I asked, ugly fuck.”

“Twenty thousand,” Kuroo cuts in. “Stop bickering.” He waits for them both to wind down, then continues. “I’ve spent the last few days talking the situation over with the other guilds and they agree with my decision. It’s both unwise and unsafe to continue as we are. As of today, we’ll be temporarily dissolving this city’s Bounty Office until the issue is resolved.”

Kuroo couldn’t have shocked Atsumu more if he’d upended a bucket of cold water on his head. He blinks at him, once, twice, three times, then both he and Sakusa say “What?” with varying degrees of incredulity.

“I’ve secured placements for those who rely on a Hunter’s income to continue working in other guilds across the country, but those who are willing to stay and help will be assisting you during this.”

With the glint of a wristwatch, Kuroo’s hand dips into the front pocket of his waistcoat and retrieves a disc. He places it upon the table with two careful fingers and slides it towards the centre, between Atsumu and Sakusa.

It’s gold, Atsumu notes immediately. A U-Grade. The first he’s ever seen. Most would say it stands for Unknown – a bounty in which the danger level is a complete mystery, so dangerous most of the time it’s unadvised as a solo mission. But Atsumu’s heard Kuroo refer to it under a different gag worthy title: United.

Which means—

“You two are the best Hunters we have,” Kuroo says. “I want you both to lead the hunt. Together.”

“You’ve gotta be jokin’,” Atsumu says.

Kuroo ignores him. “We’ll offer everything we have to support you – Kou and Kenma already have a few leads for you to chase, and Akaashi and Hirugami have been compiling profiles of gang leaders and possible conspirators within the city’s upper classes. It’s all on the disc when you’re ready for it, and the other Hunters will be there if and when you need numbers for battle.”

“Woah, woah, hey, wait a second! Full offence to ya Omi-kun – I don’t fuckin need ya. I can do this alone,” Atsumu says a little desperately. He tries to sit up, but his ribs scream and the world spins for a moment. He avoids clutching at his side so he doesn’t seem pathetic and hopes it’ll subside on its own soon. “Gimme a few days to get back on my feet and I’ll—”

“Absolutely not,” Kuroo says, sending him a pointed once over. “This is a guild matter now.” He taps the disc. “A bounty issued by me. You either work on it with us, alongside Sakusa, or you leave like the others. And the same goes for you,” he says to Sakusa. “No sneaking off. No playing hero alone. If I catch wind of you involving yourselves without agreeing to my terms, I’ll cancel your contracts and banish you. Then you can go and find another ass to be a pain in.”

“This is bullshit,” Atsumu spits, and all he can feel is a helpless sort of anger kicking around in his gut, the same kind he remembers from the alleyway floor under the weight of a tranquiliser dart. 

Sakusa sits up slightly and Atsumu spots his fist curling around the arm of the chair. “Why can’t we both just work it alone?” he grits out. “We’re obviously better off that way.”

For the first time in his whole goddamn life, Atsumu finds himself agreeing with Sakusa.

“I expect that sort of reckless idiocy from him,” Kuroo says with a glance at Atsumu. “But I didn’t think you were that stupid, Sakusa-kun. Yet here we all are, having our time wasted, basking in it.” He leans back in his chair and the crease to his brow irons itself out until he looks concerningly relaxed. “Do you want to know what Shirabu told me while you were both unconscious?”

The room falls to silence. Everyone who isn’t Atsumu and Sakusa trains their gazes towards the ground. Kuroo doesn’t wait for an answer.

“He told me that the shots that hit your thigh were inches away from sparking up to your spine. The shot in your shoulder dangerously close to reaching your heart.” He turns to Atsumu. “The poison on that knife was a nick away from being lethal. You lost so much blood Shirabu wasn’t sure you’d wake up, and the ribs you broke almost punctured your vital organs.”

Atsumu bites his tongue and swallows.

“Ten thousand bounty points to the genius who can tell me what the commonality is between those two incidents!”

In his effort not to look at Kuroo, Atsumu catches Sakusa’s eye again, and by the looks of him, not even for the opportunity to surpass Atsumu’s rank does he want to be the one to give Kuroo the answer. They both look away.

“You were alone,” Kuroo says when nobody speaks. “And you almost died for it.” He turns to Hirugami. “Tell them what you told me.”

Hirugami nods and clears his throat. “Before I left, the gang was receiving shipments from the Director. All those who pledged their allegiance received items to support them in each of their endeavours. Some gangs got security tech to blackmail people from the upper city, others got heavy artillery to wipe out gang resistance below. Our gang got crates full of devices specifically designed to take out Bounty Hunters, because the Director knows anyone with common sense and two coins to rub together will be looking to hire you guys to take him down.”

“Like the rope and the poison!” Bokuto supplies. “We found all sorts of shit on the bodies in your apartment.”

“That woulda been real fuckin’ handy to know before I’d left,” Atsumu scoffs. Maybe he would have been able to react faster, would have brought his armour up to his apartment or considered running instead of taking them on.

“I tried to warn you,” Hirugami scowls. “You were the one that told me to shut the fuck up and to stop boring you with pointless details.”

Atsumu doesn’t wither beneath the weight of six heavy glares, but it’s a near thing. “Whatever,” he says quickly. “Just carry on.”

Hirugami rolls his eyes. “The Director wants the New City to succeed no matter what – he’s been pumping tons of money into researching all sorts of new stuff, more than just blasters and weird devices. I don’t know the extent of it all, but there’s a lot. We even got briefed on how to best take you down, too.” Hirugami holds up a hand and starts counting off the steps on his fingers. “Lead you somewhere with few exits, attack in a large group, incapacitate you, and then finish you off.”

“Ergo,” Kuroo says, “nobody is travelling anywhere on their own. It’s a sure-fire way to get yourself killed whether you wrongly think you’re indestructible or not.”

“That attack was a surprise,” Sakusa says. “I wasn’t expecting it. I am now. It won’t happen again, and if it does, I’ll be prepared. I can handle it.”

“So can I,” Atsumu adds. “I toldja before nothin’ works on me twice.”

For the first time during the whole meeting Akaashi clears his throat and pushes his glasses higher up onto his nose. He doesn’t speak often. When he does, the whole room quietens to listen.

“With all due respect,” he says, “I think you’re both missing the point entirely. The Director obviously knows a lot about what makes Bounty Hunters tick. He expects you to continue working alone, most likely under the assumption a Hunter’s pride is too stubborn a thing to break.” He says that with an unsubtle glance between them both. “By working together, you will not only catch those hunting you off guard, but award yourselves the advantage. You shouldn’t throw away your opportunity to counterattack by acting like children. The whole city is at stake, remember? Not just your delicate egos. Innocent people could get caught in the crossfire. Many already have.”

Bokuto claps Akaashi so heavily on the back he stumbles forwards. “Hey, hey, hey! That’s right! Knock ‘em dead with the truth, Akaashi!”

“I don’t think that phrasing is appropriate right now, Bokuto-san.”

Atsumu tries extremely hard to find a rebuttal. The tiny Atsumus living inside his brain scream and cry and run around frantically searching the recesses of his brain for something, anything that’ll help him make it so that he can continue working alone.

In the end they all reach the same conclusion: Akaashi is right. Kuroo is right. Aran is right. Dammit, Osamu is right too.

In his selfishness, he’s forgotten that this is about more than just the guild, more than just his wounded self-esteem. The whole city will be fucked if the Director earns enough prestige and power to settle a crown atop his head amongst the chaos. More importantly, Osamu, Aran, and Suna could be in danger. They already know about Atsumu and Aran. How long before they start delving into their personal lives to hit them where it hurts? How long until they mix Atsumu up with his twin? Before Osamu’s the one bleeding out in his apartment?

That thought terrifies Atsumu more than any threat on his own life ever could.

“We all have a reason to want to take this guy down, you two more so than anyone considering what you’ve been through, but this is just the beginning. We’ll all need to pool our—”

“Fine,” Atsumu says, and the word tastes like shit, worse than the acrid tang of blood. “Quit yappin’ already. I’ll play along and make Sakusa my sidekick. Just gimme the damn disc.”

Sakusa snaps to attention with a metallic creak of his leg brace. “I’m not going to be your fucking sidekick you delusional idiot.”

“Assistant, then.”

“It’s pretty easy to bludgeon someone to death with a crutch. I don’t need both arms to do it.”

“Alright, alright. Equal partners or whatever,” Atsumu says with a long roll of his eyes. “You in or not, Robin?”

“Miya—”

“You in or not, Sakusa?”

Sakusa looks at him then and Atsumu stares back unflinching, mirthful smiles of provocation absent in his seriousness. There’s a twitch to Sakusa’s brow, a strange look in his eye that Atsumu can’t quite place. Not for the first time he wonders what the hell is going on inside Sakusa’s mind. If he’s cursing Atsumu’s name four-thousand different ways or trying to convince himself why working together might just be the best course of action right now.

The ensuing pause is so long Atsumu thinks he’s going to have to get up and throw the bounty disc at his head, but then he finally sighs and says, “Fine. I don’t suppose I have much of a choice.”

Atsumu tilts his head. “So that’s a yeah?”

His reply is quiet beneath the fabric of his mask, but the room’s collectively held breath makes it unmistakable. “Yes.”

Yes. It bounces around in Atsumu’s mind for a moment, the knowledge that he’ll have to spend an indeterminable amount of time working with Sakusa. How long will it be until he regrets the relief washing over him? Before he wishes he’d dragged his family by the wrist to another city and let this one crash and burn behind him?

Atsumu drums his fingers on the arm of the chair as he considers him. He can feel Kuroo watching him, begging him not to say something stupid, but he doesn’t care. When has he ever? “You sure you can manage a bounty without fuckin’ me over somehow?”

Sakusa slumps back against the cushions and the brow that’s being held together with stitches raises ever so slightly. “That’ll depend on how enticingly you present yourself for fucking, Miya. I might feel inclined, should you and your big mouth insist on getting in my way.”

“I—You—” He turns to Kuroo and wrangles his wayward thoughts under control to form a coherent one. “Do ya see what I’m dealin’ with here, boss?” He can feel an involuntary flush climbing the back of his neck up to his ears, and it burns the longer Sakusa stares at him. “We’ll kill each other before we set foot outta the door.”

Kuroo shrugs. “You have two and a half weeks of unnegotiable rest to discover some common ground. I suggest you find it fast or start packing your bags and saying your goodbyes.” He leans forward and picks up the disc. “This requires both of your fingerprints to open,” he says, tucking it back into his waistcoat pocket. “But neither of you are going to touch it until I say so. Focus on healing, and we’ll reconvene for a proper debriefing once you can both take a full breath without wincing.”

Neither one of them moves from their seats once Kuroo and the others leave. Not because they want to sit and enjoy each other’s company, but because they both insisted they didn’t need help in getting back to their rooms and both of them were lying about it.

Kuroo’s banned them from asking any further about the job for now. “I want you to focus entirely on your health,” he’d said. “Both mental and physical. That means no working, no searching, and no training until Shirabu gives you an all clear.”

For a while they sit and stew in suffocating silence, mustering up the courage to endure another bout of pain. Sakusa’s tried a bunch of times to pull his extended leg down off the table and played his miserable failures off as a mere switching of positions; Atsumu’s seen a galaxy’s worth of stars tensing his core to attempt standing with only one hand to help him.

In the end, they both give up and settle into the unspoken agreement that they’ll wait for the afternoon in which Bokuto promised he’d return with some food.

It leaves them staring at the ceiling to avoid looking at each other, and in the end, the peace closes Atsumu’s eyes and helps him off into a light, thought-filled nap against the chair cushions. In his lethargic dreams, he tells himself he’s made the right decision at least twenty times. He reminds himself that this is for Osamu, for Aran, for Suna, for Kuroo. He also tries to think up ways in which he can work with Sakusa whilst simultaneously not working with Sakusa, ways in which he can still mostly do this alone and not have to—

“I may have agreed to Kuroo’s ridiculous terms, but don’t expect me to suddenly start playing nice with you. This is a job born of necessity, not want.”

The sudden break in silence wakes him. Atsumu’s eyes flutter open and he looks up to find Sakusa watching him with furrowed brows. His stare has cooled off now, and it no longer makes Atsumu feel molten and clueless. Just pissed off.

He pulls his lips up into a tired smile. “And here I was thinkin’ we were gonna skip to the part where we start holdin’ hands and frolickin’ ‘round the city together. It’ll be hard to sleep tonight through all my disappointment.”

“And I was hoping you might have woken from your coma with a palatable sense of humour. Seems we’ll both be shedding tears into our pillows.”

Atsumu hums and brings his hand up to massage the bruise at his temple. “Didn’t think ya could cry, C-3PO. Didn’t think you could bleed, either. Ya let those guys do quite the number on ya, huh?”

Sakusa stares at him, unblinking. Then he says, “Your audacity is commendable. It takes a lot of nerve to say that considering you look as though you’ve fought ten rounds with a herd of wild boar.”

“I only look like this ‘cause of their shady tech,” Atsumu says with a squaring of his shoulders. “If I’m rememberin’ right, the only thing they pulled on you was the element of surprise. Pretty lame, Omi.”

“I had it under control,” he snaps. “I told you I didn’t need your help and I meant it.”

Atsumu’s laugh is quick. Short of sprouting wings and flying out the window, Sakusa had looked as good as dead from where he’d been standing. “Sure didn’t seem that way to me. But, hey, don’t worry ‘bout it, Watson. You’ll have me around this time to help pick up yer slack.”

Sakusa sits up and the only tell that his anger is piqued beyond the norm is the heightened rise and fall to his chest. “Are you sure you’ll be able to manage that without hours of coddling first? The walls are thin, Miya. I heard all about your little tantrum. Baby can’t handle being told he’s not the greatest all the time, hm?”

The sneer that pulls on Atsumu’s lips is automatic, and he ignores the screaming ache in his side to sit up and lean forward. “Does anyone enjoy bein’ lied to?”

“Your arrogance is what turned your arm into a jigsaw puzzle. I’d reign it in a little if I were you, before you pull one of the ten-thousand stitches holding you and your fragile ego together.”

Atsumu scoffs. “Aw, you worried about me, Omi-Omi?”

Sakusa drops his gaze to his leg brace on the table and starts tugging and readjusting the fabric of his sweats beneath it. “Worried that I’m being forcibly partnered with a temperamental toddler, yes.”

“Can’t be worse than bein’ paired with Sakusa the Spiky Sea Urchin. But lucky for me, ya let me in on a little secret the other day, remember?” Atsumu finally gathers the spiteful strength he needs to push himself out of his seat, and he bites back the pain as he forces his injured leg to support himself without a crutch.

As he slowly crosses the small stretch of space between them, Sakusa looks up, and his eyes only leave Atsumu’s to flicker to his waist and the injury lurking beneath his shirt, like he’s expecting blood to seep through the bandages and punish his idiocy.

“All I gotta do to get ya to behave,” Atsumu says as he holds on to the sofa arm and leans in to speak into Sakusa’s ear, “is get real close and ask ya nicely.” He drops his voice the same way he’d done in the car, low, heavy, a little condescending. He can feel a stray curl of Sakusa’s hair against his cheek, can smell the recent mug of coffee on his breath. “Ain’t that right, Kiyoomi?”

Sakusa’s shoulder flinches and his fingers curl into a fist. “Hm?” Atsumu says, glancing down at the movement. “Wonder what that means.”

“Means you stink like five days of unwashed shit and I want to punch you.”

“Then why haven’t ya already, Omi-kun? Can’t stand to see my pretty face in pain?”

Sakusa’s fist loosens, and he uses his hand to violently push Atsumu’s face away instead. “God you’re so delusional,” he spits, and Atsumu laughs as he ruffles Sakusa’s hair and straightens.

He slides his arm into Sakusa’s crutch resting against the back of the sofa and uses it to help himself back to his room. “Better get that little somethin’ of yours under control, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder as he goes. “We’re gonna be spendin’ a whole lotta quality time together these comin’ weeks. Wouldn’t want ya to pop a vessel every time ya get in my car. Or anythin’ else for that matter, if ya know what I mean.”

A cushion hits Atsumu’s back with such force it almost knocks him over, but it’s worth it. He continues to laugh all the way back to his room, until he uses the crutch to slam the door behind him.

Over the next few days two things become abundantly clear.

One: Kuroo wasn’t lying when he said that their two weeks of rest was unnegotiable. They’ve been locked in together, and aside from Shirabu, and Kenma and Bokuto with deliveries of food, supplies, and medication, nobody has been allowed to visit them with distractions. Not even Osamu or Aran, because they all know it’ll take no longer than five minutes for Atsumu to coax something out of them.

To make matters worse, the texts Atsumu sends out asking about the job, hoping to stealthily disobey Kuroo behind his back, are all promptly ignored. Osamu only responds to him when he asks about mundane things like the microwave times of certain foods or movie recommendations, never when he asks about the device he’s working on with Aran, or news of the Director’s movements.

Atsumu’s spent stretches of time recovering before, but none quite like this. None so strict he’s sure prison is only one miserable rung lower on the ladder.

They’re totally isolated, with nothing to occupy themselves with other than each other and the vintage appliances Kuroo’s procured to furnish the apartment. Try playing Battleship or Guess Who together, Kuroo had messaged him a few days in. That’s a great way to bond. Kou and I play those all the time.

Atsumu tells him to get fucked <3.

Two: living alongside Sakusa Kiyoomi is about as fun as Atsumu expects it to be, which is to say he’d have an easier time rooming with a feral goose. It’d snap at him less, that’s for sure.

It starts off fine. They spend most of the day following Kuroo’s meeting sleeping, or in Atsumu’s case, typing notes and reminders on his phone of possible points of interest to investigate once he’s free. Their routines are almost identical – wake, eat, lie there in agitation until it’s time to sleep again – but Sakusa’s careful to make sure they don’t cross paths. If Atsumu ever ventures to the kitchen to work up his strength and steal most of the snacks in the cupboards, Sakusa waits until he closes the door to his room again before opening his own.

The problems only start to occur once they both regain their lost energy and have little else to do other than to ruminate in their own restlessness and lament the fact they’re out of the fight - aka bother each other.

On the evening of the seventh day Atsumu’s able to do more than just wash in the sink, and for the first time since the fight, he gets a proper look at all of his injuries during a hot shower. Even after a week, he’s still not looking that great. There’s a nasty purple bruise decorating his whole left side, the myriad of stitches from his stab wound stretch from the space above the opposite hipbone to the top of his thigh, and the veins surrounding it are darkened under the effects of the poison. His left arm is in a cast – he has to wrap it with bags and tape to shower at all - but his thigh hole is filling itself in nicely thanks to Shirabu’s daily injections of weird-magic-y-science serum.

Atsumu takes his time, mostly because he has no choice, but also partly because he feels the need to scrub the memory of the whole ordeal from his skin. It’s difficult, because he only has one hand, and it’s painful, because the wounds are still scabbing and sting when bubbles touch them, but he manages it without passing out.

By the time he’s through reapplying his bandages and lowering himself gently into bed he’s exhausted, pleasantly relaxed through to his muscles, and ready to fall asleep. The rooms at Kuroo’s are nice - big and spacious and clean. They’re warm, too, much warmer than what Atsumu’s used to in his own draft-prone apartment or the back seats of his car.

He lets out a contented sigh as he closes his eyes, then Sakusa’s banging on his door and shouting through the wood.

“What the fuck did you do to the bathroom?”

“Uh… showered in it?” Atsumu pauses, trying to remember if he’d unwittingly destroyed something whilst stumbling around on his leg. “Why?”

“Is that all?” Sakusa scoffs. “I thought perhaps the two hours you’d spent thumping around in there were wasted fashioning it into an indoor waterpark. There’s water on the ceiling, Miya.”

“So?”

“So?”  

“Yeah, Omi, so. It’s just water, ain’t it? It’ll dry on its own eventually.” He lets out a tired laugh. “Next thing ya know you’re gonna be tellin’ me I need to wash my towels more than once a month or somethin’.”

There’s another pause. Atsumu imagines Sakusa taking a deep, calming breath in it. “Listen very carefully,” Sakusa says. “I don’t care that only half of your limbs are currently operational – if you leave the bathroom in that state again, I promise you I will put you back into a coma.”

Atsumu should have expected this. Of course Sakusa’s the type to be anal over stupid things like ‘washing the dishes’ and ‘not destroying the bathroom’. The universe must have designed Sakusa Kiyoomi and placed him in Atsumu’s orbit specifically to make his life more difficult. He’s been spoiled living with someone as agreeable as Osamu most of his life who only ever complained when Atsumu stole his clothes or accidentally broke his projects by tripping over them.

“Yeah, sure, Omi,” he says around a yawn. “Any more rules I should be made aware of? Other than don’t get ya wet and don’t feed ya after midnight?”

“How about: Don’t open your godforsaken mouth ever again?”

He hums as noisily and obnoxiously as he can, hoping it’ll reach Sakusa through the door. “Overruled on account of me really likin’ the sound of my own voice. Can I go to sleep now? Or were ya hopin’ to come in and join me? The bed’s big enough, but only if we squeeze together real close.”

Sakusa kicks the door and Atsumu hears his crutch and mechanical brace thumping away down the hallway.

“Sweet dreams, Omi-Omi!” he calls after him, but it’s wasted, really, because Sakusa returns to his room and floods the entire apartment with music so loud nobody finds sleep until it finally stops three hours later.

From then on it seems Atsumu can do nothing right – not that he’s trying at all.

As the days bleed by painfully slowly and uneventfully, they continue to steer clear of each other as best they can, occupying themselves with video games or books or telephone conversations. Neither of them wants to be the one who accidentally stumbles upon the fabled ‘common ground’ that’ll make the other seem tolerable, no matter how many times Kuroo insists they need to at least be amicable to work together.

They wake and eat and shower at separate times, but on the off chance Atsumu bumps into him in the hallway or the living room, he’ll find himself being berated like a school child and will respond like a petulant brat until Sakusa’s the one stomping away.

Sakusa complains about the dishes and the mess in the kitchen, he complains about the trail of crumbs that leads to Atsumu’s room, and about the volume of the living room television. Sakusa’s scrawled handwriting haunts nearly every available surface of the apartment – neon sticky notes warn Atsumu not to touch Sakusa’s stuff in the bathroom, or leave his used bandages on the table, or the appliances plugged in and draining Kuroo’s old electricity overnight.

When Atsumu falls into bed he finds the rubbish he left lying about during the day stuffed into his pillowcase, and when he wakes up, Sakusa’s scowling at him over the rim of a coffee mug, watching and waiting to penalise him for not washing his hands or wiping the counters after himself.

They argue at least once a day – which is a great omen, Atsumu thinks, for the weeks ahead in which they’ll have to do a whole lot more than just exist in each other’s unwanted company – and end the nights with wars of noise. Atsumu thumps the wall with the crutch, and Sakusa responds with music loud enough to satisfy a club of partygoers.

Anyone else would probably find it unbearable: Atsumu’s just thankful for the distraction because sitting still for so long is starting to edge on agonising. The driver’s seat is calling his name, the city streets are mourning his absence, and if he listens carefully enough, he can hear his SMGS sobbing in the cold boot of his car. Antagonising Sakusa is the closest he can get to his lost life of Bounty Hunting right now without getting himself banished. Plus, it’s really damn easy to get satisfying results, because Sakusa is as predictable as the rising and setting of the sun.

Or at least, he was.  

“It’s like living with a wild animal,” Sakusa says one morning without looking up from his crossword. He’s taken to them in his boredom, Atsumu’s noticed in passing. The care packages Kenma picks up for him contain more things to keep his mind occupied than they do snacks – puzzle books, novels, movies. Sanitary masks too, apparently, considering Atsumu still hasn’t seen his face beneath the new one he puts on each morning.

Now that Atsumu’s cast-wrapped arm is free of its sling it’s a whole lot easier to wreak havoc. He creates as much noise as possible as he makes himself some coffee, whistling distracting tunes, slamming doors, and stirring with loud, unnecessary clanks of the metal spoon against the porcelain.

“Thanks, babe,” he says as he settles into the seat opposite Sakusa’s at the kitchen table.

Usually, he’d take the mug back to his room and waste the day away on his phone, rewatching the harbour incident and trying to manipulate information out of people. But today is one of those days in which he’s itching for something more substantial to do, in which he’s craving some attention. “How’s yer old man puzzle comin’ along? Still stuck on question one? Here, lemme help.”

Atsumu leans across the table, and with a week and a half of healing under his belt, his rib barely even tickles.

Sakusa pushes him back using the pointed nib of his pen. Atsumu can feel the wet line of ink it leaves upon his forehead, and when he slumps back in his chair, he rubs at it with the back of his hand.

“This is quite the step up from building blocks and finger painting, Miya,” he says as though he’s speaking to a toddler. “It requires words other than ‘fuck’ and ‘bastard’. I’m not sure you’ll be of much help.”

“Huh,” Atsumu says with an interested tilt of his head. Sakusa’s energy seems a little different today. Less brooding and prickly, and more playful. He doesn’t even say anything when the bottom of Atsumu’s mug leaves an obvious stain on the wood of the table. “When didja get the comedian-mod installed, Robo-Omi?”

Sakusa turns his attention back to the crossword and twirls his pen idly around in his fingers. It’s the first time Atsumu’s paid any attention to his hands without gloves. They’re surprisingly normal; slender and dexterous. There’s a pair of moles on his pointer finger too, like the ones above his eyebrow. Atsumu’s surprised they aren’t shiny with hard scales or curved like sharp talons.

“Quite recently,” Sakusa explains. “I’ve been advised by my cousin-cum-therapist to find the humour in all of this. It’s become something of a coping mechanism, to treat you like the joke that you are, rather than to let your provocations get to me.”

Atsumu presses his lips into a line to suppress his laughter. “Didn’t know they did those,” he says. “Where can I get one?”

“One what?”

He grins. “A cum therapist.”

Sakusa looks up from the puzzle and narrows his gaze. “The longer I spend trapped here with you, the more I find myself wishing whoever had put that knife in your side had emptied a little more of the poison bottle onto the blade.”

Atsumu sips his coffee and makes a face when he realises he’s forgotten the ten spoonful’s of sugar. “Sounds like my provocations are getting’ to ya just fine.”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Atsumu leans his chin in his palm so that his middle finger is most prominent, and hums wistfully. “Ya got any more of those sweet lines for me, Omi? I think I might be dangerously close to swoonin’. Ya think Kuroo will count me fallin’ for your romantic way with words as ‘amicable’?”

A sigh pulls from Sakusa’s chest. He drums the pen against the table. “Your brother was right. There is no waking hour of the day in which you are any less annoying than usual.”

The smile drops from Atsumu’s face. His chin falls out of his palm, and he straightens with the snap of a released spring. “You’ve been talkin’ to Samu?”

“He messaged me,” Sakusa says, and his voice sounds so smug behind his mask that Atsumu wants to pour his entire mug of coffee over his crossword. “To ask how I was doing. To offer his condolences on my being stuck here with you and some helpful tips on how to deal with your rotten attitude. Seems you inherited all the bad genes. Your brother is tolerable. Dare I even say, nice.”

“Wh—When—How the fuck did ya even get Samu’s number?”

“Is your head full of rocks? How do you suppose I order my blasters, Miya?” he drawls. “Carrier pigeon?”

Huh.

It’s easy to forget sometimes that Osamu isn’t just Atsumu’s personal weapon supplier, but the entire guild’s. Now that he thinks about it, Sakusa’s obviously spent time with Osamu before, enough to play his arcade machines and override them all with his high scores. Enough to commission a tranq blaster. Enough to have Osamu check on him. Enough to relax his brow of its scowl when he talks about him. Atsumu’s not sure why the thought makes his insides burn.

“I—Well— Stop it! Get yer own damn twin and delete his fuckin’ number before I break yer phone, asshole.”

Sakusa raises an unimpressed brow and reaches into his pocket to pull his phone out. “Hold on. Let me check how I’m supposed to respond to that.” He makes a show of tapping the screen and scrolling. “Ah here it is, filed under ‘For When Atsumu Says Something Unnecessarily Rude.’” He clears his throat and continues in what is most likely verbatim of Osamu’s texts: “Shut the fuck up Tsumu you dumb scrub bastard.”

When Sakusa looks up, his eyes are bright with mirth. “Did it work?”

“You fuckin’ wish,” Atsumu snaps, slamming his coffee down with a messy splash. “Stop conspirin’ against me with my brother.”  

“Ooh. Sore spot?” Sakusa asks with some amusement. His healthy foot finds Atsumu’s under the table and he drags it slowly up to Atsumu’s knee. “Baby Miya never learned how to share?”

Atsumu stands with a loud scrape of his chair and a curse beneath his breath. It’s one thing to taunt Sakusa that way. It’s a whole different game entirely for Sakusa to do the same in return. He snatches Sakusa’s puzzle book and his ruined cup of coffee and turns on his heel, thoughts scattered, face burning.

“You’d better get that little something of yours under control, sweetheart,” Sakusa calls after him as he stalks off. “We’re going to be spending a whole lot of quality time together, remember? I’d hate for you to start crying on the job when you find out you’ll have to share a whole lot more than just your brother.”

Regret - for saving the bastard and agreeing to work with him – is starting to taste as bitter as the coffee he forgot to sweeten.

Chapter Text

“Miya.”

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“Why are there several lines of salt outside my door?”

Atsumu snorts as he continues flicking through the television channels. It’s become impossible to find something interesting to watch. The news channels are preoccupied with the upcoming local elections rather than any Director-related incidents, and the weather reports mean less than nothing since he’s still not allowed to step foot outside the door.

Having been stuck for so long with nothing to do, Atsumu’s watched every movie Kuroo has to offer – the good, the bad, and the oddly erotic – played every game, and tested every odd appliance. There are only so many hours in the day in which his friends will talk to him over the phone, so busy they are with work Atsumu’s not allowed to ask about. The only person who occupies him for more than an hour at a time is Suna, but even he has to leave to deal with customers at the garage after a while.

Which leaves the next best distraction:

“I heard it repels evil spirits,” Atsumu turns over his shoulder to call. “Keeps vampires at bay.”

“Right,” Sakusa says slowly. “Should I assume the same of the garlic wreath you’ve laid on the handle?”

“Yup! Careful not to touch it with yer bare hands, Omi. Ya might burn yourself.”

Sakusa’s bedroom door closes with a slam, and Atsumu turns his focus back towards the television. He manages to find a cooking show he used to watch with Osamu as a kid and turns the volume up the highest it’ll go.

It’s their thirteenth day in purgatory. It’s taking a little longer to heal than either of them anticipated, but Atsumu’s stiches have been removed thanks to Shirabu’s miraculous tech, and the cast on his arm has been cut away and replaced with a removable one of a lighter weight. Showering is a whole lot easier, sleeping, too, now that Atsumu can roll onto his sides without meeting God for a brief midnight chat. It’s only a matter of time before he’s running again, before he can grip the steering wheel of his car with two hands and throw a decent punch.

Sakusa’s making progress too, and the only reason Atsumu cares to observe him at all is because they both need a clean bill of health in order to leave. His shoulder is healed. Atsumu’s seen him rotating the stiffness out of it, watched him throw and catch a tennis ball repeatedly against the wall to build up strength. Despite the fact he no longer needs the crutch to walk, Shirabu’s insistent that Sakusa continues to wear the brace for as long as possible – something about the healing of the muscles that Atsumu zoned out during the explanation of.

Making each other miserable has become something of a game between them; it certainly beats staring at the ceiling, that Atsumu can be certain of, even if Sakusa has become a little too well-versed in which of Atsumu’s buttons to press as a result. Which is why when two episodes of a show crawl by and no thumps of Sakusa’s wall warn him to lower the volume, Atsumu sits up with a frown.

He switches the channel to one that plays music. It’s the heavy kind, howling guitars and singers that tear their own vocal cords with guttural screams. It’s so loud it makes Atsumu’s head vibrate – that it does nothing to draw even the slightest reaction from Sakusa means something’s either wrong, or he’s up to something.

Over the days they’ve been stuck together it’s inevitable they’ve come to learn each other’s routines. Sakusa usually wakes, eats a bland breakfast, and completes his scheduled physio routine in the open space of the living room while Atsumu makes fun of him. Once he’s through being hassled, he’ll return to his room for the rest of the day to read or something equally as boring. He’s done none of that this morning; he took one look at the salt and retreated.

Maybe he is a goddamn vampire after all. Maybe Atsumu should start breaking the legs off the kitchen chairs and sharpening them into stakes just to be safe.

Atsumu cuts the television off and throws the remote aside, then he sits in silence for a moment, leaning back against the sofa and straining his ears to listen for movement. There’s nothing. No hum of a vacuum, no rhythmic thumping of a tennis ball, not even the monotonous droning of a documentary narrator.

There’s a quiet curiosity burning in his gut when he gets up and shuffles down the hallway. He takes special care not to disturb the salt or make any noise as he arrives outside of Sakusa’s door, then he presses his ear to it, cheek cold against the wood. After a while of nothing, Atsumu starts to feel a little stupid as he imagines Sakusa innocently reading or sleeping, but then he hears the unmistakable sound of laptop keys being tapped and his mind stutters in confusion.

“Hey, Nosferatu!” he calls with a bang of the door that rattles both the garlic wreath and the crucifixes he’s stuck to the wood. “What the fuck’re ya doin’ in there?”

Neither of them are supposed to be in possession of any tech aside from their phones and even they have been restricted by Akaashi not to allow them access to the Bounty archives. How the fuck Sakusa’s gotten a laptop is a mystery in and of itself, especially considering his apartment and all of its contents went up in smoke.

“Just completing a few nefarious deeds on behalf of the coven, Miya,” he calls back. “Run along and play with your toys. This doesn’t concern you.”

Atsumu does not run along. “You a part-time magician now? Pullin’ laptops outta your ass?”

“You’re the breakout circus star, surely you’d know that best. Besides,” he says before Atsumu can wrap his mouth around a curse, “I don’t have a laptop. I don’t know where you’ve gotten that idea from.”

Atsumu hears him typing even louder and bangs his fist against the door again. “Hey! Cut it out! Ya better not be workin’ this shit without me!”

There’s a pause long enough for Atsumu to think he’s being ignored, then a perfunctory, “What was that Watson?”

With a heavy thud and a curse, Atsumu shoulders his way into Sakusa’s room. It’s the first time he’s bothered entering the whole time they’ve been stuck here together. It looks identical to Atsumu’s – the layout, the double bed, the tall furniture of pale oak, and the white-paint walls – only, Sakusa’s smells less like orange sweets and tuna onigiri, and more like anti-bacterial wipes and strong coffee.

The asshole in question is sitting on his bed, lit by the harsh blue light of a laptop screen. The leg in its brace is extended outwards and the other is crossed beneath it so that Sakusa can hunch over to type. He looks up immediately when Atsumu bursts in, eyes inscrutable and face… visible, with his mask tucked up beneath his chin.

Having known Sakusa for so long with the mask, Atsumu’s not sure what he expected to find hidden beneath it. For Sakusa to not have a mouth and nose? For the handsome top half of his face to be offset by an incurably ugly bottom half? That’s not the case, to Atsumu’s rapidly increasing annoyance and dismay. His nose is tall, his jaw sharp, his lips pink and cupid’s bow surprisingly soft for the frown it’s pulled into.

With his dark curls, hard eyes, and smooth skin, Sakusa looks as though he should be wrapped up in an expensive suit, holding flutes of champagne alongside rich politicians or modelling on the front of business magazines, not lounging around in sweats making Atsumu’s blood boil.

Atsumu opens his mouth to say something, but his words catch in his throat and his brain forgets how to do anything other than command his eyes to blink and stare at Sakusa’s face in the flickering moments between.

“Get out,” Sakusa says clearly, not muted through layers of fabric. “The foul stench of your mediocrity is contaminating everything.”

Sakusa’s face might be distractingly pretty, but his attitude and personality are still irredeemably bad enough to bring Atsumu crashing back down to earth. With a shake of his head, he gestures at the very obvious and extremely forbidden laptop on the bed. It’s an ancient model, clunky, with several sticks protruding from its USB ports and aged stickers decorating the back of the screen panel.

More importantly, there’s information on there, Atsumu realises. Access to a life beyond the apartment walls.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” Atsumu snaps. “You were the one that made me swear we’d be equal in this!”

“Please,” Sakusa scoffs. “Like you haven’t been screwing me over by looking into things yourself too. You’re the teacher’s pet, you’ve probably got all sorts of shit hidden in your room.”

“No,” Atsumu scowls. “I don’t.”

For thirteen days Atsumu’s been driving himself to distraction through his boredom, adhering to Kuroo’s ridiculous rules and focusing on his health. He’s been careful to follow Shirabu’s guidance very precisely on the off chance he might be petty enough to report back and get Atsumu thrown off the job, and he’s even stopped trying to coerce information out of Osamu with his daily threatening text.

And here Sakusa is – fucking, smuggler extraordinaire – throwing all the rules out of the goddamn non-existent window, wearing a smug smile upon the lips Atsumu’s starting to wish he’d never seen.

His head is going to explode.

They stare at each other a moment. Atsumu glares with a quiet anger burning in his gut, and Sakusa has the audacity to look surprised.

“Oh well,” Sakusa finally says with a flippant shrug as he glances back down at the screen. “Perhaps I might have taken pity on you and told you eventually.”

Atsumu would sooner believe him if he’d just promised to perform a ten-hour long musical spectacle detailing Atsumu’s abundant praises. He crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his gaze. “How long have ya had it?”

“Since yesterday.”

Since yesterday. The same yesterday Atsumu spent trick-shotting pieces of popcorn into faraway cups and playing online Scrabble with Suna.

“Yester—Fuc—How?”

Long fingers flit over the keys again, and Sakusa’s lips push out into a pout of concentration as he ignores Atsumu to type. For a moment Atsumu just watches helplessly from the doorway as the flickering of screen light dances over Sakusa’s face, as his eyes dart back and forth and his nose scrunches in distaste at whatever he’s reading.

Then he remembers himself.

He crosses the room in two quick strides, no longer hindered by a blaster shot, and snatches the laptop from under Sakusa’s busy hands.

“Miya!” Atsumu hears Sakusa grunt as he turns on his heel and bolts. “Give that back or I’ll break your other arm!”

“No! We’re sharing, remember? What’s yours is mine!”

“No it’s fucking not! Are you twelve years old?”

Atsumu thunders down the hallways, slipping on the salt and tripping over himself as he tries to make sense of what’s on the screen whilst running. It’s the Bounty archive, he notices immediately, open on several tabs of information about a man Atsumu’s never seen before. A cursory glance reveals he’s a part of a gang, though Sakusa and his caged leg catch up with him in the kitchen before he gets a chance to find out which one.

“Get your revolting hands off my stuff,” Sakusa snaps from the opposite end of the kitchen table. He tries to reach across it to grab the laptop, but Atsumu climbs up onto the wood to stand out of his grasp, almost knocking his head on the low-hanging light fixture.

“Our stuff,” he says, balancing the laptop upon his cast to reach down and tap the end of Sakusa’s nose with a light finger. “Cutie.”

Sakusa recoils and slaps his hand away. “This kitchen is full of knives. Don’t make me reach for one. I won’t miss.”

Atsumu ignores him and turns the laptop around. He points at the picture in the corner of the screen after finally finding a name. “Who’s Hayashi Akihito?”

Whoever he is he’s got a long criminal history from his younger years that suddenly stops the moment he turns eighteen, and a whole album of unflattering pictures from his school days that never got deleted from old social media sites. He used to be a part of a smaller gang, one of the yappy types that makes noise on the streets, before he disappeared into one of the hard hitters that lurks in the shadows.

“None of your business,” Sakusa spits, hands gripping the edge of the table, head tilted back so that his scowl finds Atsumu towering over him. “Get down so I can drown you in the sink and figure out a way to make it look like an accident.”

Atsumu balances the laptop again and pulls his phone free from his pocket. He flashes the screen at Sakusa and hears the disgusted click of his tongue when he catches sight of their picture together from the rescue as his background. “Because I’m such a good, law-abidin’ citizen of this guild,” he says with a smug flash of teeth, “I could give the boss a call right now – explain this blatant disregard of his sacred rules, and help you pack your bags. Or”—he crouches down so that they’re eye level, so that their faces are too close for comfort—"you can let me in on whatever this is, and I’ll keep real quiet about it. That’s a Miya promise.”

Atsumu’s less pissed that Sakusa’s going against orders than he is at being left out. Holding information like this in his hands is making him itch with the need to work, making his brain whir like a machine of excitable cogs. The thrill of a hunt is tugging at him, the prospect of revenge burns hot in in his stomach. He no longer cares that he has to work with Sakusa to do it; he’s so desperate for something to do right now, he realises, he’d work with a rabid dog just for the chance to work at all.

“You couldn’t keep quiet if your life depended on it,” Sakusa sneers, and Atsumu feels the warmth of it against his skin because Sakusa refuses to take a step back. “You’ve changed your tune pretty quickly, too. What happened to ‘I don’t fuckin’ need ya, I can do this alone’?”

Atsumu makes a face at Sakusa’s botched imitation of his accent. “That was really bad. Sounded like a dumb baby with a mouth full of rocks.”

“Perfect, then.”

“Listen,” Atsumu ignores that to say. “Desperation drives people to do crazy things, Omi, like agreein’ to Kuroo’s dumb Friendship-Is-Magic rules and workin’ with bastards like you. If we’ve gotta kiss and make up to put a blaster in my hand and get my city back to the way it was, then I’ll let ya choose yer favourite flavour of Chapstick and call me whatever name gets ya goin’.” Sakusa’s eyes flicker down to Atsumu’s mouth. Atsumu wets them quickly with his tongue because he isn’t an idiot, and continues a little quieter, “I’m really not tryin’ to fuck ya over here, sunshine. I just want an invite to the party.” He presses the corner of his phone into the space on Sakusa’s shoulder where he knows the blaster had torn through his skin. “Remember what happened last time we danced alone?”

Sakusa looks at him for a moment and Atsumu can feel his dark eyes scrutinising him, can almost hear the scales tipping inside his head as he weighs his options. “And what if you’re lying?”

Atsumu smiles over the laptop screen. “Then I’ll expect a postcard from whatever unfortunate city ya end up hauntin’ next.” Sakusa scowls and takes a step backward and Atsumu panics, thinking he’s just wasted a perfectly good opportunity to end the monotony a few days early. “I’m not,” he amends quickly. “For what it’s worth.”

“Arguably not much.”

He shrugs. “Tick, tock. Ya gonna let me in or not?”

The air changes again when Sakusa leans back in. Atsumu has to retract his neck to maintain eye contact, and the distraction of Sakusa’s face so close to his own allows Sakusa to snatch the laptop from his loosened grip.

“Hey—”

“Sit.”

Atsumu blinks as Sakusa walks around the kitchen table and yanks a seat out for himself. He straightens out of his crouch and hits his head on the light when he forgets to duck. He hadn’t thought it would be that easy. “Really?” he asks as he rubs at the newly forming lump.

“You’re making it sound as though I have a choice.”

“I mean… ya could technically kill me. That’s a choice. A really fuckin’ bad one, but still a choice.”

There’s a loud thud of Sakusa’s brace boot against the table leg as he huffs and manoeuvres himself into a comfortable position. “Don’t tempt me,” he says. “Just sit. Before I change my mind.”

Atsumu jumps down and pulls up a chair of his own. It scrapes noisily against the floor as he drags it to sit at Sakusa’s side so they can both see the screen, and he tucks his legs up underneath himself for comfort. “Knew ya had a brain kickin’ around in there somewhere, Omi-kun!” he says with a grin and a light nudge of his elbow into Sakusa’s.

Sakusa nudges him back so hard the chair rocks, then he starts wiping the screen of Atsumu’s fingerprints with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “One of us has to.”

He’s meticulous about it, and Atsumu’s quiet as he watches him wipe away the smudges and the layer of dust that’s visible on the glass beneath the harsh kitchen light. Then his curiosity gets the better of him. “So, how did ya get that in here without anyone noticin’?” he asks, calmly this time. “I asked for my pillow and Bokkun handed it to me deconstructed ‘cause he was ‘checking it for potential concealments’.”

Sakusa scoffs. “You think Kenma bothers to inspect the stuff he brings in? I could have smuggled in a cat and he wouldn’t have looked up from his phone long enough to care.”

Atsumu frowns. Of course Sakusa would luck out like that. Atsumu has Bokuto the Diligent running his errands. Anything that might allow Atsumu to either escape or access the internet has been confiscated – game consoles, watches, ramen pots, keys, and shoelaces - probably under Kuroo’s insistence and guidance. Kenma obviously hasn’t been put under the same orders, or perhaps it’s a case of Sakusa holding more of Kuroo’s misplaced trust. Nobody expects Sakusa to be the one out of the two of them to break the rules, which is precisely how he’s gotten away with it.

“My cousin works with computers,” Sakusa continues. “He started hiding the USBs in socks as a test. When Kenma didn’t notice, he sent the wires wrapped in t-shirts, then finally hid the laptop inside a sweatshirt.”

“What about Akaashi?” Atsumu asks with a nod towards the Bounty archive. “Is he gonna know?”

“Not if my cousin’s done his job correctly. Which, seeing I’ve been doing this since yesterday with no repercussions, I’m pretty sure he has.”

And Atsumu’s inclined to agree – Kuroo would have burst in through the elevator doors and lectured him by now otherwise. They should be fine to continue working under his nose even if they still aren’t able to take it any further than the apartment.

The chair creaks when Atsumu leans back in it to consider him. “Huh,” he says with a tilt of his head. “You’re sneakier than I gave ya credit for, Omi.”

Sakusa glances at him. “And it turns out I grossly overestimated you. I thought I was behind. I thought for sure Osamu and Ojiro-san had been feeding you stuff other than bad movies and a metric ton of onigiri.”

“Yeah, well, Aran’s responsible, or whatever.” And Osamu agrees with him by automatic extension because he believes Aran put the stars in the sky, but Atsumu will save Sakusa that information. He already knows way too much about Osamu for Atsumu’s liking.

Satisfied with Sakusa’s explanation, Atsumu drums his fingers on the table then gestures at the laptop. “Alright, lay it on me, Luigi. Who’s the guy? Guessin’ you’re not background checkin’ a date, considerin’ ya probably haven’t dated since the 1800s.”

With a smile, Atsumu watches Sakusa close his eyes and take one measured breath in and out. “It’s been less than five minutes and already my patience with you has reached its limit,” he says calmly once he opens them.

“That a new record?”

“No. Sometimes all it takes to ruin my day is the knowledge that you exist.”

“Damn, and here I am workin’ extra hard to piss ya off. This whole time I coulda just sat back and relaxed.”

“Yes,” Sakusa says. “You could have. You could also have done the whole world a favour by digging a ten-foot hole in the ground and burying yourself in it.”

“Sure,” Atsumu hums. “Ya gonna stop bein’ dramatic and spill those beans now? I’m gettin’ kinda hungry.”

The glower Sakusa settles him with suggests he’d like nothing more than to watch Atsumu starve, but then he sighs, and says, “I overheard Bokuto and Kenma talking about him when they thought I was unconscious.” Sakusa’s fist clenches. “Hayashi Akihito is the leader of Hirugami’s gang. The guy who sold their loyalty to the Director. The guy who ordered the hits.”

Sounded like he was in a lot of pain, Bokuto had said after telling Atsumu of Sakusa’s injuries. Atsumu wonders just how much pain with how tightly Sakusa’s fingers seem to dig into his palms, with how venomously he speaks Hayashi’s name.

“So,” Atsumu starts, rocking onto the chair’s back legs to aid the thinking process, “our first couple mission is gonna be to rip this guy’s dick off and feed it to him? I like your style, Omi-kun. Maybe this marriage might work after all. I’ll do the rippin’, you can do the feedin’. How’s that sound?”

“Do you have to be so crude?”

“Fine. What did you have in mind?”

Sakusa frowns. “I didn’t say I disagreed.”

Atsumu’s grin widens, and he lets the chair fall back down onto all fours so that he can pull the laptop towards himself. “Whatcha have on the bastard so far?”

With a day of investigating under Sakusa’s belt, they should be able to start preparing immediately for their attack, but Sakusa snatches the laptop back and says, “Nothing much. I only know his name and gang standing because I overheard it. The only other thing I’ve been able to glean is that the gang works predominantly midcity. Most of Hayashi’s information has either been prohibited by law enforcement or erased. I can’t find their base of operations. I suppose all that information is hidden on the disc from word of Hirugami’s mouth.”

“That’s it? Twenty-four-hour head start and all ya got is ‘nothin’ much’?” Atsumu whistles and leans his chin in his palm. “Dunno what kinda ship yer runnin’ over there in Rank Two Land, but that shit doesn’t fly here. I don’t need the shitty disc or Hirugami. There’s always somethin’.”

Sakusa pulls back the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal a watch. “Would you look at that?” he says. “It only took a further four-and-a-half minutes for your narcissism to make me want to gouge my own eyes out.”

“Just sayin’ I woulda found somethin’ by now.”

The laptop slides back across the table and Sakusa crosses his arms over his chest. “By all means prove me wrong. If you manage to find something I haven’t already, I’ll—”

“Oh! Be very careful with whatcha say next, Omi-kun,” Atsumu chides as he cracks his knuckles and closes all of Sakusa’s tabs. “Because whatever you’re about to promise, it’s comin’ true within the next ten minutes. Might be the perfect opportunity to wish for that kiss ya seem to be achin’ for.”

He starts his search with Hayashi Akihito’s name and skims the scant information. Sakusa’s right – there isn’t much to go on, but Atsumu knows how to turn even the tiniest of crumbs into a satisfying meal. Sakusa’s just looking in all the wrong places. Basic searches of the gang’s information won’t lead anywhere pertinent – it’s all about fishing between the cracks, making connections from unlikely starting points.

“In that case,” Sakusa says through gritted teeth. “I’ll promise my first blaster shot outside of this prison to the obnoxiously ugly space between your eyes.”

A few carefully chosen clicks reveal that Hayashi Akihito has a sister. As an ordinary citizen her profile is abundant with mundane information, but there is one point of interest: she runs a cosy-looking pub midcity called The Falcon’s Nest. It might seem like an insignificant detail – the odds that she’s related to the gang are slim when taken at face value considering her background and the kind smile she wears in her passport photograph– but Atsumu knows this city, he knows the pub, too, and he knows what kinds of customers frequent it. He’s hunted bounties there before, spent nights charming marks with rowdy rounds of drinks.

“Y’know,” Atsumu says without tearing his eyes from the screen, “for someone who calls me ugly so often, ya tend to stare at me more than anyone else I know. There any particular reason for that?”

“Morbid curiosity,” Sakusa mutters as he gets up out of his seat and shuffles over to the kitchen counter to run through the quiet motions of coffee making.

The sister’s name is Hayashi Keiko – Okamura Keiko since she married. She’s forty-eight with a twenty-year-old son of her own, and a husband that works a desk job. From a news article surrounding the pub’s history, Atsumu learns that the previous owner mysteriously disappeared eight years ago, and she took over the running of it not a week later. No doubt a result of gang involvement, Atsumu wagers.

Diving deeper, Atsumu digs up photographs of it, and puts a search out across the internet for any pictures uploaded to social media sites using the geotag. Five minutes later, the archive pings with an alert, and after trawling through dozens of blurry selfies and dark group gatherings, he has a picture of a random patron’s birthday celebration in which Hayashi Akihito can be spotted sitting in the adjacent booth with a man in a white suit.

That means he’s in touch with his sister. It could even mean he frequents the place for discussions with business contacts or uses it as a front for other shady dealings.

“Pucker up, Omi!” he brags, leaning back and stretching his arms out behind his head. “I’ve already got ya a little somethin’ more than nothin’ much.”

“Of course you do,” Sakusa sighs as he takes a seat again. “I could say the sky was blue and you’d spend a lifetime painting it red for the chance to prove me wrong.”

Atsumu hums in affirmation and frowns at the steam rising from Sakusa’s freshly brewed mug. It smells good. Better than what Atsumu usually makes. “Where’s mine?”

“Do I look like your fucking scullery maid?” Sakusa asks, shielding it from Atsumu’s view. “Make your own damn coffee. You’re perfectly capable.”

“But I’m busy winnin’ the bread, honey dumplin’.”

“You are not the breadwinner, Miya. You’ve pressed a few buttons and found…what, exactly?”

Atsumu turns the laptop to face him, open on the image of Hayashi. “Oh, nothin’ much,” he says. “Just the where, how, and when we’re gonna get the bastard.”

He watches Sakusa’s eyes flicker over the screen, watches them narrow as he scrutinises the image, then watches his whole body slacken in resignation as he realises Atsumu’s right.

Sakusa pulls the laptop closer and pushes his mug aside. “Okay,” he says with a small nod and a sigh. “This might work.”

“That obviously isn’t going to work,” Sakusa says two hours later.

“Why the fuck not?”

“We can’t just stake out the pub and wait for the guy to turn up, that’s as impractical as it is idiotic.”

“No it’s not,” Atsumu frowns as he takes great care to fold a neon-green sticky note into a tiny paper airplane. “We know he’s gonna come by eventually, right? If we do it that way, he won’t be expectin’ us. Probably won’t have any guards or grunts with him to make it difficult either.”

It’s worked for him before – dangerous marks are best approached when they least expect it, when they’re at their most vulnerable. Time isn’t an issue if it means Atsumu will get to see the terrified look on their face when he catches them unaware in their living room or the back seats of their car.

Sakusa makes an indignant face of his own, but he doesn’t look up from the laptop screen. “And what if he never shows up? That picture isn’t a guarantee that Hayashi frequents the pub – it could end up a colossal waste of both our time.”

“Or he could be a regular. He could drop by every night.”

“I still don’t like it.”

Atsumu throws his paper creation across the table and watches it nestle itself amongst Sakusa’s curls. “‘Course ya don’t. ‘Cause I’m the one that said it.”

Sakusa crumples it and throws it aside. “I don’t like it because it’s stupid and pointless.”

“Fine. You come up with a better idea, fuckin’ Megamind.”

“Easy. Hirugami.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to protest but then he closes it again. He’d been expecting Sakusa to say something dull like ‘trawl the streets’ or ‘wait for the disc’, not something that actually sounds workable.

“Go on,” he prompts.

Sakusa turns to face him. “We can get Hirugami to arrange a meeting with Hayashi under the guise of returning to the gang or brokering a peace deal. Hayashi will agree – because he’ll likely want to use the opportunity to double cross Hirugami and throw his dead body into the canal – but we’ll be the ones waiting for him when he shows up.” He raises an eyebrow. “Dramatic enough for your gaudy tastes, Miya?”

It’s foolproof. Brilliant, if Atsumu’s being honest; a perfect compromise between caution and surprise. They can get Hirugami to negotiate conditions for the meeting – The Falcon’s Nest will be a perfect location if they can empty it because Hayashi will assume he has the advantage there and limit his numbers – and the very last thing he’ll be expecting to find upon his arrival will be pair of pissed off Bounty Hunters, the very same pair his minions failed to kill.

“Yeah,” Atsumu surprises himself by saying. “It is.”

“Oh,” Sakusa says, and when his head tilts his curls tumble into his eyes and make him blink. “Now there’s a day I never thought I’d live to see. Miya Atsumu finding the strength within himself to shut the fuck up.”

And the revelations don’t stop there.

Over the next three days they fall into a new routine. They wake at eight (they’d initially agreed upon nine, but they’d both set alarms for an hour earlier to get a head start) and they meet in the kitchen where Sakusa makes himself a criminally good-smelling cup of coffee and Atsumu complains of his selfishness before making a substandard mug of his own. They take seats opposite each other at the table with pens and snacks and scrap pieces of paper, and until Shirabu visits in the evening, they pass the laptop back and forth as they iron out the details in their plan to put a bullet in Hayashi Akihito’s head.

Atsumu had been certain working with Sakusa would feel less like a walk in a picturesque park and more like a life-threatening stroll through an active minefield. They disagree so often about everything else it was only natural to assume that same sentiment would bleed into their attempts at navigating a job together, that Sakusa would tear Atsumu’s hunting methods to shreds and set the subsequent scraps on fire. But once they really get started, once they finally lower their hackles, tuck their dicks back into their pants and put their rulers away, everything seems to fall into place, and the instinctive frown lines between their brows iron themselves out until they’re almost mellow. Almost. Atsumu still can’t find it within himself to treat Sakusa like a friend. He still means every fuck, bastard, and asshole that leaves his mouth in response to Sakusa’s tactless corrections, but at least they’re able to sit in the same room without threatening to kill each other.

Kuroo will be ecstatic, because beneath the layer of blunt animosity, Sakusa doesn’t underestimate Atsumu’s abilities or scold him for his recklessness or tell him to play it safe, nor does he dim Atsumu’s flame of excitement like the wet blanket he’d expected. When Atsumu recommends that they stick around to beat more information about the Director out of Hayashi, or when he suggests breaking into the pub to fit it with traps the night before, Sakusa agrees without hesitation and offers suggestions of his own that are so well-thought through Atsumu couldn’t find any holes to exploit or disagree with them even if he’d wanted to.

The plan they end up with is the most solid Atsumu’s ever armed himself with before a job. There are failsafes in place for every possible eventuality, and the alternatives are so agreeable that Atsumu feels lighter with the thought of them at his back rather than weighed down. Over the years, he’s gotten so used to raw dogging everything and dealing with the consequences later that he’d thought the prospect of a ten-billion-step strategy would make him want to tear his own hair out, but against the odds, it works. Because Sakusa might err more on the side of caution whilst hunting, but he’s still just as hungry for a good fight as Atsumu is, still aching just as strongly for revenge.

When they exhaust all current information, they don’t return to their rooms to ignore each other again. Instead, they move to the living room sofas and turn their attention towards the Director. There’s less than nothing available in the archives, but that doesn’t stop them from theorising; their brains combined total up enough information about the city to make it interesting.

To begin with, Atsumu does most of the talking. He shares all the information he remembers from Hirugami, plays the recording he still has on his phone aloud, and steals all of Aran’s smart conclusions to play them off as his own. It takes a little while for Sakusa to engage with ideas of his own, but once he does, they’re measured and sensible and fully articulated versions of the abstract ideas swimming around in Atsumu’s own mind.

“Someone’s sponsoring him,” Sakusa muses one afternoon as he throws his tennis ball at the wall. “There’s no way he’s just got all that spare money lying around. It has to come from somewhere.”

“Could be blackmail,” Atsumu suggests. “If he can bypass Aran’s cameras, odds are he’s got some dirt too. S’not hard to catch folks in the upper city doin’ shit they shouldn’t be.”

Aran always says he has enough information at the tips of his fingers to ruin half the city. A well-placed threat or an empty promise to the right gullible fool could put millions into the Director’s pocket quite easily, and if there’s one thing this city is abundant in, it’s rich fools looking to become even richer fools.

Sakusa hums and throws the ball again. Atsumu’s noticed that the thumps are far louder now; the strength in his muscles resembles what it was before the ambush. Atsumu puts the laptop aside and holds a hand up, palm outstretched and expectant – the same hand this recent bending of the rules has inspired him to remove the cast from while Shirabu isn’t around.

Sakusa considers him with a cold once over, then throws the ball so hard Atsumu almost falls out of the armchair to catch it.

Unperturbed, Atsumu rights himself upon the arm of the chair and squeezes the ball experimentally a few times to test his grip. When no aches wrack his bones, he tries throwing it a little harder with a snap of his wrist to start up a rhythmic game of catch across the living room. “I’ve been thinkin’,” he starts.

“Oh dear,” Sakusa drawls. “I warned you off that, remember? It’s not safe.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Atsumu says as he throws the ball back harder. “I’ve been thinkin’ this might be bigger than just the Director. There could be a whole buncha people pullin’ strings. More than just sponsors.”

“Like?”

“Like law enforcement. Daiju never got to say, y’know ‘cause some fuckin’ idiot with a blaster cut him short, but I think that’s how he got outta prison – someone with a badge escorted him right out the front door, put a blaster in his hand, and told him where to aim. The police somehow never managed to catch up with him either, despite the noise he made and the damage he caused to the casinos. Could be more of ‘em. Glass cannons across the city.”

Sakusa throws the ball higher and makes Atsumu stand for it. “Makes sense,” he says. “It’s easier to control and manipulate an army that’s already indebted to you. Wise to have one of your own too, rather than to rely solely on gang factions whose loyalty is questionable at best.”

Atsumu throws it so low it hits Sakusa’s leg brace and bounces into the sofa cushions. Sakusa glares as he retrieves it and continues, “It also wouldn’t be a surprise to discover some involvement by politicians. Crime has escalated and yet there are no mentions of it through any social channels.”

When Atsumu catches the ball this time he holds it. “Once Hayashi’s out of the way we can figure out who they are, get a list of names and work on severin’ the ties. Weaken the bastard so he’s the only one left when we send him down to hell.”

“One job at a time, Miya,” Sakusa scoffs. “I’d hate to have to rework our plan on account of your tiny brain explodi—”

They both snap to attention when the elevator buttons light up and the hum of it moving announces someone’s ascension.

“Shit,” Atsumu says. “What time is it? I didn’t think Shirabu was comin’ for a while yet. I wasn’t havin’ any fun, time can’t have flown that fast.”

Sakusa checks his watch. “It’s only three,” he says with a frown.

They both clamber around the apartment clearing it of evidence. Sakusa takes the laptop and hides it beneath a sofa cushion while Atsumu snatches up all of the sticky notes and shoves them into his pockets. Something hits Atsumu’s back and when he turns, he realises Sakusa’s thrown him his arm brace. He straps it on and falls down onto the sofa, fumbling with the remote to set a scene of idleness.

Sakusa sits down to Atsumu’s left – the space he’s hidden the laptop - and pulls his mask back up over his face just as the elevator doors open and Kuroo walks in with Bokuto, Shirabu, and Akaashi in tow.

“Oh? What’s this?” Bokuto asks as he perches himself on the arm of the opposing chair. “You’re sitting in the same room together, next to each other, even, watching…oh.” Bokuto’s eyes bulge at the television and Atsumu dies a thousand simultaneous deaths when he realises the last thing he’d watched on it had been one of Kuroo’s weird erotic movies. He fumbles with the remote again and turns it off.

“There are better ways of bonding than playing Battleship, it would seem,” Kuroo says with a smirk that Atsumu doesn’t like one bit.

Sakusa likes it even less. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sends a sharp elbow into Atsumu’s side. “Fucking idiot.”

“Sorry,” he hisses. “I forgot.”

He’s lucky he remembered to turn it down after blasting it to antagonise Saksua the night before, or else Atsumu would have carved a window to jump out of by now.

“So… I can cancel the moving trucks and put my shredder back on the shelf?” Kuroo asks with some amusement. “You’re friendly?”

Atsumu slings an arm around Sakusa’s shoulder and pulls him in. “I don’t think you’ll find best-er friends than us, boss,” he says with a saccharine sweet smile. He almost immediately follows it up with We’ve got a plan, and everything! but bites his tongue before it slips out.

Sakusa pushes him off. “There has never been thinner ice than that of which you are walking right now, Miya,” he says beneath his breath. It’s odd to hear his voice muffled by fabric again, Atsumu thinks; he’s gotten so used to the clarity of his nasty lilt over the last few days.

“Hey!” Bokuto cheers. “And all it took was two near death experiences and nearly three weeks of forced isolation! We should have done this way sooner! Y’know, for Tetsu’s sanity!”

Kuroo, Akaashi and Shirabu settle into seats, Akaashi with a large briefcase, and Shirabu with an equally as hefty medical bag. As they make themselves comfortable, Kuroo glances between Atsumu and Sakusa, sharp eyes scrutinising now, rather than exhausted and haggard. Atsumu fights the urge to glimpse at Sakusa or down at his pockets to check no sticky notes are poking out of them.

“Shirabu says you should be clear today. I’m here to officially release you.”

Atsumu stands up so fast he almost dizzies himself. “Fuck yeah!” He tears the brace back off his arm and throws it aside. “Come on, Gromit. Let’s go!”

He tries to rush for the elevator but Bokuto’s hand fists in his shirt and pulls him back.

“Sit, Miya,” Kuroo says. “I’m not finished.”

With extreme reluctance Atsumu slumps back down into his chair whilst Shirabu gets out of his. “Give me your arm,” he says to Atsumu.

Shirabu spends some time assessing them both. He makes Atsumu hold things, stretch certain ways, and sit still whilst his arm and ribs get scanned with a thin X-ray screen. Once he’s cleared, Shirabu moves on to Sakusa and begins the arduous process of unbolting the brace on his leg and running him through similar tests. The whole time Atsumu’s knee bounces with impatient excitement, and he can see the relief lifting Sakusa’s shoulders the moment the cage is thrown aside.

“Can I keep that?” Sakusa asks. “I’d like to deliver it the agonisingly traumatic death it deserves.”

“Not unless you’re willing to wire me two thousand coins to build a new one.”

“Text me your details,” he says, and Atsumu doesn’t think he’s joking.

Kuroo waits until they’re both seated again before speaking. He pulls the gold disc out of his pocket and places it on the table. “We’ve compiled all we can for you – names and places of interest. I won’t bore you with the details since I’ll bet you’re eager to get to work on this yourselves, but I can tell you that Kou and Kenma found a lead for their weapons dealer in the lower part of the city, and Hirugami enlightened us all as to his boss’ name and possible whereabouts. That might be a good place to start – without him, the threat on the whole guild will alleviate somewhat and I’ll feel more comfortable sending others out to gather more intel.”

Both Atsumu and Sakusa nod as though that information is brand new, as though Sakusa isn’t currently sitting on ten tabs worth of information on the guy.

Akaashi clears his throat. “Since you’ve been recuperating, things have gone quiet. We think the Director might be laying low, anticipating our counterattack, so you should expect defences to be tight and for your enemies to be on high alert. The whole guild is waiting for orders – if you need any of us, we’re only a call away and willing to help in any way that we can. Oh, and Osamu’s waiting for you to drop by. He has more than a few upgrades for the both of you.”

Atsumu perks up.

“Though he wanted me to make it abundantly clear you should not be expecting a sword of any description.”

Atsumu settles back down.

Akaashi unclips the briefcase and places two long boxes onto the table next to it. “I’ve procured you both new laptops. Ojiro-san has updated them with some of his software – you’ll be able to access his cameras from them and do some surveillance of your own.”

“Which brings me to my final point before I let you loose,” Kuroo says. Beside the gold disc he places two pins. They’re tiny – small gold circles that look more like earring studs. “You are to wear these at all times.”

Atsumu picks one up and scrutinises it. “What are they?”

“Tracking devices, in case something goes wrong, and we need to help you. They will also alert me if more than thirty feet of distance is forged between you at any given time. The whole guild has partnered up to wear them, so don’t think this is a limitation I’ve singled out for the pair of you. I don’t want anyone walking around alone. I am determined not to lose a single member of this family.”

Kuroo’s right – they are all wearing them. On the corners of shirt lapels or collars. Even Shirabu.

“That’s absolute—” Atsumu stops himself from saying horseshit when Kuroo raises an eyebrow. “Music to my ears, Tetsu-chan,” he finishes. “Because I simply cannot stand to be apart from my precious Omi-kun for more than five minutes at a time these days. Miss him too damn much. Sleepin’ is impossible.”

“The feeling is so mutual it’s bringing me physical pain,” Sakusa seethes to his left.

“Fantastic,” Kuroo says. “Try to outsmart me by leaving them behind somewhere, and I will know about it and personally escort you to another city. Understood?”

“Understood,” they both say, because freedom is on the tip of their tongues and neither wants to squander it.

The pleasant glide of red leather over Atsumu’s skin feels so good, so relieving, it’s almost sinful. Osamu’s patched his jacket up for him since his fight with Daiju – it’s clean, too, and he’s shoved a note into the pocket that’s nothing more than a crassly detailed penis ejaculating the word ‘scrub’.

He doesn’t have any blasters on him. They’re either dead or in his car that’s still waiting patiently outside his apartment, but Kuroo did drop off Atsumu’s keys and switchblade, as well as a few other pieces of bounty equipment Bokuto sequestered from his belongings a few weeks back.

Since they already have a plan that’s better left to the morning to enact, they’re only leaving to pick up Atsumu’s car and visit Osamu for tech, but it feels so monumental Atsumu can’t keep still. He showers and dresses in record time and sits on the edge of an armchair, toes tapping, knuckles cracking, mind humming.

When Sakusa emerges from his room he’s wearing his regular hunting mask again, and a new jacket of equally-as-hideous-and-blinding neon yellow nylon rather than green. Though it’s small, there’s a spring to Sakusa’s step (likely out of enthusiasm for the death of the leg brace) and Atsumu finds it infectious as he pockets the bounty disc and follows him to the door.

“We look ridiculous together,” Atsumu says when they stand side by side in the elevator and he catches their reflections in the metal. “Like Bert and fuckin’ Ernie.”

“I have a spare jacket. You could always throw that ugly one away and borrow it.”

Atsumu tucks his hands into his pockets and turns his gaze to the ceiling. “Yer a funny guy, Omi,” he says. “Real funny.”

He hears Sakusa’s jacket rustle as he shrugs, then the doors open out into the underground parking lot and fresh air finds Atsumu’s lungs for the first time in a long time. He takes a deep breath, so deep it makes his chest burn with the need to breathe it out again.

Without hesitation, Sakusa pulls ahead and makes a beeline for his bike, keys clattering noisily inside his pocket.

“Can’t wait to hug ya all the way to my apartment,” Atsumu sing-songs behind him as they walk. “I’ve always wondered what it might feel like to embrace a cactus—oof!”

His face collides with nylon as he crashes into Sakusa’s back – he’s stopped abruptly.

“Miya,” he says calmly. “What the fuck is that?”

“What the fuck is what?” Atsumu asks as he peers over Sakusa’s shoulder. “Oh! That’s your motorcycle, silly. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what it looks like already. It’s only been seventeen days since ya last saw it.”

The glowsticks have long since died, and they hang lifelessly from the handlebars like jaded ghosts of their former selves. Light breezes have carried the curls and strips of confetti across the cement floors, but most of it still clings to the bike. It’s not as impressive a scene as Atsumu remembers leaving it – it looks less like it’s going to a hen party and more like the hungover aftermath of a bad birthday - but it’s enough to make Sakusa turn around and grab a fistful of Atsumu’s shirt.

“Clean it up,” he says, eyes burning. “Now.”

“Hey, hey, easy, lemon drop,” Atsumu laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “That happened before we said I do. It doesn’t count.”

“Of course it counts! You’re still the same bastard you were before you got pulverised.” He pushes Atsumu towards the bike. “Clean it up or I’ll run you over with it.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes and complies. The sooner he gets this over with the sooner he’ll get to see Osamu. “You got a bag I can throw this shit in?” he asks as he starts to unclip the glowstick necklaces.

“No, I don’t have a fucking bag.”

Atsumu lifts the bike seat. “Cool. I’ll just put it in the—”

“What?”

Atsumu closes the bike seat. “Y’know what? Let’s just get a taxi, Omi. It’ll be easier.”

Sakusa stalks over and lifts the bike seat for himself. They stare down into it in wordless silence, at the helmet that’s covered in a generous coating of cheap glitter and the velveteen interior that’ll undoubtedly need a professional cleaner to make it resemble anything other than a child’s craft project gone awry.

“If you believe in a god, you’d best thank them now,” Sakusa says. “Because if I had a blaster on me, you’d have a new hole where your pathetic excuse of a dick should be.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “I’ll call that taxi.”

Atsumu pays the driver with his fake card and only feels slightly bad about it when he steps out onto the street of his apartment and waves him a friendly goodbye. He half expects to find some of his blood still staining the concrete when he looks down, but there’s no evidence from the outside to suggest that anything bad ever transpired within, no scorched blaster marks or erratic tire tracks.

He sends one last look up at the building, then he leads Sakusa towards the small resident carpark behind it where his car is sitting untouched and in the exact same condition he left it in. Sakusa stands with his hands tucked into his pockets as he waits for Atsumu to complete his routine of kicking the tires and checking it for damages, then he kicks and dents one of the wheel trims before he gets in. Not even Atsumu is audacious enough to call him out on it after what he did to his bike.

“This brings back memories, huh?” Atsumu says as he puts the keys in the ignition. “Want me to buckle you in again?”

“Want me to smash one of your windows?”

“Y’know, a simple ‘no thank you, my darlin’ Tsumu’ would suffice. Ya don’t have to be so prickly ‘bout it.”

Sakusa yanks his belt free and clicks it into place, then he reaches forwards and knocks the fox toy that’s still sitting on the dashboard over so that it falls to the floor by Atsumu’s feet.

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “That kinda behaviour is unacceptable,” he says as he picks it up and puts it back.

“Drive the car.”

“What’s the magic word, Omi-Omi?”

“Now.”

“Nope! Try again!”

Sakusa turns and his hand hovers threateningly over the door handle, but Atsumu presses the emergency lock. “Fine,” he says, then pitches his voice to that of Ernie to say, “Geez. You’re no fun, Bert.”

He’s quiet as Atsumu pulls out of the carpark and gets them onto the road. He’s even quieter when Atsumu starts weaving in and out of cars and speeding down the busy evening streets like a man on the run. Atsumu hums as he drives, taps a rhythm into the steering wheel and bops his head along to his own tune. Sakusa grips his thigh like he had done the night he was shot.

“What the matter with ya?” Atsumu turns to ask him. “Flashbacks?”

“Please look at the road,” Sakusa snaps. “Before you kill us both.”

Atsumu frowns and turns his attention forwards again. “What? I won’t kill us. I’m an excellent driver. I don’t even need eyes. I could get us to Samu’s with ‘em closed.”

“Yes, you can keep feeding your own delusional little fantasy world those lies in your own time, Miya. This, however, is real life, and I didn’t spend almost three weeks tragically suffering and recovering in your vicinity just to die the second I get in your godforsaken car.”

“I’m startin’ to think Bounty Huntin’ might not be the profession for you, Omi. You’d make a great actor. So dramatic all the time.”

“I wish you were dead.”

“See! You’ve already got the lyin’ thing down too! Don’t worry, even though your holes are all filled in, I can still see right through ya.” He reaches over and ruffles Sakusa’s hair. “Love you too, honey!”

Sakusa slaps his hand away with a nasty curse, and Atsumu’s laughter fills the car for the rest of the ride to Osamu’s. “We’re gonna have so much fun together, Omi!” he says as he turns the radio volume up to drown out Sakusa’s complaints. “I promise!”

Chapter Text

The arcade is subdued when they step inside. Most of the machines are unplugged - save for the ones that require power to retain the high scores – and it’s dim and dingy and unnaturally quiet. If Atsumu didn’t know any better he’d think the place was closed, but he does know better, and he leads Sakusa over the top of the counter, through the back door, and down the concrete steps to Osamu’s workshop, grabbing one of the new cherry-flavoured lollipops from the consolation prize tub along the way.

Aran texted him the door code before they left, so that when Atsumu approaches the keypad he doesn’t have to embarrass himself in front of Sakusa by not knowing the password to his own brother’s workshop. He makes a show of hiding it behind his hand as he types it in, and he hears Sakusa scoff beneath his mask.

In the time since Atsumu last visited, it looks as though several hurricanes have blown through Osamu’s workshop. If it was messy before, it’s cataclysmic now.

There are haphazardly stacked towers of metal crates swaying ominously like city high-rises, and empty fire extinguishers are strewn about across the floor. Most of the workbenches and tables have been pushed aside, and there are dark scorch marks etched into the concrete where they’d once stood. The posters on the walls are singed beyond recognition, there’s a perpetual smell of something artificial burning, and the remains of smashed crystal cores make the ground crunch beneath Atsumu’s feet. It would be a cause for concern, were Osamu and Aran not sitting decidedly unharmed and unbothered amongst it all.

They’re hunched over a table, faces close, shoulders touching, pinky fingers inching impossibly closer as they talk in hushed tones beneath the loud hum of an adjacent machine. Neither one of them notices when Sakusa closes the door behind him with a quiet click, nor do they turn around when Atsumu starts towards their table.

“Kuroo says the trackers allow distances of thirty feet, y’know,” Atsumu takes the lollipop out of his mouth to say. “Not thirty millimetres.”

At the sound of Atsumu’s voice, they snap apart so violently that whatever piece of metal they were working on flies across the tabletop and Aran’s stool falls out from beneath him.

“Atsumu!” Aran says clearing his throat and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Didn’t hear ya come in.”

“Don’t suppose ya would,” he says with a smirk. “Bein’ so lost in each other’s eyes, and all.”

Aran straightens the stool and clears his throat again. Louder this time. He turns to Osamu. “I’ll go and, uh, get the stuff.”

Osamu blinks cluelessly as he watches Aran hurry away and it’s then that Atsumu gets a proper look at him. He’s wearing clean clothes and his hair is tidy – probably a result of Aran’s influence – but the shadows beneath his eyes are as deep as they were when Atsumu first woke up and he knows it’s because Osamu’s been working himself stupid since.

Though there should be, there isn’t a voice of concern ringing in the back of Atsumu’s mind telling him to scold his brother; were their positions reversed, he’d have done the same damn thing and no amount of Osamu’s whining would have changed his mind.

When Osamu’s gaze eventually finds Atsumu’s his eyes are glassy and heavy and his mouth pulls downward into an automatic scowl, but when Atsumu grins at him, he grins back immediately. “Finally,” he says. “Took ya long enough, scrub.”

Atsumu scoffs and lifts his chin. “Shirabu said a lesser man mighta bled to death, but I’m the most remarkable patient he’s ever had the pleasure of tendin’. Said he’s never seen bones heal faster than mine. Said I might be a medical marvel or somethin’. Dunno, wasn’t really payin’ attention.”

“That’s funny,” Sakusa says. “I distinctly remember him saying he’s never heard someone complain so often and at such length.”

Atsumu rolls the lollipop around in his mouth to rest in his cheek so that he can scowl at him. “And I distinctly remember tellin’ ya to keep yer damn mouth shut in here.”

Osamu slides his gaze over to Sakusa and his smile turns sympathetic. Atsumu’s not sure why it pisses him off, why it makes him want to turn Sakusa around, push him back out of the door, and lock him in the car, tracking devices be damned. Maybe it’s because Sakusa and Osamu are supposed to exist on opposing tracks of Atsumu’s life that should never intersect – at least not where he can see them. Or maybe Sakusa hit the nail on the head when he said Atsumu was incapable of sharing. But surely, he thinks with a frown, that can’t be the case. If it were, he’d have more of an issue with Aran and Osamu being so close, would feel the same strange sensation pulling at his gut when Osamu smiles at Aran as he does when he smiles at Sakusa.

“You doin’ good?” Osamu asks him as he gets up and starts clearing the table.

Sakusa shrugs and his eyes flit cautiously around the workshop like he’s waiting for something to explode. “As good as one can be when forcibly attached to the hip of a moron.”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. Babysittin’ him’s a full-time job, huh?”

“Community service, more like. I’m not getting any compensation for my troubles.”

Osamu hums, then abandons his attempts to clean and makes his way over to the blaster cabinet. “Maybe you should file a complaint with the guild. Sue for emotional damages.”

“Maybe you should both shut the fuck up,” Atsumu snaps as he shoulders Sakusa out of his way and picks a path through the mess.

He hoists himself up to sit on the table Osamu haphazardly cleared and something sharp digs into his skin through his joggers. With a cherry-flavoured hiss, he removes a hard spring from beneath his thigh and throws it onto a heap of scrap. “Where’s my fuckin’ sword? Thought me bein’ in a coma might have inspired ya to take pity on me.”

“It did,” Aran says. He’s returned with two large boxes that he places right next to Atsumu on the table with a hefty thud. He seems to have gotten over whatever shyness caused him to scurry off in the first place and he slaps Atsumu’s hand away when he tries to lift the flap of one to look inside. “And you weren’t in a coma.”

“Was too.”

“No, you weren’t. Shirabu knocked ya out so you wouldn’t feel him settin’ your bones. That was all. The rest was just you sleepin’ off your blood loss.”

“It was a coma.”

Aran looks at him with some exasperation. “Why is that a hill you’re willing to die on?”

“‘Cause it sounds way cooler than ‘ya had to be knocked out so ya wouldn’t cry’.”

“Uh-huh, and who are you tryin’ to impress?” Aran asks with a quirked brow. “The only people here have been fully immunised to your bullshit.”

“Ya never know who might be listenin’, Aran-kun,” he says, tapping his temple. “The Director might have an ear to the door. Can’t let him think I’m anythin’ other than indestructible, can I? He might not like me as much.” He pauses. “Can I have my sword now?”

Osamu slams the cabinet closed. “There is no sword! God fuckin’ damn!” He stalks over and thrusts something into Atsumu’s chest with such force it makes him grunt. “Here.”

It feels as though a lifetime has passed since Atsumu last held a blaster; its weight feels like a sigh of relief. He runs a hand over the coolness of the metal and finds that the design is slightly different than what Osamu usually makes. It’s bigger, for starters, streamlined and sleek, fashioned of a dark, polished silver that Atsumu can see his reflection in when he finds the right light. The barrel doesn’t boast the trademark glow of a crystal core anymore – it encases the crystal completely, like one of those old-fashioned guns with metal bullets. Regardless of the shakeup, it’s still distinctly Osamu in its style: sturdy, practical, expertly made, safe.

Osamu hands a similar one over to Sakusa, though his is made of a brighter, white silver. “We figured out the device,” Osamu says. “Aran was right – it was fuckin’ up the crystal regulators, makin’ them backfire and overheat ‘til the whole thing exploded. We tested it a bunch on some old models and then managed to troubleshoot a way protect the crystal.”

That’ll be the cause of the mess, Atsumu supposes, of the scorch marks on the ground and the dents in some of the tables. It’s probably also why there are a pair of noise-cancelling headphones resting around Osamu’s neck, and a collection of construction helmets rolling around on the floor nearby.

“They shouldn’t explode again,” Aran says, “because we’ve fitted new regulators and sealed the barrels against all types of waves, sounds, and influences, but if somethin’ somehow manages to get through, the new metal will contain the explosion and mitigate it. It won’t hurt ya like last time. It’ll just die. From the inside.”

“It’s fine though. We got it. Watch.” Osamu pulls something out of his pocket and Atsumu winces when he hears the familiar screeching sound from that night in his apartment. For a moment, he’s back there - ribs screaming, lights flashing, knife tearing through his skin. His grip tightens reflexively on the blaster, and though he trusts his brother, trusts Aran, he still finds himself waiting, daring it to heat up and burn his palm. When nothing happens, Osamu says, “Test it.”

Atsumu waits for his heart to calm and for his muscles to relax, then he turns, raises the blaster, and points it at the section of charred wall beside Sakusa’s head, closing one eye to adjust his aim. Atsumu’s finger pressurises the trigger, and he watches the bullet light up Sakusa’s cheek with hot red light as it flies by.

Sakusa raises an eyebrow in a silent question, unaffected and bored by the whole display.

“What?” Atsumu asks him with a smile, swinging his feet idly from his seat atop the table and spinning the blaster around his finger by the trigger. “Was just imaginin’ what it mighta felt like to blow your head off. Can’t a boy dream?”

The cold stare Sakusa levels him with says no.

Osamu stops the blaster in his hand. “Quit it. Last time ya did that, Suna almost lost an eye.”

“Ear,” Atsumu corrects. “Stop exaggeratin’.”

“Perhaps you should listen to your brother, Tweedledum,” Sakusa says with a creasing of his eyes above his mask that Atsumu’s come to associate with him smiling. “He inherited all the common sense, remember?”

Atsumu raises the blaster to aim it at Sakusa again, but Osamu lowers it. “I’ve got more,” he says. “Look.”

The ‘more’ in question, is two boxes crammed full of protective gear. Osamu doesn’t usually specialise in armour, but there are vambraces and shin guards, chest plates, and heavy undershirts of dense, dark fabric. Osamu explains that they’re all blaster proof – even the undershirts are woven with wire-infused mesh that’s unable to be penetrated by ordinary knives and strong enough to reduce the power and heat of any shots that manage to elude the armour. There are masks similar to Sakusa’s of the same material, and new visors since Atsumu’s got smashed when he was knocked unconscious. Osamu’s made them new holsters for the altered blaster shapes, a pair of identical switchblades with upgraded heat lengths, tranq blasters with multiple types of bolts, and belts of fresh grenades of all types – smoke, flash, stun, sleep, and pain.

It’s no wonder it looks as though Osamu hasn’t slept. All this work must have taken him forever. How he still found time to humour Atsumu through his boredom is a mystery, one that makes Atsumu determined not to put his hard work to waste.

“It’s a shame there’s no muzzle to keep your mouth shut too,” Sakusa says from Atsumu’s left as he rolls up a neon-yellow sleeve and fastens a vambrace to the smooth skin of his arm. It fits perfectly, just like everything else he’s tried on.

Atsumu shuffles along the table so that he can lean his elbow on the rim of an empty box and rest his chin in his palm. He peers up at Sakusa with a smile. “Bet you’d like that, huh? What else d’ya see in your Tsumu-filled dreams, Omi? Ball gags? Blindfolds? Harnesses?”

“Blowtorches and knives, mostly.”

“Is that the only way your subconscious can think of to make me scream? There are far more interestin’ methods, y’know. Ones I think you’ll really enjoy. Want me to enlighten ya?”

Without looking up, Sakusa says “No,” but Atsumu can’t help the heat of satisfaction that unfurls within his gut when, as predictable as clockwork, the tips of Sakusa’s ears redden.

It’s a reaction Sakusa can’t seem to control, Atsumu’s learned, like the shirking of his gaze and the tightening of his grip on whatever he’s holding. His words are always clipped and disinterested in response to whatever suggestive thing Atsumu’s saying, but his body language betrays him often enough to give Atsumu the incentive to push a little further.

“Sure? I can arrange ‘em into a neat little list. Ya like those, right? Organisation gets your dead heart pumpin’ real fast. I can hear it.”

“Can you also hear it telling you to put a blaster muzzle in your mouth and pull the trigger?”

Atsumu cups a hand around his ear and pretends to listen. “Hm, nope,” he says. “All I can hear it sayin’ is ‘Kiss me, Tsumu! Kiss me, Tsumu!’”

Sakusa moves to hit him with his blaster, but Atsumu straightens and brings up a vambrace-clad arm of his own to block it with a loud clang. It sends reverberations down the length of Atsumu’s arm, the same arm that had been shattered weeks before beneath the weight of a hammer.

Atsumu flinches involuntarily at the memory of pain. It’s just a slight flickering blink of his eyes, a tensing of his shoulders that he rights immediately, but Sakusa’s gaze drops to the vambrace when it happens, then he frowns, lowers his blaster, and holsters it quietly.

“Y’know,” Aran interrupts slowly with a pointed clearing of his throat, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirtin’ with each other.”

Something halts in Atsumu’s brain as he stares at Sakusa’s turned profile. His brows are furrowed as he studies another piece from the box, ears still burning an angry red beneath his curls. Atsumu wonders if the blush continues to Sakusa’s face, if under the dark fabric of his mask his cheeks are the same colour. He wonders if his mouth is pulled into the small pout he’s become so familiar with over the last few days. He wonders how many pieces his arm would end up in this time if he pulled the mask down to check.

Atsumu shakes his head and turns to face Aran. “Then it’s a good thing ya do know better,” he says. “‘Cause this here is what we professionals in the Huntin’ business like to call ‘scopin’ out the enemy’. Gotta know what makes my precious Omi-kun tick so he doesn’t catch me with my pants ‘round my ankles.” He takes the lollipop out of his mouth with a wet pop. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

Sakusa doesn’t bother to respond, so Atsumu shrugs and hops off the table to join Osamu near one of the belt machines. He peers over Osamu’s shoulder where he’s buffering a mark out of Atsumu’s second shin guard, insistent on it being perfect.

“You got anythin’ else to arm me with before I take Big Bird back home to Sesame Street?”

Osamu waits until he’s done, then switches the machine off and passes over the finished piece after a final inspection. “Not yet,” he says.

He leans back against the now quiet machine and Atsumu can see just how heavily his exhaustion is weighing on him. “You’ll hafta come back next week - I’m still finishin’ work on your SMGs and shotblaster. I took ‘em from your car to fit ‘em with the new barrels but I prioritised the device and a standard piece so you could get back out there.” He turns to Sakusa. “I couldn’t find yours. If they were in your apartment, none survived the fire. You got any requests for new pieces?”

Sakusa looks down at the blaster in its holster. “This should be enough, thanks,” he says. “How much do I owe you?”

Osamu shakes his head. “This shit is on the house. Call it compensation, if ya like. Or take it as me hirin’ ya to keep that idiot alive ‘til this Director guy is six-feet under.”

“I don’t need protectin’,” Atsumu scoffs. “It’s the other damn way ‘round.”

“Sure, scrub.”

Atsumu goes to turn on his heel but then stops and grabs hold of Osamu’s nearest forearm to pull him into a weird sort of half-hug that he’s immediately starting to regret on account of its awkwardness. “I’ll tell ‘em where they shoulda gotten their blasters when I put bolts in their heads,” Atsumu tells him, hoping the words he really wants to say are squeezing Osamu as tightly as his hand is.

Osamu grins and slaps him on the back. “If you’re gonna die,” he starts.

“Die where you can find me,” Atsumu finishes.

“Don’t die at all!” Aran calls over his shoulder.

“Don’t die at all,” Osamu repeats.

Hirugami looks between Atsumu and Sakusa from across the kitchen table and shakes his head frantically. “No,” he says. “This isn’t going to work.”

Atsumu smiles. “You’re misunderstandin’ us, beanpole. That wasn’t a polite request, it was an order. Y’know, ‘cause we’re the mini-bosses now, or whatever.” He taps the phone resting on the table between them again encouragingly. “In your own time. But also, hurry the fuck up. I’ve spent the last four billion days waitin’ around. Gettin’ pretty sick of it.”

“As soon as Hayashi knows I’m alive,” Hirugami says, glancing down at the phone, “he’s going to know what I did, that I helped you. He’s going to find and kill me.”

“No he’s not,” Atsumu, Sakusa, and Hoshiumi say in unison.

“I told you I won’t let anything happen to you,” Hoshiumi adds, knocking a light elbow into Hirugami’s side.

Hirugami smiles weakly at him, then his hands clasp together on the table and he methodically cracks each knuckle joint one by one. He’s so calm usually, Atsumu’s noticed throughout their brief encounters, but when matters relate to his past gang he seems to clam up. Atsumu’s not sure why. They aren’t exactly the most competent or scary bunch he’s ever met, even if they did almost manage to kill him. He’s met scarier schoolteachers.

“How can you be so sure?” Hirugami asks. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Sakusa puts down his coffee and Atsumu peers inside, trying to study the mug’s contents and work out what makes it smell so good. “We can be certain, because we’re going to kill him before he gets the chance.”

“You say that, but what if—”

“He may bare an uncanny resemblance to a fool,” Sakusa says with a pointed nod in Atsumu’s direction, “but I am not the sort of person to lie or make promises I can’t keep. You’re going to do your job, and I’m going to do mine.”

Atsumu inhales noisily as though taking a deep breath of fresh air. “Ahh,” he sighs upon the exhale. “Nothin’ like bein’ undermined by your own sidekick to start the mornin’ off right.” He takes Sakusa’s mug of coffee and tries to drink some, but Sakusa tips the bottom and it spills over the table and scalds his fingers.

Atsumu puts the mug down and wipes his hand clean on Sakusa’s shoulder. “What my prickly pal is tryin’ so valiantly to say is – ya don’t even have to look at the guy. You’re gonna be safe, hidin’ out here, while Scooby and I take turns making Hayashi Akihito’s chest look like a carnival shootin’ gallery.”

“You just want me to call,” Hirugami clarifies.

“We just want you to call,” Atsumu confirms.

Sakusa pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and slides it across the table next to the phone. “This is all the information you need, the conditions we expect to be met. Try to secure as many of them as you can when you negotiate the meeting without sounding as though you’re attempting to lead him towards a trap.”

The list is written in Sakusa’s illegible doctor’s scrawl, bullet-pointed and alphabetised. If he had access to a printing machine, Atsumu’s certain he would have typed it up and colour-coded it so Hirugami has no possible excuse to fuck it up.

Hoshiumi snatches it and scowls as he reads. “Why does it have to be at The Falcon’s Nest?” he asks. “That place is decent. Hayashi deserves to be left face down in an alley gutter.”

“That can be arranged after the fact,” Atsumu says. “But we need him to feel comfortable.”

The bigger the advantage Hayashi assumes he has, the less inclined he’ll feel to bring two dozen armed guards, and the easier it’ll be to kill him. Cocky people are also more likely to spill secrets, Atsumu’s learned. The tongue is far looser when the mouth is smiling. That’s why the only real information Atsumu knows about Sakusa is what superficial shit is written about him in the Bounty Archives.

Out of uncharacteristic courtesy, they offer to leave the room while he calls his old boss, but Hirugami insists he doesn’t mind – he’d rather know he’s doing it right, he says.

Atsumu’s phone looks awkward and small in his hands as he types the number in, then he taps the button that puts the call on speaker and leaves the phone in the middle of the table for all to hear it.

“Hayashi,” a voice answers after four rings. “Make it quick.”

Sakusa suddenly stiffens next to him. Atsumu glances over, and while his face is impassive, the exposed skin of his forearms arms beneath his rolled sleeves has tensed so tightly his veins protrude.

Hirugami clears his throat, then says, “It’s Hirugami. Sachirou.”

There’s a pause, and Atsumu’s very careful not to move or make any unnecessary sound during it. Hayashi’s voice is distant when he says, “Get out,” then closer a moment later when he says, “I’ll commend you on your nerve, kid. It takes some guts to call me after what you did.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shouldn’t be surprised you’re still alive, either. I was hoping one of them might lead me to you, but the Hunters are far more incompetent than any of us thought. We almost took two of their best out in one night.”

“Almost,” Hirugami echoes, glancing at Atsumu for a moment then dropping his gaze back to Sakusa’s list.

No mention of the men he lost trying, Atsumu’s quick to notice. There must have been nearing thirty altogether combining both Sakusa and Atsumu’s efforts in the high-rise and the apartment. Interestingly enough, there’s no mention of Hirugami having aided them either. They must not know Atsumu only got to Sakusa in time because of Hirugami’s intel. Maybe the Director doesn’t have ears everywhere after all.

“Yes, almost. Not bad for a first attempt on the city’s supposed finest. I think that means I’m sufficiently qualified to hunt you down myself and carve your traitorous head from your neck. I’ve got just the cleaver for it.”

“If you’ve got more than half a brain, you won’t do that,” Hirugami says, reading one of Atsumu’s suggested lines verbatim and grimacing afterward.

Atsumu grins and sends him a thumbs up.

“Won’t I? After the headache you’ve caused, the money you’ve stolen, and the state you left Gakuto’s face in, I’d like to do that very much, Sachirou, even if it makes me look a fool. In fact, I’d wager there’s a list of boys the length of my arm who’d love nothing more than to watch the life drain from your eyes. Perhaps I’ll let them all have a turn.”

Hoshiumi’s fist curls on the table. Hirugami’s hand rests on his thigh, then it unfurls.

“You were right about everything. I messed up by leaving, boss,” Hirugami says. “I—I know that now, and I know you probably won’t let me, but I want to come back. I can make it up to you. I have information. About the Hunters. I can help.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that, am I?” Hayashi laughs. “The worthless word of a turncoat? I can hear the desperation in your voice, kid. You’ll have me believe anything so long as I tell you I won’t kill you. It’s not gonna happen. I’m going to drag your death out for as long as I—”

“I know where the Hunters are staying. The ones you tried to kill. I’ve seen them.”

Hayashi laughs louder. “Oh, so now you’ve achieved the impossible, hm? Not even the Director’s hacker friend could find them on the cameras, and yet you’ve somehow managed it? I doubt you know anything at all, kid. Go back to hiding under your bed and wait there patiently for me to find you.”

Hirugami looks up again and Atsumu nods in response to his silent question. “Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he says. “Rank One and Two.” Hayashi says nothing, so Hirugami carries on, “You tried to kill Miya in his apartment, but it all went to shit. The Director’s mad, right? He’s breathing down your neck because the boys fucked up and now they know about us. They know about the plan, about the New City. You need something that’ll save your ass. I have it.”

“You know a lot for someone who’s supposed to be dead. For someone who washed his hands of us because he thought himself above the violent filth. Mind your business, and watch your tongue, Sachirou, while you still have it.”

“I saw it,” Hirugami lies. He straightens his shoulders. “The attack on the Hunter. I wanted to help but it was too late, so I did what I could and I followed the guys who rescued him back to their base. They didn’t see me. I’ve been watching them ever since. They’re still pretty beat up. One’s still fighting for his life under the effects of that poison the Director gave us. Doctors keep stopping by. I heard them saying he might not make it.”

Atsumu grins. Surprisingly, it was Sakusa’s idea to have Hayashi believe they were as good as dead. It was the compromise Atsumu settled for after being denied a confetti cannon. He glances over again to catch his eye, but Sakusa’s still just staring blankly at something beyond Hirugami’s head.

“Where?” Hayashi asks, and his voice has lost its arrogant, toying edge. Atsumu hears the voice of a man desperate not to fuck up a second time, the voice of someone who – in Hirugami’s eloquent words – has someone breathing down his neck for results.

“I’ll tell you in person,” Hirugami says. “You need to hear me out, let me prove myself. If you don’t like what I say, I’ll let you kill me.”

It takes some more cajoling and recitals of Atsumu’s threatening zingers, but Hayashi agrees to a meeting in The Falcon’s Nest that night at 9.pm. Hirugami earns Hayashi’s word that he’ll clear the place of customers, and that he’ll meet with him alone and unarmed.

“You’re a fine actor, beanstalk,” Atsumu laughs when Hirugami ends the call and slides the phone back towards the centre of the table. “But it’s a good thing ya aren’t really goin’ to that meetin’. By the sounds of it, Hayashi doesn’t believe a word of it. He thinks you’re a goddamn idiot. Probably woulda bled the answers outta ya and laughed the whole time.”

Hoshiumi makes the face he always makes when anyone talks about hurting Hirugami, jestingly or otherwise. The sort of pinched disgust that makes him look as though his mouth is full of sour candy. “No he wouldn’t have.”

Atsumu leans back in his seat and stretches his arms out, purposefully knocking the back of Sakusa’s head. It finally stops him from spacing out and puts a scowl back on his face.

“Geez,” Atsumu says around a fake yawn. “Do ya play any other songs on Little Giant Radio? I’m gettin’ real bored of the Rabid Bodyguard Remix.”

“Yeah I’ve got another one, clown man,” Hoshiumi says. He stands up and bunches his fists at his sides. “I can play it on your ugly face if you want to hear it.”

Atsumu doesn’t retaliate. He ruffles Sakusa’s hair. “Dracula here likes music more than I do. Play it on his.”

Hoshiumi raises a brow at Sakusa. “You just gonna sit there and let him do that?”

“Apparently,” he says, then stands up and kicks the leg of Atsumu’s chair. “Come on. We have shit to do.”

Atsumu smiles at the pair in front of him, Hirugami thinking himself into despair, and Hoshiumi quietly fuming. “Yer dads have gotta go fight crime now kids, so be real good while we’re out, okay?” Atsumu coos. “There are leftovers in the fridge and movies for when ya get bored. If the titles are in French, expect a whole lotta weird pantin’ durin’ the horizontal tango and keep your hands to yourselves. Don’t answer the door to strangers, and don’t touch any of Omi’s things either, he gets real prickly when ya touch his stuff, ‘specially the creams in the bathroom, take it from—aack!”

Sakusa grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him up out of his seat. “Just move, Miya. I don’t have all day to stand here and listen to you being insufferable.”

“Sure thing, sugarplum.” Atsumu slings an arm around Sakusa’s shoulders and leads him towards their rooms to change. He gets a couple of steps in before Sakusa pushes him off with such force he hits the opposite hallway wall and almost knocks his shoulder out of its socket.

They don’t wear the metal armour quite yet, but Atsumu does pull on the tight undershirt of knife-proof fabric, and the similarly made mask. It starts at the base of his throat and covers the whole lower half of his face, skin-tight and warm against the morning air. It’s the perfect defence for stopping tranq bullets or getting caught unaware with knife blades, the only shortcoming being it makes him look devastatingly like a Sakusa Kiyoomi wannabe.

They’re going to scope out The Falcon’s Nest and set it up before the meeting, so to avoid potentially ruining the plan prematurely, they also replace their definingly bright jackets with ones of plain black nylon and cover their hair with caps. They’re unrecognisable as both themselves and Hunters when they slide into Atsumu’s car. They could blend into almost any crowd – even with blasters at their hips - since the gangs of midcity dress so similarly.

Sakusa still complains every time Atsumu pulls out onto the road, still grips the door handle as though he’s contemplating jumping out and taking his chances with the asphalt. Atsumu doesn’t bother to call him out on it. He just presses the pedal harder and turns the music up louder to drown out the clicking of his tongue.

It’s only 11.am when they reach the pub, but the place is still open, serving cooked breakfasts and hot drinks. It’s on one of the busier streets, the kind that hosts a lot of nightlife. Later tonight it’ll be thrumming with energy, lit with flashing neon signs, and teeming with people drunk on luminescent shots and high on dubiously legal pills. For now, it’s barren, peaceful, almost, like the calm before the storm.

When they step inside it’s warm. Aesthetically, the place looks caught between the past and present, like an attempt was made to modernise it but ultimately left unfinished. The booths are upholstered with old, green pleather, the wooden tables are painted with dark, faux-mahogany varnish, and the floors are fitted with soft carpets. The bar, however, is made of new metal. The counter boasts colourful lights that pulsate and change colour, and the shelves and cabinets behind rotate and spin of their own accord, displaying drinks and snacks.

Atsumu leads Sakusa down a small set of steps, over to one of the two digital game tables set out in the farthest corner of the pub. “Should be fine, right?” Atsumu asks him. It feels odd to have his own voice muffled by a mask. He’s not sure how Sakusa copes wearing one so often. It feels like he’s constantly mumbling, like nobody can hear him.

Sakusa looks up at the dim lights of the ceiling, then around at the quiet interior. Only one of the tables is occupied by an old man with a newspaper and a steaming hot plate of bacon and eggs, and the bar is empty of staff. “Doors look modernised, and the windows are small,” he says quietly. “You said there’s a basement?”

“Small one. Floorplans suggest even if it was empty, it could hold eight, maybe ten people at most.”

“Then it’s fine.”

Atsumu nods in agreement and pulls out his phone. Aran’s software now extends to it thanks to the new laptops and a few upgrades, and it’ll allow them to tap into the pub’s security remotely. They’ll be able to lock and open doors as they please, adjust the lights and the alarms. If Hayashi tries to pull anything, this will ensure the advantage stays theirs.

It’ll take a little while to override the passcodes and gain the required access, so once Atsumu starts the process, he balances his phone on the edge of the game table and fishes around in his pocket for a coin.

“Pool or air hockey?”

Sakusa looks at him strangely. “What?”

“We’re gonna be here a while and I hate football. Pool or air hockey?”

“Can’t you just sit down in a booth and shut up?”

Atsumu frowns. “Well, yeah, but where’s the fun in that? C’mon, Omi. Don’t make me ask a third time. That’s kinda embarrassin’. So’s playin’ alone.”

“When have you ever cared about embarrassing yourself? You do it on an hourly basis.”

“Hourly? That’s awful generous of ya.” Atsumu puts the coin into the table and the large surface lights up with the three colourful options. He angles his head at them, flickering in a tempting dance. “I’m bein’ real chivalrous givin’ you the choice y’know. I’m an unrivalled expert at one of ‘em. I’m talkin’ Wish-You-Were-Dead-You’re-So-Humiliated kinda expert.”

Sakusa eyes the table. “Which one?”

“Can’t tell ya that.”

Sakusa takes a moment longer to ponder the games, then touches 8-Ball and the table starts to move and arrange itself accordingly.

“Uh-oh. Hope you’ve got a nice funeral planned.” Atsumu dips beneath the table and takes one of the dispensed cues for himself, then hands the other over to Sakusa. “Or at the very least a decent epitaph drafted.”

“I can’t die before the guild gets restored,” Sakusa says, taking the cue and weighing it in his hand. “I’ve set aside a small fortune in my will to place a bounty on your head.”

Atsumu scoffs and leans against his own cue to watch him. Sakusa always inspects and tests everything he touches, Atsumu’s noticed. He meticulously tried on each and every piece of Osamu’s tech once they got back to the apartment last night, and Atsumu would have been offended on his brother’s behalf had he not observed Sakusa behaving similarly with his own clothes and food the week previous.

“Why’s that?” Atsumu asks. “Can’t stand the thought of bein’ without me? Even in death? There are vows for that, y’know. If ya wanted me in sickness and in health, ya shoulda started by askin’ to buy me a drink yer first night at the guild insteada scowlin’ at me like a bastard.”

In the ensuing silence, Atsumu taps his foot against the carpet, waiting for the usual scathing rebuttal, but it never comes and he’s not sure why. Sakusa removes the triangular rack from the table and stows it away, then takes a coin from his own pocket and asks, “Heads or tails?”

Atsumu tries to find his eyes, but Sakusa keeps them firmly on the coin.

“Heads,” Atsumu says curiously.

The coin flips so high Atsumu must tip his head back to track it. Sakusa catches it on the back of his hand and reveals Atsumu’s winning side with a vexed huff.

“Wow. That’s the second 50/50 you’ve lost in five minutes, Omi,” he smiles despite the fact his face is hidden and nobody can see it. “You’re kinda unlucky, huh?”

Sakusa’s fist curls around the coin. “Immeasurably, it would seem.”

For the next six-and-a-half minutes Atsumu takes his time placing the cue ball very precisely, viewing the placement from all sorts of different angles and adjusting it by miniscule amounts. “That’s why you’re definitely gonna lose,” he tells Sakusa after he warns him to stop wasting time. “You can’t rush this shit.”

When he breaks another five minutes later, he pots two solids right off the bat with a specialised technique he learned from a mark the same night he’d killed him, and Sakusa makes a sound of audible disgust.

“Toldja I was good.”

“You tell me a lot of things I never ask to be told.”

Atsumu walks around the table again and contemplates his next shot, chalking the tip of the cue; the technical break has put multiple solid balls in great positions. Unthinkingly, he says, “And you don’t tell me a lot of things I never ask to be told.”

“What?”

“Ya don’t talk ‘bout yourself much,” he clarifies, because even though he hadn’t meant to say it, it’s still true.

Sakusa sits on the edge of a nearby booth table. “Do I need to?”

No, is the answer, but Atsumu can count the number of definitive, unbiased things he knows about Sakusa on one hand; he’s a Bounty Hunter; he rides a motorcycle; he has a cousin.

He feels the imbalance suddenly – were they to compare notes on each other, Sakusa would undoubtedly have enough on Atsumu to fill a filing cabinet (even if he never asked to know any of it), while Atsumu would struggle to space his knowledge out across a two-page pamphlet.

It’s no closely guarded secret that Atsumu doesn’t like to lose.

He pots another solid then crouches down so he’s eye-level with the table’s corners and surveys the game again. “Depends,” he says, then looks up to catch Sakusa’s eye. “You hidin’ somethin’?”

Very articulately and not at all suspiciously, Sakusa looks away and says, “No.”

“Sworn to secrecy?”

“No.”

“Riddled with trauma?”

“No, Miya.”

“Then tell me what your favourite colour is.”

“No. What an inane fucking question.”

“It’s not. Says a lot about a person. Mine’s red. See? Easy. Means I’m hot.”

Sakusa continues to stand by as Atsumu leans across the table and cleanly pots another ball. “I don’t owe you answers,” he says. “I don’t owe you anything.”

Atsumu hums and rubs the tip of the cue with more chalk. “Sure ya do. Your life, remember? Got the pictures right there to remind ya if ya don’t.”

“I’ve already repaid you for that.”

“Uh, fuckin’ when?” Atsumu scoffs. “Ya still haven’t even thanked me. Stingy bastard.”

He wagers if he could see Sakusa’s face right now his nose would be scrunched and his mouth would be pulled into a small pout. It’s more fun to tease him, Atsumu thinks, now that he has a vague idea of what’s happening beneath his mask, what sorts of faces he’s pulling, which way his lips are twisted.

“I refrained from killing you on several occasions,” Sakusa says. “You technically owe me your life tenfold.”

He pots a fourth ball, leaving a prime opening for a fifth, and he can feel the heat of Sakusa’s agitation growing from across the room. It’s the same kind of helpless anger that he earns whenever he plays with Osamu or Aran or Suna – it’s why they all refuse to play against him no matter how drunk he gets them or how loudly he begs. He supposes he’ll be able to add Sakusa to that list after today.

“That’s not how it works, Omi,” he says.

“I don’t care.”

“Fine.” Atsumu tries a different angle. “Then tell me a bedtime story: The Origins of Sakusa the Bounty Hunter.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Geez, gimme a little somethin’ to work with, yeah? I’m tryin’.”

Sakusa’s laugh is more an exasperated exhale. “Sorry to disappoint you, Miya, but if you’re attempting to humanise me with these pieces of worthless trivia it’s a pointless endeavour. You can dig all you like, but I don’t have a tragic backstory to unearth that’ll give you cause to stop acting like a dick. I’m not hellbent on seeking revenge for a murdered sibling, or pooling funds together to heal my terminally ill grandmother. I chose Hunting because I like punching things and working on my own terms. I antagonise you because you’re an idiot and it’s fun.”

When Atsumu hits the ball, it misses the pocket and bounces around the cushioned walls. He stares at the fumbled shot in disbelief for a moment, certain he’d aligned it right and hit it perfectly, as he always does. But he hasn’t. He starts to laugh.

“What?” Sakusa demands as Atsumu’s shoulders shake and he steadies himself on the edge of the table. The laughter takes over his whole chest, so heartily Atsumu almost feels the need to double over.

“Nothin’, Omi,” he manages through his breathless amusement. He composes himself, but he’s unable to think of anything other than the fact they’re not so different after all, that their reasonings and philosophies are concerningly identical. The realisation is dizzying; he’d always assumed Sakusa saw himself above it all, above everyone, mostly Atsumu. Turns out they’ve been walking the same path this whole time, on opposing sidewalks, middle fingers raised towards each other and the road between.

Atsumu waves Sakusa off. “Your turn.”

Atsumu takes a step back and finally allows Sakusa to play, swapping places with him at the booth table. He waits for Sakusa to choose a target, then he creates a small television screen out of his thumbs and pointer fingers to observe him through, and adopts the voice of a droning documentary narrator to say, “The Omi is an asshole because he chooses to be of his own volition. Not as a result of external stressors or the misfortune of being born that way. Be sure to tune in next week, where we will discover whether or not he made the decision to put the stick up his own ass too.”

It takes Sakusa forever to hit the ball, but once he does, it pockets with a satisfying clack of hard resin and a thunk as it falls into the hole. “Finally, some new material. I wonder how long it’ll stay fresh before you bleed it dry and it joins the host of other exhausted jokes in your repertoire,” Sakusa says bitterly.  

“It’ll last forever,” Atsumu returns with some conviction. “My brain’s a sponge, Omi. Remembers and retains all the best shit.”

“Considering you snore like an elephant, it’s only natural that you possess the same memory span as one too.”

Sakusa chooses another ball and after chalking the cue, lines up a shot. Atsumu’s eyes follow the movement of his fingers as they splay across the cloth, of his opposite hand as it curls and tightens around the cue handle, as he swings it back and forth like the hypnotic sway of a pendulum.

The striped ball bounces from the pocket corner to land somewhere in the middle of the table and Sakusa shoulders Atsumu heavily when his turn ends and they pass each other. He leans back against the nearby wall this time as opposed to the table, cue discarded in the booth, arms crossed over his chest. Atsumu adds ‘sore loser’ to his pamphlet.

“How ‘bout this,” Atsumu says. He hops up to sit on the table edge and holds the cue behind his back to pot the ball nearest him with an obnoxiously unnecessary trick shot that makes the cue ball jump over one of Sakusa’s. “You flip that little coin of yours, and if ya get it wrong, ya answer a question. If ya get it right, I shut the fuck up ‘til we leave here. See what happens first – you winnin’ a coin toss, or me pottin’ the black.”

He turns over his shoulder to look back at Sakusa, eyes the only part of him visible beneath the cap and the mask. They’re as impassive and inscrutable as ever, and his body language offers even fewer hints as to what’s going on in his mind, but Atsumu thinks he’s starting to work him out. That he’s still humouring Atsumu at all means he’s in a relatively good mood.

They hold each other’s gazes for a while, neither wanting to be the first to blink, then Sakusa’s hand dips into his pocket again and he retrieves the coin. “Heads,” he says.

When it’s tails, he throws the coin at Atsumu’s back with a gross flick of his wrist that makes the spin bite, even through the layers of fabric.

“What’s your favourite colour?” Atsumu ignores the violence to ask, potting a sixth ball and watching the cue ball roll into the perfect positioning for his final seventh.

“Whichever one you hate the most.” Sakusa pauses, then grumbles, “Green.”

“Same answer either way,” Atsumu shrugs. He picks the coin up from the floor, kisses it through his mask, then flips it back Sakusa’s way using the tip of his thumb and a finger. “For good luck,” he winks. “I’m rootin’ for ya, rookie.”

Sakusa takes his time rubbing it clean on the fabric of his joggers then tries again. “Tails,” he says.

It’s heads.

“Hmm. Which game’s your favourite?” Atsumu pots his last solid ball and turns his attention to the 8-Ball. “In Samu’s arcade.”

Sakusa narrows his gaze, probably having expected a more invasive question. “Pac-Man.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just thought it woulda been Castlevania, that’s all. Y’know, because you’re in it.” Atsumu stands near the black 8-Ball. “I’ll let ya try one more time before I end ya,” he says. “Because I’m generous.”

“Heads.” Sakusa flips the coin, then his shoulders sag and his head knocks back against the wall. “Finally,” he near groans. “An end to your incessant bullshit.”

Atsumu wins the pool game with one final crack, and mimes zipping his mouth closed and throwing away the key.

Sakusa may have finally won the coin toss, but Atsumu leaves the pub twenty minutes of silence later feeling as though he’s won at more than just 8-Ball.

They fill the rest of the morning with menial tasks. Since they aren’t allowed to leave each other’s company, Atsumu’s forced to follow Sakusa around stores to replace what he lost in the fire – clothes, essentials, and electronics – and in turn, Sakusa sits through Atsumu’s two-hour long binge eating session at a ritzy buffet that he pays for with his fake card.

Equally as distressing is the hour they spend arguing in a convenience store. They’ve both decided to stay at Kuroo’s for the duration of the job, rather than find a different place together like Hoshiumi and Hirugami, and now that they’re better, Bokuto expects them to fend for themselves.

It means Atsumu has to engage in a fight for his life with each aisle they walk down, and that he must wrestle his favourite snacks into the cart as Sakusa tries to return them all on account of them being unessential, costing too much, or tasting like shit. Sakusa still gets them all in the end. Though Atsumu’s not sure if it’s because placating him is the lesser of two evils, or if he never actually cared in the first place.

Afterwards, Atsumu takes them both to the midcity outskirts where a guy called Ukai owns a blaster shooting range. When Atsumu first started out as a Hunter he’d frequented the place almost every single day, practicing his aim across the different courses. Now, he only visits it after long periods of rest to make sure his joints haven’t rusted over.

It’s all indoors, set up with shot-absorbing mechanical targets that dart and move around a holographic city. Most of the city’s ordinary residents visit it as an attraction, a stress-relieving game using non-lethal blasters, but Atsumu signs himself and Sakusa up for the real courses, the ones that Ukai’s increased the difficulty of to indiscriminately train Hunters and gangs alike.

They spend hours there, testing their current limits as they reacquaint themselves with movement, sharpening their senses after having them so forcibly dulled inside the maddeningly plain walls of the apartment.

Sakusa refuses to let Atsumu make a game of it this time. “I’ve had enough of your nonsense for one day,” he’d said when Atsumu asked. “Just let me shoot stuff without incurring one of your ridiculous penalties.”

They don’t leave until the sun has set and Atsumu is happily and consistently hitting shots to the most difficult targets. Surprisingly, though it’s healed, it’s his blaster-shot thigh that gives him the most grief. His side and ribs don’t complain at all, but whatever the sparks did to his muscles makes them burn far faster than usual, and Atsumu finds himself glancing over at Sakusa’s end of the course to check he’s not about to collapse.

If he is, he’s good at hiding it. There’s no scowl to suggest he’s in any sort of pain, but the moment he stops to wipe his brow, Atsumu calls it a day and plays it off as a need for more food.

“Don’t tell Samu,” Atsumu says as they climb back into the car, “but the new blasters are way better.”

“There’s less recoil,” Sakusa agrees. He takes his cap off and runs a hand through his curls. Atsumu turns his attention to the windshield.

“Right? I’d gotten so used to the old ones it kinda took me by surprise when I didn’t have to tense as hard. They sound cooler too. Less like a pew and more like a blam.”

“To a child, maybe.”

“Y’know,” Atsumu says as he pulls out onto the road, “I was gonna make the drive back nice and peaceful for ya, was gonna take my time so ya didn’t die of a heart attack before the job or whatever, but now I’m gonna see if I can beat my personal record.”

Sakusa winces. “Is it too late to rescind the insult to use at a later date?”

“Yup,” Atsumu laughs. “We don’t do refunds here.”

Sakusa sighs as he turns the music up and leans his head back against the headrest to wait until it’s over.

When they leave the apartment again it’s after a few hours spent watching The Falcon’s Nest from the comfort of the living room. Hoshiumi and Hirugami disappear into one of the spare rooms to talk out Hirugami’s nerves, but Atsumu and Sakusa continue to observe as the customers slowly start to filter out and leave the place barren, just as Hayashi promised.

At 8.pm, Hayashi’s sister Keiko cleans the tables and bar surfaces with a cloth, then she sits upon a barstool and waits, drumming her fingers on the counter. Twenty minutes later, Hayashi walks through the front doors with six armed men and she gets up to lead them down into the basement.

“Toldja he was lyin’,” Atsumu scoffs as he switches the camera and watches them sit themselves down on crates to wait. He can see them playing with tech as they chat– the weird lasso, weirdly-shaped blasters, grenades, and knives.

“What a waste of a plan,” Sakusa says with a bored click of his tongue. “Six in a basement is nothing. He might as well have come alone.”

They change out again into their regular hunting gear. Atsumu continues to wear the mask, though he leaves it tucked beneath his chin like a high-necked sweater and fastens the vambraces, shin guards, and chest plate tightly beneath his jacket and joggers. A month ago, he’d have complained about the extra weight. Now, he’s wondering why he didn’t commission a set sooner; in safety he’s allowing himself to become more reckless than ever. Maybe Sakusa’s on to something.

As they approach The Falcon’s Nest for the second time that day, Sakusa pulls out his phone and opens Aran’s app. He sets a timer for the doors to lock them in at 9:01, and then they lean against the wall outside, waiting for the hour to change.

“Sure you’re up for this?” Sakusa asks. His yellow jacket looks green again under the neon-blue lights spelling The Falcon’s Nest’s name above their heads. “You were looking kind of sloppy in the shooting range.”

Atsumu tucks his hands into his pocket against the cold and curls his hand around the weight of his new switchblade. He watches the throngs of partygoers stumbling around the streets, hanging from each other, laughing, spilling drinks, oblivious to the war in motion.

“Liar,” he says, smoothing his thumb over the ridges in the metal. If they’d turned on the scoring machines, Atsumu’s certain he’d have won.

Sakusa hums, and Atsumu barely hears it over the sound of club music thumping nearby. “Just checking you aren’t scared,” he says. “Last thing I want is for you to freeze up mid-battle.”

The moment in Osamu’s workshop seizes his memory, Sakusa catching him flinch at the recollection of pain and lowering his blaster, relaxing his frown, the silence afterward.

“It’s real cute of ya to be concerned ‘bout me, Omi-kun. Maybe we really will start holdin’ hands and frolickin’ soon, huh? Feels like we might be on the cusp of a breakthrough.”

“As always, you’ve grossly misunderstood me.” He looks ahead again like he’d done earlier in the kitchen. “I just don’t want to die because of your incompetence.”

An alarm sounds quietly from Sakusa’s wrist. As he silences it, Atsumu pushes himself up from his lean against the wall and starts towards the door. He stops with his hand hovering over the handle, then turns over his shoulder and says, “The only way I’ll ever let you die, is if I’m the one killin’ ya. That’s a promise.”

Sakusa follows. “How profoundly reassuring.”

Hayashi is occupying a stool at the bar when they enter, nursing a tumbler of bright purple liquid. He’s wearing a white suit, the sort that makes him look like an old yakuza boss, with a dark red shirt beneath it and shoes of shiny black leather – more style than substance. His hair is dark and pushed back out of his face with wet gel, and there’s a watch on his wrist that probably costs more than Atsumu’s old apartment.

When he notices the door opening, he looks up with a scar-cut smile and raises his glass in a toast. “Sachi—”

“Hello!” Atsumu waves. “Sachirou’s so sorry he couldn’t make it, he really wanted to be here, but he’s busy watching a movie. He sends his regards, and us. Spoiler alert: we’re not strippergrams.”

To Hayashi’s credit and Atsumu’s great disappointment, he only looks mildly surprised. Atsumu should have pushed for the confetti cannons.

“I had been wondering which part of all this Sachirou was lying about,” he says contemplatively, swirling the alcohol around in his glass. “I’d thought it might have been the fact that he’d seen you, that his information was a desperate lie. Turns out the only thing of consequence he’d lied about, was the fact that you are not as beaten up as I’d hoped you’d be.”

Atsumu smiles. “How about that, huh?”

He hops over the bar and pulls open the door that leads to the basement. Voices greet him from the bottom, quiet murmurs of conversation that carry up the dark staircase. He loosens a sleep grenade from the belt at his waist, pulls the pin with his teeth, and throws it down the stairs where he knows the six surprise guards are waiting. When he closes the door again, Sakusa locks it using his phone and Atsumu hears the quiet click.

Hayashi looks up to where Atsumu knows the surveillance cameras are, then swallows, and lowers his glass.

“People really oughta read the terms and conditions when they sign things,” Atsumu says, taking a seat next to Hayashi. He plucks the tumbler out of his loosened grip and raises it to his lips as he leans back against the bar counter, but as Sakusa walks by he knocks it out of Atsumu’s hand so it falls and smashes.

“Don’t drink that,” he says.

Atsumu shrugs. “You remember that little clause ya signed?” he asks Hayashi. “When you and your guys hired us for your dud jobs?”

“Not really,” Hayashi says flippantly. His fingers drum the counter; his nails are bitten and jagged.

Atsumu looks over at Sakusa where he’s sat himself upon a nearby table, picking bobbled pieces of lint off his joggers like he’s bored. “Ya hear that, Omi? He says not really.”

“I heard, Miya.”

He turns back to Hayashi. “Your Director friend can’t have taught ya how to read, then, huh? That’s fine, I only skipped a couple years of school, I’ll spell it out for ya: you fuck us, we fuck you back.” He pauses. “With blasters.”

Sakusa sighs.

Hayashi smiles, but Atsumu can see how it pulls at the taut skin of his mouth. He knows what the two of them being here means. “Even if you kill me now,” he tries, “I have more men on the way. You won’t leave this place alive either.”

“Sure we will, old man! I’ve got two tubs of Cookies and Cream with my name on waitin’ for me when I get back. Can’t let ‘em go to waste. Supermarket prices for those things are astronomical these days.”

Hayashi scoffs. “That explains how it was so easy for my boys to hurt you. You are children.”

There are plenty of things Atsumu could say in retaliation to that; the first being that Hirugami is a fool to be scared of this guy, the second being that Sakusa’s plan totally overestimates his intelligence, and the third being:

“You and your boys are stupid. Probably the stupidest I’ve ever met. If not for your puppet master and his fun box of magic tricks, I’d have wiped ya all out weeks ago. Or who knows, maybe Omi-kun over there mighta beaten me to it.”

“Ah, yes.” Hayashi slides his gaze from Atsumu to the table at his right. “Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he says. “I believe we’ve already had the pleasure of talking once before over the phone. If you can call it that.”

Atsumu’s smile falters. “What?”

Sakusa doesn’t look up.

"You were a lot more vocal back then. Though I guess that’s to be expected: we were punching you full of holes.”

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu says, because this is new and he doesn’t like it. He can feel his grip on the conversation loosening, can feel it spiralling out of his control. “You wanna tell me what the fuck that means?”

“No,” Sakusa says. “Not particularly.”

“Don’t worry, I will spell it out for you,” Hayashi says with a smile, and Atsumu doesn’t care that it’s an obvious tactic to buy him more time. He wants to know. “One of my boys called me up to gloat about a job well done. Said he’d gotten Sakusa Kiyoomi, Rank Two, on his knees. I suggested he prove it, get him to make some noise.”

Something starts to burn in Atsumu’s chest.

“Your resilience was commendable after the first shot, yes? You were surprisingly quiet. Then I taught them my little secret of shooting a bastard where he’s already hurting. Worked like a charm. They say the pain is unimaginable. Though I suppose you’d know that best.”

Sakusa still doesn’t look up, though his hand has stilled on his left thigh.

Hayashi licks his lips and leans forward. Atsumu can see fear in the heightened rise and fall of his chest, but he continues, “Do you know how many of my men you Hunters have put down over the years? I have lost count of those I have buried. That made the decision to offer our services to the Director an easy one. It also made the sound of your screams all the more delicious.”

Atsumu’s hand settles around the switchblade in his pocket and wills Sakusa to say something, to channel the same anger he had whilst they were planning, but he does nothing.

“My favourite was the cry you let out as Nakamura pushed the muzzle in to meet your bone.” Hayashi stops drumming his fingers on the counter and simply rests it there as he laughs. “Turns out Bounty Hunters do have feelings! They can cry just like us ordinary folk!”

When Sakusa finally looks up his eyes are frighteningly blank. There’s nothing beyond them, no anger, no annoyance, no seething desire for revenge. His brow doesn’t twitch the way it does when Atsumu invents a new nickname, his gaze doesn’t harden the way it does when Atsumu teases him. He looks a million miles away from any and all emotion, like Hayashi hasn’t just detailed his torture, like he isn’t bothered in the slightest, like he doesn’t care.

How can he not care?

Atsumu remembers taunting him around the apartment, mocking him during his physio. He remembers jostling Sakusa around after saving him, he remembers laughing, too and he hates it. He’d have punched Sakusa for doing the same.

The burn catches to a flame, and each laugh that pours from Hayashi’s chest stokes the fire a little brighter.

In one quick movement, Atsumu pulls the switchblade from his pocket, flicks it open, turns the heat on, and stabs it through Hayashi’s hand resting on the bar counter. It cuts through skin and bone like butter, it melts through the metallic surface of the bar too, and keeps his hand stuck to it like Atsumu’s stabbed him into soft wood.

He ignores the scream that pierces his ear. He gets up, pulls out his blaster, fires two shots into Hayashi’s thigh in quick succession, then presses the muzzle into it as hard as he can.

“Still funny?” Atsumu asks.

Hayashi can do little else than cry and whimper and shriek and fist the red leather of Atsumu’s jacket as Atsumu presses the muzzle in further.

With his free hand, he grabs Hayashi’s face until his fingers dig painfully into his cheeks and wrenches it in Sakusa’s direction. “Whatcha think, Omi? He look as though he’s in as much pain as you were?”

When Atsumu turns over his shoulder to check, Sakusa’s not looking at Hayashi, he’s looking at Atsumu, brows lifted and eyes widened in surprise. It’s better than nothing, but Atsumu still hates it.

“Miya,” he starts, tone strange.

“No?” he asks. “Okay.”

He fires another shot into Hayashi’s thigh, then pulls the blaster out and points it beneath Hayashi’s chin, smearing his throat with blood.

“You need me alive! I can tell you things!” he begs. “I can give you places! Names! People the Director’s working with! I’ve talked to them, I know their faces!”

Atsumu softens the grip on his face to gently pat his cheek and wipe away a tear with the pad of his thumb. “I’m too impatient to drag your death out the way you seem to enjoy. I’d much rather watch you die now,” he says, then fires again and watches the life drain from Hayashi’s ugly, blood-shot eyes until the fire in his own chest dims and chokes out.

A hand finds Atsumu’s shoulder and yanks him forcibly backward. Sakusa’s there – Atsumu didn’t hear him move - and so is the anger.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands, eyes searching, brows furrowed. It’s more confusion than anger, Atsumu realises once he gets a closer look. Sakusa’s looking at him like he contains the mysteries of the universe. “He was about to tell us—”

“You shoulda killed him yourself,” Atsumu snaps as he shirks Sakusa off and turns back to Hayashi. He yanks his knife free from the table, then rummages around in his suit pockets until he finds a phone and pushes it into Sakusa’s chest. “He was a spineless, desperate pig. He didn’t know shit. He would have said anything not to die and you shoulda fuckin’ killed him for what he did to you.” He shoulders past him. “Let’s go.”

For once, Sakusa doesn’t argue with him.

Chapter Text

The car is cold and silent. Atsumu doesn’t fire up the engine or turn the heat on; he doesn’t trust himself to drive yet.

They sit a while, lit by the blinking lights of neon signs and rolling digital billboards. Atsumu watches through the windshield as Hayashi’s promised men arrive in cars and vans and pour into the pub to find his body. He wonders if the whole gang will dissolve, if Hayashi’s death really will spell a sliver of security for the rest of the guild, or if the newly created orphans will run into the Director’s waiting arms.

Atsumu chews on his words in the meantime, trying to decide whether he wants to swallow them or spit them out. When he glances over, Sakusa’s staring down at Hayashi’s phone, mask lowered from his face and resting beneath his chin, thumbs hovering over the passcode buttons.

“You didn’t hear about Hayashi from Bokkun and Kenma,” Atsumu says. It sounds weirdly muted, like the volume inside the car has been turned down. Or maybe it’s just the pounding of blood in his ears that makes it hard to hear his own voice.

Sakusa lets the phone screen turn dark again. “No,” he says.

“Wanna tell me why ya lied?”

“Do you want to unpack why you reacted like that?” Sakusa’s quick to return.

Atsumu’s face twists. “No.”

“Then we’ve reached an impasse, Miya.”

The silence returns, and so does the burning in Atsumu’s chest, though it’s different this time. The anger of frustration rather than rage. His phone lights up in its hands-free holder on the windshield with an incoming game request from Suna, and the picture of Atsumu posing in front of an aggrieved Sakusa greets him. His grip tightens on the wheel so that his nails dig into the rubber, then he huffs and turns to face him. “You let me say all that shit,” he says. “You let me make fun of you, let me push you around right after—after that.”

Sakusa makes a face like he’d rather be talking about literally anything else. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t ma— ‘Course it fuckin’ matters, Sakusa! Shit. Ya let me act like an asshole.”

“You always act like an asshole. Was I supposed to be able to differentiate the higher intensity?”

“Stop fuckin’ jokin’ around. You know what I mean.” He thumps his head back against the headrest hoping he might knock himself unconscious because that would be what he deserves. “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter my ass. You say some dumb shit sometimes.”

Sakusa hums. “Pots and kettles.”

Neither of them speaks for a while after that. They stare out of the windshield again to watch the men filter back out of the pub with their hands in their hair, mouths agape, and faces pale. It should feel satisfying, but it doesn’t. Maybe it will tomorrow.

“What would telling you have achieved?” Sakusa’s voice suddenly cuts through the cloying silence. “Would it have reversed what happened?”

“No,” Atsumu admits after moment of chewing his cheek and pondering, “but if I’d known, I woulda stopped him talkin’ a whole lot fuckin’ sooner. Ya wouldn’t have had to—”

“Shut up.”

Atsumu tips his head to the left and scowls at him.

“I despise pity, Miya,” he says. “It’s worthless. Serves no greater purpose than to make those babying you feel better about themselves and to remind me of my own stupid mistakes. That’s why I like—That’s why I let you act like an asshole. Why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to join the pity party. It was crowded enough already.”

“You’ve never had someone stick up for ya before, huh?” he scoffs. When Sakusa doesn’t respond he continues, “This ain’t pity, Omi. I’m fuckin’ pissed.”

Pissed that he didn’t work it out sooner, pissed that Sakusa didn’t push him out of the way to rip Hayashi’s tongue out himself, pissed that this whole thing happened at all, pissed that he can’t get that damn look on Sakusa’s face out of his mind.

There’s that guilt gnawing at him again too. The what if I’d been faster? What if I’d gotten there sooner? It doesn’t pair well with what he remembers of his own desperation - that moment on the floor of his apartment he’d spent wishing someone would stand obnoxiously in his doorway and make the pain stop even if it meant putting a bullet in his head.

“Why?” Sakusa demands. “It didn’t even happen to you.” He calms, glances down at Atsumu’s arm, then away. “Plenty of other shit did.”

Reflexively, Atsumu’s hand covers it, like that will suddenly erase Sakusa’s memories of him wearing a cast over it for the past two-and-a-half weeks.

“Kuroo told me the extent of your injuries,” Sakusa continues bitterly. “He knew you would rather die than tell me, and I guess he thought I might try to push you over or hit you once we were left alone in the same room.” He frowns. “He was right. I really, really wanted to. Multiple times. Most of the time. Every day, I think.”

“This train got a destination besides Bastardville?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Sakusa bites. “It’s just—in the workshop yesterday, when you flinched I—” He frowns harder like the words are threatening to make his head explode. “I get it. I thought you did.”

Atsumu closes his mouth and stares ahead. He’d said it himself, hadn’t he? That Sakusa was probably feeling the same sense of shame as he was, that he was probably the only one in the world who could understand what a fall from grace as hard as they’d suffered felt like, how tall their pedestals had been.

“I didn’t flinch,” he lies. Just like Sakusa didn’t forge so much distance between himself and what happened that Hayashi’s recollection of it caused him to space out.

Sakusa huffs out a quiet laugh and turns away. “You do get it.”

And…yeah, Atsumu thinks, maybe he does. Maybe, just fucking maybe, in this loveless city and equally as punishing profession, they might be each other’s one true reprieve, however hostile.

A deep breath overtakes and escapes Atsumu’s chest. It’s not a sigh, more a release of what’s been welling up inside him for the past twenty minutes. It does nothing to douse the flame, however. Only one thing will.

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel as he thinks, then leans between the gap in their chairs to reach into the back for his rucksack.

“What are you doing now?”

“Shut up.”

He rummages around inside, pushing pieces of tech and sticky snack wrappers aside, then finds what he’s looking for right at the bottom, covered in a coating of damp cookie crumbs. He throws his rucksack back, then dusts the surface clean on his joggers before holding it out in the space between them.

“Thumb,” Atsumu says, wiggling the gold bounty disc between them, because Kuroo wasn’t joking when he said it required both of their prints to open.

Sakusa looks at it sceptically, but ultimately does nothing. Atsumu tries to reach over to snatch his hand for himself, but when Sakusa says, “No,” he stops and retracts it.

“Put your fuckin’ thumb on it,” he says instead.

“No.” Then immediately, “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Sakusa snorts and his eyes roll. “If Bounty Hunting doesn’t work out for you there’s always a promising career in law, with those sorts of earth-shaking rebuttals sitting in your back pocket.”

“Because we’re gonna go hit the weapons dealer,” Atsumu amends.

“Wh—Now?”

“Yeah, Omi, now. I need to fuckin’ break somethin’. So do you.” More than that, he wants Sakusa to lose control. Wants him to stop retreating into himself and to smash the box he’s been locking his emotions into all this time. He nods at the disc. “Thumb.”

Sakusa’s brows furrow, but he turns slightly towards Atsumu, intrigued. “We haven’t planned for it. We don’t know enough. It would be stupid.”

Atsumu balances the disc on the back of his hand, then makes it dance idly across his knuckles. Stupid is what he needs – what they both need.

“We don’t need a plan,” he says. “We’re playin’ by my rules this time.”

“When aren’t we?” Sakusa muses quietly, dark eyes tracing the movements of the disc. Atsumu doesn’t quite know what to say to that, but he doesn’t need to know because Sakusa blinks, then looks up and meets Atsumu’s eye. There’s a little more life there now. The distant apathy has faded, but there’s still a lingering vacancy that makes Atsumu’s chest feel odd. “Your rules had best entail at least some form of strategy,” Sakusa says. “We’ve only been free of that prison for two days. I’m not eager to return.”

When Atsumu’s hand snatches up the disc it’s cold against his palm and he squeezes it until the warmth of his skin heats it. “It’s real simple, Omi: We’re gonna tear the whole fuckin’ place down and destroy everythin’ inside.”

“Inspired,” Sakusa drawls. “I can’t think of a single way in which that might go wrong.”

“What?” Atsumu grins. “Never gone in raw before? That’s okay. There’s a first time for everythin’. I’ll help ya pop your spontaneity cherry.” He holds the disc out again and lowers his voice. “Take a deep breath. Start small and ease in. Try a finger…”—he wiggles the disc again— “Maybe a thumb?”

“I could drown you in bleach and you’d be no less filthy,” Sakusa says as he places his thumb on the proffered disc. The circumference isn’t that wide. It’s smaller than a palm but larger than a bottlecap. If Atsumu wanted to, he could lift his thumb and place it over Sakusa’s, press down and squeeze until he hissed in pain or snapped an insult.

When the space between them lights up with a holographic screen, Atsumu finds his eyes again through the new wall of text and pictures. He smiles, and says, “Yeah? I’m startin’ to think you might be kinda into it.”

The information Bokuto and Kenma gathered about the location of the weapons dealer is comprehensive. It’s one of the only things they’ve managed to pinpoint for definite besides Hayashi, the rest being vague guesswork and speculation that’ll take a little more digging and investigating to utilise; the Director’s accomplices – however large in number - are well hidden.

The GPS takes them to the lower city, where the billboards fade from bright, digital LEDs, to defaced metal and peeling paper. The road beneath the tires is no longer a smooth, fresh asphalt, but a neglected, hole-ridden tarmac that crunches like gravel and makes Atsumu wince on his car’s behalf.

There was never enough money put into its development, so the streets of the lower city aren’t wide or lined with shiny glass high-rises and plush shops like the midcity, or sparse with mansions and villas and official buildings like the upper city. They are compact and crowded with terraced houses and shaded beneath low-hanging awnings that stretch across the roads like acrylic bridges. The buildings are squatly built of unforgiving brick, and since crystal cores aren’t as common here either, they run on old electricity that’s dim and flickering with untended age.

Despite how rough it looks, it’s Atsumu’s favourite place to Hunt. He knows it the best, having grown up there. He’d spent a long time running small jobs for little pay in the backstreets before moving up to the midcity, making deliveries, stealing, beating answers out of and into people. The maze-like layout also makes it easy to get lost in. The chases around it are fast and twisting, relying on speed and wit and endurance, often ending on rooftops or in the dingy tunnels beneath the streets.

Like Osamu, the Director’s weapons dealer has a front for his business too. It’s a small shop sandwiched between two houses, lit sparsely by streetlamps and the full moon. The street it’s on is quiet, save for the distant barking of dogs and far-off sirens. The outside is defaced with streaks of graffiti, the ground littered with snack wrappers and pockmarked with discarded chewing gum.

It used to be a corner shop, Atsumu remembers, the one he and Osamu would steal handfuls of sweets from when the geriatric cashier wasn’t looking.

They don’t enter immediately. From a street away, Atsumu pops the boot of the car and grabs what he needs, leaving space at his side for Sakusa to do the same. Sakusa had organised it all into two neat sections before leaving, but Atsumu’s driving has jumbled it all up into one large, incoherent pile now.

With hands careful and conscious of accidentally touching, they pick through the confusion and arm themselves for a job significantly more dangerous than a predetermined meeting in a pub.

Unlike a midcity hit, Atsumu now has need for his grappling hook, and he tugs on his climbing gloves – fingerless to grip ledges and find purchase, cushioned at the palm to prevent the skin from tearing against sharp concrete. They both swap the grenades at their belts from sleep cannisters to ones of stun and pain, and while Atsumu reaches for the reinforced baseball bat he keeps around for special occasions, Sakusa picks out a tranq blaster and fills his pockets with spare bolts.

“Make sure ya keep that thing pointed away from me this time, yeah?” Atsumu says as he slings his now empty rucksack onto his shoulder and slams the boot closed. He slots the baseball bat into the space between the straps of his bag and the blades of his shoulders and it sits there nicely, resting against the red leather back of his jacket.

“As tempting as that may be, I don’t want to have to carry you around the city. You are deceptively heavy.”

Briefly, Atsumu wonders how Sakusa did get him from that alleyway to his car all those weeks ago. If he’d dragged Atsumu around by his ankle or thrown him over his shoulder.

“That’s ‘cause my brain’s so dense,” he boasts with a smile, tapping his keys against his temple as he clicks the button and locks the car. The motion knocks his visor down to rest upon the tip of his nose and he pushes it back up into place. “Adds a lotta extra weight.”

Sakusa tips his head in a half-hearted shrug. “At least you’ve become self-aware of some of your shortcomings, Thing Two. We can work on acquainting you with the rest.”

Atsumu frowns, partly because if he was a Thing, he’d be Thing One, but mostly because— “Wha—Wait, no no no, that’s not what I meant, asshole. I meant my brain is fat, like, full of really sexy knowledge. I know a lot of things, Omi.”

“Sure, Miya. Delusion can be healthy in moderation.” He starts off towards the shop, but Atsumu pulls him back by his sleeve.

“And you’re goin’ the wrong fuckin’ way,” he lies. “Now who’s the dense idiot?”

“Still you,” Sakusa says, looking down at Atsumu’s hand on his jacket then tugging it out of his grip. “It will always be you.” He pauses then frowns. “The last time I checked by looking at it with my own goddamn eyes, the shop was, in fact, that way.” He points at it. “Right there.”

“Yeah, but we’re not goin’ in the front door,” Atsumu says as he starts off in the opposite direction. “My rules remember?” When Sakusa doesn’t immediately follow after him, he stops. “C’mon, Spongebob. Keep up. Last thing I need is Kuroo threatenin’ banishment in my ear ‘cause his fuckin’ baby monitors are goin’ off.”

Sakusa sighs and Atsumu leads him to an alleyway opposite the store. It’s wet and dank and the floor is slippery with stagnant water and algae that’s never seen the sun. Sakusa stands at the end of the alleyway, refusing to step into the dark narrowness, watching as Atsumu starts kicking mountains of soggy boxes and rubbish out of the way to clear a section of wall.

“You don’t do many jobs lower city, do ya?” Atsumu asks him out of curiosity. Sakusa hasn’t stopped looking around since they got out of the car, eyes flitting about cautiously like he’s trying to process and catalogue each piece of information they land upon. He’s pulled his mask back up too, something he doesn’t do as often anymore when it’s just the two of them.

“No,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu expects him to leave it at that, but he continues, “I don’t like it.”

“Why? Too dirty for ya?” Atsumu scoffs. People say shit like that all the time about the lower city, but it’s equally as disgusting as midcity. The alleyways stink just as badly here lodged between houses and dilapidated shops as they do when splitting rich clubs and casinos.

“No,” Sakusa says again. There’s a rustle of nylon as he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. “It’s too…enclosed.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says. “‘Cause you’re allergic to crowds ‘n stuff, right? I get it.”

Atsumu’s mother taught him and Osamu the word claustrophobic when they were eight. “I feel like I can’t breathe,” she’d told them one day at the dinner table, something burning hanging from her lips, fingers tapping the wood erratically. They’d been eating the aeroplane shaped nuggets they’d cooked for themselves with matching plastic forks, far too proud that they’d managed to work out how to operate the oven to be upset over the fact their mother hadn’t bothered to make them a meal.

“This city is choking me. You understand, don’t you? It’s all too close together.” Atsumu had always thought she’d sounded more like she was talking to herself than to them. “You’ll be okay without me for a just a few days. You’ll look after each other, won’t you? You should always do whatever you can to protect those you love, and you two love each other very much. Even though you fight a lot, you don’t really mean it. You’re good boys. You’ll be okay.”

It was never just a few days, but they were okay. She used to come back and visit every few months with bags of sweets and souvenirs from the far-off places she’d discovered by airship, and allowances to tide them over until she decided to come back again. Once they turned sixteen, she only ever bothered to send postcards. Now she sends one of them a Happy Birthday text a day late and expects whichever of them gets it to relay the message.

Atsumu understands how suffocating the city is all too well, but unlike his mother, Sakusa’s far too stubborn to leave it.

“I didn’t tell you that,” Sakusa says, and his voice sounds as doubtful as his gaze.

Atsumu shrugs and kicks another box. “Ya didn’t need to,” he realises and says simultaneously, and huh, the pamphlet might be more of a magazine now that he thinks about it. “You’ve been stalkin’ me for like, a year, Omi, ya tend to pick some things up after a while.”

Like how Sakusa would never follow Atsumu into clubs or markets when he was chasing him with a fist raised and a threat at his lips, how he’d never touch the discs that detailed and required a lot of interaction with people, or how, like Atsumu, he’d always be one of the first at the Bounty Office each night. He’d brushed them off as insignificant before. Now he knows what they mean.

“Like how much of a prickly bastard you are and the fact your wardrobe is actually just a barrel of radioactive toxic waste,” he says aloud.

Sakusa huffs a laugh and turns to survey the street again.

“S’alright though,” Atsumu says. He finally clears enough space and dusts his hands off on his joggers. “This’ll make it easier.”

Sakusa’s tone turns caustic. “I don’t need you to make anything easier.”

Atsumu pulls his grappling hook free and loosens the rope from the claw. “Fine, he says. “Then I really fuckin’ hope you’re scared of heights.”

Climbing up is easy. The patch of concrete wall he chose to climb was mostly dry, and the grips on the soles of Atsumu’s shoes make it easy to pull himself up once the hook lodges into place. After reaching the top of the building, he stands near the edge with a foot close to the wire and waits for Sakusa to join him, then winds it back up and hooks it back onto his belt.

It feels like a relieving breath of fresh air to be above it all, to look out across the city with no buildings marring his vision and no walls to break the breeze before it finds his lungs. When Atsumu tips his head back to glance up, the sky is clear, and the lack of crystal core light pollution makes it so that he can pick out stars he’d never have been able to find midcity.

The itching in his fists doesn’t allow him to dwell for long.

The roof they stand on now is flat, but the one next to it is comprised of slate tiles that slant upwards to meet at an awkward point. Atsumu doesn’t bother to check Sakusa is following; he leaps across the gap and lands with a thud that sounds like cracking plates, and then the sound repeats itself a few seconds later with a flash of neon yellow in his periphery.

Wordlessly, they continue hopping across buildings, walking above the street and its leaning walls. Atsumu keeps close to the edge, peering over to watch below as he leads a long, unnecessary, and winding path along the rooftops. He makes big jumps, doubles back sometimes only to turn around again and continue forwards, and he switches his pace between fast and achingly slow like the sporadic flickering of streetlight, laughing whenever Sakusa stumbles into his back because he’s never more than a few steps behind.

Though he doesn’t say anything, Atsumu can see he’s feeling a lot more comfortable; he’s pulled his mask down again and there’s a focus in the set of his face that reminds Atsumu of their days spent planning across the kitchen table.

They don’t stop until they’re finally leaping from the height of a broken chimney to land on the flat roof of the weapons store. Sakusa does so with a huff and a quiet, yet nonetheless exasperated, “There had better be a method to this madness, Miya.”

“Sure there is,” Atsumu throws over his shoulder with a smile as he walks towards the roof’s emergency hatch.

He doesn’t know how to tell Sakusa that there isn’t. That the only reason he led him to the rooftops and took him the long way around was so that he didn’t have to humiliate himself by backtracking and admitting Sakusa was right in leading the way to the front door in the first place.

His rules, and all.

He says, like it’s obvious, “It’s called fun.”

“Fun,” Sakusa repeats like the word’s just slapped him.

“Y’know, the act of enjoying oneself? I know you’re King of the Squares, Omi, but ya must have had fun at least once in your life before.” He looks up and grimaces. “Ooh, yikes. That face says a thousand words. I’m helpin’ you out with a lot of yer firsts tonight, huh? Any more I should know about? I’m amenable to most things.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Coupla other things too if ya ask nice enough.”

“I’ve never thrown someone off a building before,” Sakusa says.

“Yeah, not that.”

“Please?”

Atsumu laughs and pulls the hatch up with a rusty creak of metal. “Hey, come on now, I know you’re way better at beggin’ than that. Try usin’ my name. See what happens.”

Sakusa’s tongue clicks in disgust as he turns away.

Atsumu taps the side of his visor and light floods his vision, pouring out in a steady stream like the wide beam of a torch. He peers into the dark room below and it’s thick with dust and cluttered with boxes of mildewed cardboard. There are filing cabinets, too, and desks buried beneath piles of paper. He drops down into the hole with a thud that’s muted by a layer of musty carpet, then steps aside for Sakusa to pick his way down the ladder behind him.

A cursory glance around reveals nothing important. Atsumu peeks into a few boxes and opens a few cabinet drawers, but it’s all decrepit paperwork and files that once aided the running of the shop below. Nothing pertaining to weapons or nefarious plots by egotistical maniacs.

The nearby door opens out into a narrow hallway, one that’s equally as dark and grubby. It’s the only room along it – the end leads down a set of stairs that first branches off into the shopfront, then continues down further towards a basement.

Like Osamu’s arcade, there’s a password-locked door at the bottom, and it’s a tight squeeze for them both to stand without their shoulders touching. Atsumu expects Sakusa to back up and wait a few steps away like he had done in the alley, but he doesn’t.

“I thought you said we weren’t going to walk through the front door,” Sakusa says when Atsumu starts trying to guess the code. Each incorrect attempt earns him a red light and a shrill beep, but statistically – if he presses enough buttons - he’s bound to get it eventually. He’s pretty lucky.

“I lied.”

Beep.

“What do you mean you lied?”

“I took you that way to mess with you.”

Beep.

“So the whole rooftop thing—”

Beep.

“Was real fun and romantic, right? We coulda held hands. Started singin’ like in that movie…Can’t remember the name, but I’m a great singer. Ask Samu. He pays me money to stop because he’s scared I’m gonna get famous and leave him behind.”

Beep.

Beep.

“I don’t think I will ever meet another person as confusing or as infuriating as you,” Sakusa says with some incredulity.

“Hmm. I hope not.” Beep. “What if they figure out a way to make ya blush prettier than I can?”

Sakusa’s ears turn red. Atsumu laughs so hard he stops typing numbers for a moment to tip his head back.

“I also didn’t think it was possible to hate you more than I already do,” Sakusa says, and his tone is shorter than usual. “You have a knack for proving me wrong.”

Beep.

“Careful,” Atsumu warns with an absentminded smile, preoccupied again with the buttons. He’s already forgotten which combinations he’s tried. Now he’s just pressing and hoping for the best. Beep. “You keep talkin’ dirty like that and I’m gonna get a little hot under the collar, Ki-yo-omi.” He turns to face him and gives him a pointed once over, lingering places he probably shouldn’t. “Might feel inclined to do more than just kiss that cute little frown off your—mmph!”

A hand covers his mouth, warm and strong, and an elbow drives him backwards into the wall. Atsumu’s back hits it first, the metal of the chest plate beneath his shirt cushioning the blow and the baseball bat between the straps of his rucksack clanging loudly. His head follows next, the force shaking his brain inside his skull.

Atsumu’s widened eyes meet Sakusa’s narrowed ones.

“I’ve let you say a lot of shit these last few weeks because you seem to have it in your stupid, rock-filled head that you think you know what you’re doing.”

Atsumu blinks.

“You don’t,” he spits. “So shut the fuck up, for once in your goddamn life.”

Sakusa was bound to snap one day, he supposes, and today hasn’t exactly been easy emotionally, but there’s something about the edge to his voice that makes Atsumu swallow involuntarily. Something that grabs a hold of his gut and twists, something that makes him want to push another button and see what else Sakusa might do. He wants to replace that blank stare from the pub with something, anything else, even if it makes Sakusa punch him.

His body moves of its own accord. Before Sakusa can leave, he curls a fist in the yellow nylon of his jacket and pulls so that Sakusa’s balance tips and the hand that was covering Atsumu’s mouth leaves to brace himself against the wall above Atsumu’s head. Sakusa looms over him, scowl laced so heavily with vitriol Atsumu can feel it in the hot, ragged breaths against his cheek.

Their faces are close, so close Atsumu’s only options are to look into Sakusa’s eyes, or at his mouth. He chooses his eyes and finds rage simmering in the dark depths.

“There you are,” he murmurs, because he hasn’t seen real fire like that since before this whole Director business started, since Sakusa left him to rot unconscious in an alleyway. He hasn’t been pushed around properly since getting stabbed, not without a subtle note of hesitation, an awareness of broken ribs and torn skin. He’s missed it. “It’s been a while, rookie.”

Sakusa slackens slightly, and his expression softens in confusion. “What?”

Atsumu yanks his jacket again and feels Sakusa’s leg press against his own, hears the blasters in their holsters knocking against each other as their bodies collide. “No,” he snaps in an attempt to coax the flame back to life. “Don’t lose it. Stay angry.”

If killing Hayashi made Sakusa look at Atsumu like he contained the mysteries of the universe, then now, in this narrow hallway with nothing but an unsure breath between them, he looks at Atsumu as though he’s found all the answers, but they’re in another language.

“Just when I think I’ve finally found my footing, you pull the rug from beneath my feet,” he says. “I will never understand you.”

Atsumu thinks that’s ironic, considering he’s pretty sure that if Sakusa had a middle name, it’d be Enigma. “Easily rectified, Omi-kun. What do you wanna know?” He leans up and forwards so that their cheeks are flush against each other and says into Sakusa’s ear, “No coins required. All you gotta do is ask.”

He grins when Sakusa pushes him back against the wall again, just as hard as the first time. Get mad, he wills, and Sakusa scowls, deep lines between his brows, soft mouth twisted. Sakusa opens his mouth to say something, closes it again, then finally manages an exasperated, slightly breathless, “What do you want from me, Miya?”

Atsumu cocks his head to the side. It’s an odd, impossibly broad question, and not the one he’d expected, but one he thinks is easily answered. If there’s one thing he’s begrudgingly learned being stuck with Sakusa, it’s that their wavelengths are almost identical.

He thinks of Sakusa’s reasoning for becoming a Hunter, the Uno reverse card, their seamless planning, the You do get it.

With some certainty, he says, “Probably the same as what you want from me.”

Sakusa’s expression shutters. His face turns blank. Different than before. Worse than before.

Atsumu’s fumbled something somewhere, somehow.

“No you don’t,” Sakusa says. His hand fists in the cotton of Atsumu’s shirt, and his eyes glaze over. His gaze falls from Atsumu’s eyes to his cheekbones, to his lips, and Atsumu’s not sure if he’s even aware of what he’s doing. “No you don’t,” he says again, but it’s barely a whisper, more to himself than to Atsumu, like it’s a reminder.

Oh.

If there are three things Atsumu’s traversed an extremely steep learning curve to discover in the past five seconds, they are that he is the world’s biggest asshole, that he knows absolutely nothing, and that their wavelengths are totally different. Or at the very least, Atsumu’s been tuned into the wrong one for a little while.

Sakusa doesn’t blush because he’s an awkward prude, he blushes because his cold, dead heart actually feels something, and, well—

“Ain’t that somethin’?” Atsumu whispers back in awestruck wonder, lips and eyes unfurling into wide surprise, then stretching into a knowing smile. “You a masochist? Or does hate have a different meanin’ where you’re from?”

The words shake Sakusa out of whatever reverie he’s in. His grip on Atsumu’s shirt tightens in a threat rather than absent want, and nervous regret flickers across his face, probably for having slipped so badly, so irreversibly. Atsumu knows now. Sakusa knows that Atsumu knows now.

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up,” he forces out, voice a little strangled.

Flustered might be better than angry. It undoubtedly looks nicer on him.

Curious, Atsumu reaches up and wraps fingers around the sliver of skin poking out from Sakusa’s sleeve and vambrace where his hand meets his wrist. Sakusa shivers involuntarily, jaw tense. His pulse is erratic when Atsumu presses a thumb to the underside, and he’s not sure why it feels so weirdly surprising. Perhaps he really needs to work on altering the portion of his brain that keeps expecting Sakusa to exhibit signs of vampirism.

He doesn’t use his grip to push Sakusa off. They both watch as he guides Sakusa’s touch slowly from the centre of his metal-clad chest to the fabric encasing his throat, resting there for a moment before pressing encouragingly.

It feels nice; Sakusa’s weight is a reassurance Atsumu wasn’t aware he’d needed until right now. He wants him to squeeze harder, to use that same deceptive strength he’d used when pushing him into the wall to steal his breath.

Atsumu looks up to meet his eye.

“Stop it, Miya,” Sakusa pleads. He pinches his eyes closed like he’s trying to distance himself again, but he doesn’t pull away, even though he could very easily.

Atsumu says, “And what if I don’t?” But Sakusa doesn’t get to give him an answer, because the door opens to Atsumu’s right, and a stout, bald man stands staring at them.

“You here for blasters?” the guy asks awkwardly.

They blink once, twice, then Sakusa’s grip around Atsumu’s throat tightens enough to make him choke as he throws him into the guy’s chest. Atsumu yelps as they fall, but the guy hits the ground first with a wheezed “Fuck!” and a crack of bone against concrete floor and Atsumu’s landing is softened because of it. Sakusa steps over them both to walk inside, firing a tranq dart into the top of the guy’s bald head as he puts as much distance between himself and Atsumu as he can manage.

When Atsumu gets to his feet and clears the odd thickness from his throat, he stands and watches as Sakusa shoots two men fumbling for their holsters and smacks a third man with the muzzle of his blaster so hard the guy’s neck looks as though it snaps. He rolls the guy over with a foot, then shoots a bolt into his head too for good measure.

“Hey, that’s more like it!”

Sakusa tells him to “Shut up,” and his voice sounds normal now, as though whatever happened in the hallway didn’t happen at all. He’s had a lot of time to practice and perfect schooling himself, Atsumu guesses.

God, he’s an asshole.

An asshole that’s out of his depth, because every time he blinks, he sees Sakusa’s eyes still hovering inches from his own; every time he clenches his fists, he feels Sakusa’s hand beneath his; every time he swallows, he feels the ghost of Sakusa’s fingers against his throat.

It takes a herculean effort to force himself to stop staring after Sakusa and do his damn job.

Aside from those four, the workshop is empty. There’s no sign of the weapons dealer, judging by the uniforms on the bodies, but whoever they are, they can’t be far away if the cabinets have been opened to dispense pieces.

It’s far cleaner than Osamu’s place, but it’s still cluttered and messy. The tables are littered with snack wrappers from the shop upstairs, and there are tall, padlocked cabinets stretching across two of the four walls. Atsumu recognises a few of the machines – ones for welding, etching, printing, and cutting – and he’s seen the same weird belt machines used for buffering and grinding before too.

Crates are strewn about, some locked and stacked, others open and glowing with crystal cores. Atsumu loosens his baseball bat from his shoulders and while Sakusa searches whichever corner puts them farthest from each other, Atsumu starts beating the fuck out of the machines and imagines Osamu crying about it from across the city.

The bat is specifically designed to be denser than most metals, so the machines buckle and break easily as Atsumu throws his entire weight into each hit. He imagines the machines working to create the screaming device that almost killed him and smiles as he smashes through something made of glass that showers the wall and floor with tiny pieces. He imagines them carving the blasters that put the holes in Sakusa, and the vibration of the ensuing hit makes his arms tingle and clears a little more of the fog clouding his mind.

Once he’s done, his chest is heaving and his arms are aching and he’s feeling a whole lot fucking better about himself. He turns to find Sakusa and he’s opening and closing drawers and doors with noisy slams, pushing things around with the muzzle of his blaster, searching for something.

“This shit’s cathartic, Omi,” he says, swinging the bat around. “You want a turn?”

Sakusa doesn’t answer him.

“Sure?”

He doesn’t even turn around.

Atsumu frowns and lowers his bat. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Sakusa was supposed to get mad at circumstance, at the Director, not at Atsumu. He was supposed to take Atsumu’s bat and beat things up and then afterwards, he’d smile and say “Thanks, Miya, I needed that. You’re a genius.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to say something, but when nothing seems to sound right, he thinks better of it and closes it – for once in his goddamn life.

Quietly, he rests his bat against a cabinet, then uses his switchblade to melt through the padlock keeping it closed. When the doors swing open the inside is full of blasters. The same ugly kind that Atsumu’s seen on every man they’ve fought so far. He takes one off the shelf and holds it in his hand, turning it around and feeling its weight. It feels horrible. Heavy. Unsafe.

He throws it to the floor, then pulls the rest from the shelves and tosses them along with it until a small pile amasses.

The second cabinet is the same – the pieces are all standard, not specialised like Osamu’s. There aren’t any shotblasters or long-ranged snipers, no rapid-firing SMGs or revolvers. Standards are the quickest to build, Atsumu supposes, and whoever’s building them is being forced to kit out an entire army.

“There’s not enough here,” Sakusa says suddenly. Not to Atsumu, to himself. He kicks a drawer closed. “Hirugami said they were making and researching all sorts of shit… So where is it?”

Atsumu opens a third cabinet and it’s the same. Just blasters. He opens some of the drawers beneath and there are no weird rope traps or screaming devices, no poisons or tasers or cuffs.

“Maybe it’s all—”

“Aah! My machines!” someone screams from the doorway.

Atsumu’s head snaps around to point a blaster at the intrusion, and he finds a guy watching them with huge headphones over his ears, armfuls of snacks and magazines, and his head bent to fit his height beneath the frame.

“Don’t shoot me!” he cries, dropping all his snacks to put his hands up. He quickly pulls his headphones down, then returns his hands to surrender and scrunches his eyes closed, as though waiting for them to shoot him anyway.

They don’t shoot, but neither Atsumu nor Sakusa lower their blasters.

“You the bastard makin’ these things?” Atsumu asks him.

“Yeah!” the guy says. “Can I open my eyes now?”

He’s not what Atsumu had been expecting the tech to look like. He’d been imagining a guy in a leather jacket with a toothpick hanging from his sneer, not a lanky, overgrown child with poor self-preservation skills.

“I didn’t tell ya to close ‘em,” Atsumu reminds him.

“Oh! Right. Yeah!”

He opens his eyes – bright, sharp, and green – and then squints at the both of them. “You’re the Bounty Hunters,” he concludes. “The big bad ones.” He frowns to himself. “That guy lied, though. He said one would be dressed like a lime, not a banana.”

Atsumu snorts out a laugh. He waits for Sakusa to tell him to shut up, to turn and send him a tired glare. He doesn’t, and Atsumu’s chest feels strange, like it’s hollow. Aching. Angry. He wants to grab Sakusa’s chin and force him to look his way, because Sakusa’s always supposed to be looking and Atsumu doesn’t know what to do now that he suddenly isn’t.

The guy clicks his fingers as though he’s come up with a great idea and Atsumu forces himself to concentrate. “You can help me!”

“No,” Atsumu says, tilting his blaster, “we’re just here to kill ya.”

“No! No! Don’t do that!” He holds his hands up higher and scrunches his eyes closed again. “Look! See! I’m not running away! I was hoping I’d meet you one day! I need your help!”

Atsumu lowers his blaster slightly. Sakusa doesn’t.

“What kinda help, big guy?”

“The Director is scary,” he says and cracks one eye open. “You’re going to kill him, right?”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow.

Sakusa says, “Yes.”

“Then I’ll help you!”

He bends down and picks up his snacks. With a wide, excitable smile he tries to rush over, but Sakusa shoots the ground in front of him so that he screams again and jumps backwards. The guy looks to Atsumu for help. Atsumu shrugs.

“Why the fuck should we trust you?” Sakusa asks.

“Because I used to make robots!” he yells. When Sakusa just looks blankly at him, the guy continues, “You know! The ones that wrestle!” He makes some odd, explanatory noises –bams and blaaahs and pews – that he punctuates with his fingers in mock explosions.

Atsumu’s title of Most Confusing Person might be in contention. His head feels like how the guy’s finger demonstrations look.

“I’m going to shoot him,” Sakusa warns.

“No! No! Please! What I mean to say is, I’m not supposed to make blasters! I’m supposed to make robots! That’s why they’re so bad! The blasters,” he tags on, “not the robots.”

“So?”

“So I want to make robots again! Not blasters. I’m sorry if I hurt you! Or anyone! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t have a choice!”

Sakusa lowers his blaster slightly in an invitation to continue, and the guy runs with it. “It was fun at first!” he says. “This guy found me at my robot wrestling match and told me I was really good. He said I was a great mechanic and that he wanted to invest in my talent! He brought me here and gave me a proper workshop and a whole bunch of crystal cores and told me to do whatever I wanted with no strings attached. It was awesome!”

Atsumu thinks he’s probably an idiot. Sakusa does too judging by his unimpressed glare.

“It was awesome! I made a lot of fun things all day every day and there’s all those free snacks upstairs, but then he…added the strings, I guess. He gave me some blueprints and told me to start focussing on making blasters for him. I wasn’t very good at it. I’ve never made them before! I mean it was okay, because Yaku-san taught me, and I got the hang of it eventually, but then the Director guy started getting annoyed because I wasn’t making them fast enough.” He frowns. “One day, when I was behind on orders, he got one of his guys to come by to tell me he’d found out where my sister lived and that if I didn’t work up to his standards, he’d hurt her. Real bad. Dead bad.”

“You have no idea who you’re actually working for, do you?” Sakusa asks.

“No,” the guy admits easily and his shoulders sag a little like he’s only realising it now. “Not really. He said he was called the Director and I thought that sounded cool. But he’s not cool. He’s horrible. Yesterday he sent me a message and told me that if I messed up one more time, he’d kill my sister, then me, because I’m easily replaceable. Whatever that means.”

“Whatever that means,” Atsumu echoes.

“Yeah! And now look what you’ve done! You’ve made it so that I’ve messed up! My machines are broken and now he’s going to kill me! You have to help me, Bounty Hunter-sans!” He slaps his palms together in prayer and scrunches his eyes closed again. “Please! I know a lot of things! People don’t think I listen because I talk so much, but I do!”

Atsumu looks around at the trashed workshop and the shitty blasters on the floor, then at Sakusa. He’s still got his blaster raised, though half-heartedly, and he still won’t acknowledge Atsumu’s existence. After a weird moment of silence, Sakusa holsters it and walks away, and Atsumu takes that for what it is.

“Fine,” Atsumu says.

“Really? You’ll help? I need to get my sister out of the city before the Director finds out about all this. Can you do that?”

“Sure. But listen good, kid. If you try to cross us, I promise you I will know about it. If your information is shit, if it leads somewhere it shouldn’t, I will find you, wherever the fuck you are, and I will find your sister too, and make her watch as I smash your dumb head like one of your machines. Understand?”

The guy glances at his heavily-dented cutting machine and swallows. “You can trust me,” he says. “I just want to make sure my sister is safe. And make robots.”

The guy’s name is Lev. That’s the only question Atsumu gets an answer to before he launches into a tirade of information that’s so hard to keep up with it feels a lot like Atsumu’s brain is performing ten simultaneous gymnastics routines.

It also turns out that there’s a reason for the weird tech not being here: It’s somewhere else. Multiple somewheres, to be exact.

They’re sitting around a workshop table, Sakusa at one end, Atsumu at the other, and Lev’s caught in between with a note pad and a pen, totally oblivious to Atsumu’s searching stare, and Sakusa’s careful avoidance.

“Yaku-san and I make all the blasters,” he says. “Yaku-san’s really cool, he’s the one I told you about, the one who helped me learn how to make them so I didn’t get murdered earlier. You should help him too! He told me the Director is threatening his brothers, just like he is Alisa – that’s my sister, she’s really pretty.”

“Get to the fucking point,” Sakusa snaps.

Atsumu couldn’t have put it better himself.

“Yeah! Well, there’s a few workshops, see, and sometimes someone’s trying to make something that needs another brain or perspective because we all have different ones. I used to get called a lot because making robots is quite similar to making some other things– sometimes I’d go and visit so I could help them work on it, sometimes I’d just talk through the computer. It means I know where all the workshops are! You want to destroy them like mine, right?”

Atsumu watches Sakusa drum his gloved fingers against the table. “Mhm.”

“Y’know for Bounty Hunters, you two are really boring. Like you’re vibes are practically non-existent. I thought this would be way more exciting.” He says vibes with a wiggling of his fingers.

Atsumu, preoccupied with Sakusa’s, says, “Yeah.”

Lev chews the inside of his cheek, then shrugs. “There’s Circuit-san who makes these weird sorts of devices, like with wires and noises, then there’s Metal-san. He makes this weird rope that wraps too tight. I got it stuck around my hands once, had to cut myself free with the belt saw and almost took my fingers off.”

“Just write them down,” Sakusa says through his teeth. “Like I asked.”

“Sure, sure, Super-Sour-Spiky-san.”

“And watch your fuckin’ mouth,” Atsumu warns.

For a moment, Sakusa’s hand stills and Atsumu holds his breath, but then it continues drumming and he lets it out.

“Okay!” Lev swallows again and looks between them nervously before picking up where he left off. “There’s Wizard-san, too. He’s the old guy who has all those weird potions and electrical things. He used his taser on me once. I thought my brain was going to explode from the inside. You’re going to kill him right? He probably deserves it. Yaku-san said he looks like he eats children and I think he might be right.”

“Is that everyone?” Sakusa asks.

Lev counts to four using his fingers, then points to himself. “Five! Yes. That’s everyone.”

Atsumu snatches the note pad from him and glances over the information. There’s one more workshop in the lower city, and the other three are midcity. He recognises them all – a hardware store, a sports shop, and a computer house. The last is just an abandoned warehouse to Atsumu’s knowledge, on the very outskirts of the lower city, near the old canal harbour of stagnant water that’s redundant now due to the influx of airships.

He pushes it across the table for Sakusa to look over, but he ignores it and gets up out of his seat. Atsumu’s not sure if he wants to punch him, or shake him. Both sounds good.

With Lev’s information tucked into his pocket, and Bokuto and Kenma informed of Alisa’s location, they get to work destroying the rest of the workshop with bats, pipes, and grenades. It’s a mess of machinery by the time they’re finished, the only things spared being the crates of crystal cores that Atsumu and Lev carry to the car as a gift for Osamu.

Sakusa slams the car door when he climbs in.

Atsumu opens it and leans in to the open space. “I dunno what the fuck’s wrong with ya, but don’t slam my fuckin’ doors,” he says, then slams the door louder than before. He holds up a middle finger to the glass as he continues checking his tires, but he doubts Sakusa’s even looking.

Atsumu’s not even sure why he’s the one mad. But he’s not mad, not really, just confused and a little desperate to get Sakusa to look at him, to talk to him, to acknowledge him. Maybe he’s also a little desperate to see if Sakusa calling him a bastard might alleviate the weird feeling in his chest because maybe he’s gotten a little too used to having someone to bounce off and now he’s alone again.

When did that become a thing?

Lev climbs into the backseats and pulls out his phone to start chattering away with someone, while Atsumu checks the address of the hotel Bokuto and Kenma are taking Alisa to.

It would be nice, Atsumu thinks, to say that the car is silent as he meanders along the winding lower city roads. Instead, Atsumu’s left grimacing through the onslaught of an oncoming headache as he tries to drown out another story about robot wrestling techniques with whoever the fuck Yuki is.

“Is this how I make you feel all the time?” Atsumu takes his chances by asking Sakusa.

“No,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu almost crashes the car in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting an answer. “You make me feel worse.”

“That can’t be true.”

Atsumu turns to look at him, at his smooth skin illuminated in flashes as they pass beneath streetlights. He looks for the joke in the twitch to his brow, looks for the familiar pout, or the nasty smirk.

Unconsciously, Atsumu lingers on his mouth. He remembers it hovering above his own.

“It is,” Sakusa says and pushes Atsumu’s face back towards the road. “Stop talking to me.”

For a little while he listens, concentrating on the road whilst trying to catch glimpses of Sakusa out of the corner of his eye. It doesn’t last, because Atsumu feels like he’s going to explode unless he says, “Do you wanna talk abou—”

Music floods the car. Sakusa turns the radio volume up so high it makes Atsumu wince and Lev scream and hit his head on the car ceiling. When Atsumu reaches for the dial to turn it back down, Sakusa knocks his hand away. When Lev screams for some peace and quiet, Sakusa ignores him and continues staring wordlessly out of the window. And when Atsumu tries to reach for the buttons a second time, Sakusa bats him away harder and keeps his switchblade pointed threateningly at it until they all give up and resign themselves to sitting in horrendous, agonising noise.

They part ways with Lev forty minutes later, by which time Atsumu’s head feels almost as bad as it did the morning he woke up from being tranquilised. He leaves them with a wave and his phone number and tells them he’ll let Yaku know they’re coming to save him too.

Atsumu rolls the window back up as Lev starts offering his robot services to the cause and throws the piece of paper with his number on it into the back with the rest of his rubbish.

The journey back to the apartment is slow. Atsumu drives below the speed limit, trying to prolong their forced proximity as long as he can, hoping Sakusa might say something, but he fucking doesn’t.

When they get out of the car Sakusa’s the first to the elevator. When they get out of the elevator, he stalks off to his room and slams the door behind him so hard the apartment shakes and Atsumu’s left standing in the middle of it wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to do now.

The answer is lie down on the sofa and stare at the ceiling.

He replays the day over and over and over in his head trying to make sense of it all, and though he tries, he can’t find anything or anyone to blame other than himself.

He holds his gloved hand up and stares at it, remembering the feel of Sakusa’s beneath it, the look on Sakusa’s face when he realised what he’d let slip.

I don’t need you to make anything easier.

Atsumu wonders just how hard he made it for Sakusa instead and feels guilt gnawing at him again.

Guilt, anger, frustration, jealousy – it all seems to burn. Like the scorching heat of his switchblade is being pressed into his chest, twisting, and twisting, and twisting.

He’s not sure what’s worse. That incessant fire, or the weird sort of numb hollowness that drowns him every time Sakusa ignores him.

What do you want from me, Miya?

Atsumu thinks if Sakusa asked him that again, his answer would be different. If Sakusa threw him against a wall right now, if he got that close again, if he fisted his hand in Atsumu’s shirt and looked at his lips like he’s been thinking about nothing else for months – Atsumu would probably kiss him. Fuck that, he knows he’d kiss him, because he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Because who else, really, has ever been able to pry their way beneath Atsumu’s skin so thoroughly?

Nobody.

Nobody else occupies his mind like that.

Nobody else makes him want to burn the whole city to the ground.

Nobody else gets it. Not like Sakusa.

Shit.

He stares at the ceiling for what must be hours. He hears music from Sakusa’s room, and it only cuts out when he locks himself in the bathroom for a shower. Atsumu counts the minutes – ten, twenty, twenty-five, thirty – until he comes back out again and returns to his room, quietly, this time.

It’s nearing five in the morning when he picks his way over to the kitchen and makes a cup of coffee with hands that don’t quite feel like his own.

He’s standing at the counter waiting for it to cool when the door to Sakusa’s room opens again and he makes his way over to join him.

Atsumu leans against the counter and watches him from the corner of his eye. Watches his hands move, watches the muscles in his arms tense as he moves things around, watches the light catch the slight dampness of his recently showered curls. He keeps spilling it. Keeps fumbling the spoon so that its clinks against the ceramic cut through the silence like blasterfire.

Atsumu thinks he’s going to make his cup and leave, but he stops after stirring it and leaves it on the counter.

“Don’t change,” he blurts suddenly. “Don’t act different because you—”

Know, lies crushed and unsaid in the tight curl of his fists.

Because Atsumu can’t just stop being an asshole over the course of one night, he says, “Thought I wasn’t allowed to talk to ya.”

When Sakusa tells him to “Shut up,” relief feels like the messy spray of an extinguisher. He hides his smile in the rim of his mug.

“This is my… affliction to deal with,” Sakusa continues, glaring down at his coffee. “You weren’t supposed to find out. Ever.”

Atsumu snorts. “Crushin’ on me’s a sickness?”

Sakusa’s face twists. “Don’t phrase it that way. I’m not a schoolchild.”

“How the fuck else am I supposed to say it? You like me.”

“I also hate you.”

“Yeah? How’s that work?”

“Very easily,” he snaps. “It took you this long to notice.”

Atsumu closes his mouth and looks away.

Sakusa sighs – one measured exhale that he accompanies with a quiet tapping of his finger against the counter. There’s only the humming of the fridge for a while, the dripping of the tap Atsumu didn’t turn off properly. Then, “Just pretend you don’t know,” Sakusa says quietly. “Carry on as normal. Be an asshole about it if you have to, just don’t—”

He swallows whatever word comes next. Atsumu’s not sure what it would have been.

“I’m gonna do what I always do,” he says. “Whatever the fuck I want.”

“Of course you are,” Sakusa laughs, and it isn’t one of humour, it’s dejected, laced with spite.

Sakusa turns on his heel to leave without his coffee, but Atsumu calls after him and he stops, waiting for him to continue. “Listen,” he says. “I may have been foolin’ around before because I didn’t know any better but I—it’s—whatever I say from here on out, I’ll fuckin’ mean it, okay? No more games.”

Sakusa turns and holds his gaze for a long time. Atsumu’s very careful not to let his own waver. It feels like forever before Sakusa nods, and Atsumu feels some satisfaction, because maybe he’s been trying to squash a square peg in a round hole for the past year, and maybe he’s just discovered that the round one has been resting next to his hand this whole time, waiting for him to pick it up.

He’s going to pick it up now.

Chapter Text

When they’re sitting in the car again the next evening, waiting outside the sports shop that houses Metal-san’s workshop, Sakusa asks, “What the fuck are you looking at?” and Atsumu replies, “You.”

It comes after a day spent wading through the cold, sobering waters of introspection and self-reflection, because now Atsumu knows there’s a song on Sakusa’s radio he wants to listen to, and he’s trying his hardest to tune himself into the right frequency.

He’s hoping he might stumble upon it if he observes Sakusa close enough, if he rubs away the blurred fog from the lenses he sees the world through, if he turns off the filter that only ever used to show him what he wanted to see, instead of what was actually there.

It’s been a long, exhausting, and altogether quite humbling day for his brain. One that seems intent on correcting the misconceptions he’s fooled himself into believing over the past year.

So now Atsumu’s taking diligent notes. He’s watching Sakusa scowl at the windshield, watching his jaw tense and relax like a pulse, watching his dark eyes follow people as they scurry along the streets during the late evening rush hour. He’s thinking Sakusa’s a whole lot more attractive than he’s been giving him credit for (and he’s been giving him quite a lot of credit) and he’s watching his mouth move and he’s listening as it says, “Well don’t. Watch the shop. Like you’re supposed to.”

“Pretty sure only one of us needs to be watchin’ the shop,” Atsumu says. “Unless ya don’t trust yourself to do a good enough job on your own. I don’t blame ya. People assume the skill gap between Rank One and Two isn’t that steep, but it’s actually huge.”

Sakusa sighs, but Atsumu’s not sure if it’s out of weariness, or relief that they’ve returned to their version of normal. “I’m no etymologist,” he drawls, “but I’d be willing to bet an incalculable sum of money that the first recorded usage of the word ‘insufferable,’ and the time of your conceiving directly coincide.”

Atsumu lets out a low whistle, but it cuts out early because it’s impossible to whistle whilst smiling. “Whoo boy, someone had their Synonym Toast Crunch for breakfast, huh? Lemme get my dictionary out for that one. Some big words in there.”

He’s still watching when Sakusa narrows his eyes at the windshield, and this time, he sticks around long enough to see the slightest twitch of a smile at the end of Sakusa’s scowl. It makes his spine straighten reflexively, makes his brain feel as though it’s pulled a slot machine lever and lined up three lucky sevens.

“Not really, but take your time,” Sakusa coos. “I know thinking can be extremely difficult for you, Miya.”

“Yeah, I’m workin’ real hard on that, buttercup,” he says with a grin. “Just for you.”

Unlike Osamu and Lev’s workshops, the sports shop has an active front that functions as a real store with frequent, paying customers. When he faces the front to do his job again he can see people milling about and perusing the shelves through the glass windows, can see more hovering around outside, tapping away on their phones, sitting on cold metal benches with radioactive-looking drinks from the new fad takeaway restaurant that opened up nearby.

Like everyone else in this damned city they’re all oblivious to what’s transpiring beneath their feet – even the uniformed officers patrolling the streets are clueless, looking for pickpockets and delinquents instead of Director-shaped masks and fucked up blasters.

It makes him think about the city, makes him wonder what else might be lurking beneath the concrete and asphalt, what villains with grand ideas might be waiting in the shadows. He spares a thought for the Director, too. He wonders what he’s doing right now, if he’s sitting at a desk somewhere scheming, of if he’s pacing the floors of his palace waiting for two pissed Bounty Hunters to kick his door down.

Atsumu’s spent weeks imagining how that might go. In some of his dreams the Director’s on his knees, begging for Atsumu to shoot him. In others he’s taking turns with Sakusa to put bullets in his chest. In all of them, they beat him until the mask on his face cracks, until he’s bleeding enough for the both of them, screaming louder than a blaster explosion.

“How long d’ya think this whole thing’s been cookin’?” he muses aloud, frowning as a mother and young son walk by with huge smiles on their faces and their hands wound tightly together. “Y’know, the Director Coup Soup.”

He pronounces ‘coup’ like ‘soup’ and Sakusa clicks his tongue in disgust.

“Hard to say. It takes time to build a network of this scale, but it can’t have been too long, or we’d have caught wind of it before. If not to stop it, then to at least steer clear of it all whilst working.”

Atsumu hums. “You think it’ll actually end if we kill the bastard? Or d’ya think we’re gonna be Hunting buddies for the next fifty years?”

“If there is a higher power and it is merciful, it won’t subject me to any more torture in my lifetime.”

“A take without the heavy helping of motherfuckery, if you please, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “Why does my opinion even matter? It’s not like we’ll be able to argue if Kuroo cries banishment and puts his foot down again.”

“Because yours is one of the few I actually give a shit about.”

Atsumu knows Sakusa is looking at him even without the shuffling of nylon that tells him he’s turned his neck. He can feel the weight of it, the heavy questions loading his stare, the ones Sakusa would probably rather die than ask aloud.

Sakusa can ask as many as he dares – the answer for them all will be the same: I mean it, remember?

Atsumu tilts his head to the left and is met with a sceptically raised brow. He raises one back in a challenge, and his chest feels molten when they both turn towards the shop again.

“I don’t think there’s any one person in this city with a large enough brain on their shoulders to continue in the Director’s footsteps,” Sakusa says after clearing his throat. “But I do think it’ll take some time for the hierarchy to resettle itself.”

That would be the best case scenario, Atsumu supposes. Nobody knows the true extent of how deep the Director’s roots run through the city’s crime syndicates. Killing him could trigger a huge fallout - turf wars, infighting, leadership disputes – or it could snuff them all out, like a wet blanket atop a fire.

“Maybe I’ll take over,” Atsumu says. “Put the crown on my head.”

“I don’t think they sell crowns the size of Jupiter.”

“I’ll get it custom made. I think it’ll suit me. I’m a natural-born leader.”

Sakusa huffs a laugh, one of those forced exhales through his nose that’s hard to differentiate from a scoff. Atsumu wonders if he’s scoffing at Atsumu, or at himself for finding Atsumu amusing. It’s probably a warped combination of both.

“You are a natural-born headache,” he says.

“Why’s that?” Atsumu asks. “Because I’m runnin’ through your mind all day?”

“Stomping around like an inept clown, more like,” Sakusa mutters, and Atsumu snorts, then the snort becomes a laugh, and then he’s smiling at the street as his shoulders shake because the thought of Atsumu stumbling around in oversized shoes, banging pots and pans together in Sakusa’s mind as he tries to sleep is impossible not to find hilarious.

He feels Sakusa’s gaze on him again when he lets out one last humoured exhale. “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” he asks when he catches his eye.

Sakusa holds it for a moment, then says, “You.”

“Well don’t,” Atsumu says thickly, throat suddenly as tight as it had been in the hallway the night before. He nods towards the windshield. “Do your fuckin’ job and watch the shop, rookie.”

It takes another ten minutes for a gang member to walk up to the shop doors. Atsumu and Sakusa climb out at the same time, already kitted out with the equipment they’ll need, and Atsumu’s happy to finally stretch his legs out after the tedious wait.

The guy they’re following walks straight through the sports shop, past the shelves of rackets and bats and balls, and he nods at the tired cashier behind the desk. She hands him a slip of paper, then he carries on towards the elevator at the back of the store next to an array of changing rooms.

They maintain a smart distance – close enough to see where he’s going, but far enough that he doesn’t catch wind of them and scream bloody murder the second he spots the calling card that is their clashing jackets.

They walk up to the desk and Atsumu nods in a similar way as the man had done. The cashier gives them a bored once over, then shrugs and hands them a folded slip of paper.

Atsumu doesn’t open it until they arrive at the elevator and Sakusa’s pressing the button with his knuckle.

“It’s the code for the door,” Atsumu says as he reads the string of tiny numbers printed in black ink. “And here I was hopin’ to play another guessin’ game with the keypad. Y’know, since the last one ended so well.”

“The day you discover that you are not the comedian you think you are, is the day this city finds peace.”

“This city will never find peace,” Atsumu tells him.

“Why not? Because you’re still alive? I can change that.”

“No,” Atsumu says, then flicks the fabric of Sakusa’s jacket sleeve. “Because this fuckin’ thing is so loud it’s keepin’ everyone awake.”

As the doors open and they step into the elevator, Sakusa says, “One day, you’re going to get hit by a car, and I’m going to be able laugh because this jacket prevented me from getting hit by the aforementioned car.”

“Yeah? And one day, someone’s gonna mistake ya for a traffic cone and accidentally hit ya over anyway.”

Atsumu watches Sakusa’s face drop into a scowl in the reflection of the elevator doors. “What benefits would dressing like you grant me? Arrogance? Stupidity?”

“Accordin’ to my dictionary, those aren’t benefits.”

“They’re all you currently have to offer.”

“You forgot sexiness.”

“No,” he says. “I didn’t.”

Atsumu laughs. “My jacket would at least help to disguise your blushin’ problem, that’s for sure.” The doors open then, and there’s a slight skip to Atsumu’s step as he enters the hallway.

The front of the workshop isn’t the only glaringly obvious difference between the other workshops they’ve visited. Rather than cold concrete, the floors are fitted with a layer of diamond plated steel, and the walls are grey stone brick. He gets a really close look at that when two strong hands push him into it face first. Sakusa stalks off, face a thundering storm cloud, footsteps knocking angrily against the metal flooring.

Atsumu scrambles to catch up and pulls Sakusa backward with a fistful of yellow nylon, then they’re pushing and pulling each other around, knocking each other into the walls, shouting curse words and stumbling over their own feet to get to the door at the end of the hallway first.

Sakusa pulls ahead, and Atsumu throws a foot into the back of his knee to make him buckle. Atsumu gains an advantage, and Sakusa lassos the rope-end of his grappling hook around Atsumu’s wrist to pull his hand away from the keypad.

“That’s real childish of ya, Omi-kun,” he grunts when Sakusa yanks the rope so harshly Atsumu’s whole body follows it. With the proximity Sakusa gains, he tries to snatch the paper slip from between Atsumu’s fingers, but Atsumu balls it up in his fist and sends him a middle finger.

Sakusa tugs the rope again, and Atsumu tugs it back harder. It’s a stupid mistake, because Sakusa’s hold on it is slacker than he’d anticipated, and now Atsumu’s lost his already uncertain footing, and the momentum is forcing Sakusa to fall with him. His back hits the wall, softly this time, without the threat of concussion, and Sakusa’s hand finds the brick nearest Atsumu’s head to stop them from colliding.

“Whoops. We’ve been here before,” Atsumu grins up at him. “Guess my wish came true after all. Wonder what’ll happen this time. Any more secrets ya wanna share?”

Sakusa’s eyes meet his for a moment, then they narrow into a glare. His hand drops from the wall to grab Atsumu’s arm, and he twists him around so that his hands are forced behind his back and his cheek and chest are pressed tightly against the wall. “We’ve been here before too,” he says.

Sakusa leans in the way he had done that day outside the Bounty Office, mouth close to Atsumu’s ear, breath warm against his jaw. Only this time, Atsumu’s not feeling angered by it, he’s feeling something else that’s catching his breaths in his throat and making his toes curl excitedly in his shoes.

They haven’t just returned to the normal they forged after the attacks, they’ve gone back even further to the normal that saw them pushing each other into canals and knocking each other out for fun.

In that low, disinterested drawl, Sakusa says, “I thought you said nothing works on you twice. How embarrassing.”

Atsumu hums. “You’re only doin’ this ‘cause I’m lettin’ ya.”

There’s a slight sting as Sakusa presses him further into the wall and the corner of a brick catches his cheek. Something stirs and coils in the depths of Atsumu’s gut, something that makes him smile.

“And what kind of self-respecting Bounty Hunter would allow this? Makes you look pathetic.”

“Maybe I kinda like it.”

Maybe he likes more than just that. Maybe he likes Sakusa’s voiced disinterest cloaking the desperate tightness of his grip. Maybe he likes their games, the matches of verbal tennis that leave him smiling, smirking, grinning. Maybe he likes not having to look over his shoulder because Sakusa is always there, matching his pace. Maybe he likes being put in his place by the only person who’s capable of doing it.

“Now who’s the masochist?”

“Still you,” Atsumu says, then a small hiss leaves his mouth as Sakusa digs his thumb into the knuckle tendon between Atsumu’s middle finger and ring finger. It forces his hand open, and he can feel Sakusa taking the slip of paper, soft fabric tracing a line against the sensitive skin of his palm. “You only capable of makin’ moves on me in dingy hallways?”

“This isn’t a move,” Sakusa says.

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what do I have to do to get ya to finally make one?”

Sakusa doesn’t answer that. There’s a string of six beeps, then one long one as the door accepts the code.

The air turns cold when Sakusa’s body stops pressing against Atsumu’s to walk through the open door, and when Atsumu straightens up he finds that Sakusa’s untied the grappling hook rope from his wrist.

As he rubs an idle thumb over the reddening skin and feels the fast thumping of his pulse, Atsumu wonders just how many times he’s mistaken this bottomless, burning want for animosity.

Metal-san’s workshop looks like the inside of a spaceship. Like one of those sci-fi movie spaceships with the metal tables and the walls of monitor screens and flashing lights. The machines are streamlined and sleek, rather than bulky and covered in scratches like Osamu’s, and there are open cabinets with pieces of weird tech on display. Atsumu can see the metal rope that had once tied his legs together, and what looks to be a new upgrade with sharp, barbed teeth protruding from the wiry length of it.

It’s a busier shop, too, but judging by the way the men are standing alert and armed, Atsumu wagers they were probably expecting the Bounty Hunter Brigade this time around.

Atsumu doesn’t get to say hello or run his mouth. Both Atsumu and Sakusa pull their masks up and slip their visors on, then the fight breaks out immediately.

“Thirteen,” Sakusa says, before Atsumu even gets a chance to count. He loosens a smoke grenade from his belt and pulls the pin, and it makes the blaster fire cease just as quickly as it had started as those firing quickly lose sight of their targets.

“Wanna play a game?” Atsumu asks over the noise. He dips aside as a stray blaster bolt flies by, then his visor flickers to life and starts outlining bodies in the smoke. He maps out a path and fishes his switchblade out of his pocket. “Whoever downs more wins. Keep your own count.”

“What’s the prize?”

“Winner decides.”

Atsumu catches Sakusa’s shoulders shrugging before the smoke envelops them. “Okay,” he says.

Then they’re off; Atsumu darts off to the left while Sakusa takes the right, and the room fills with coughs and splutters and blaster fire in the meantime.

There is no chance for stealth; footsteps are loud and clangourous. When bodies hit the floor, they sound like hollow cracks of thunder.

Atsumu counts two men that he shoots from a distance, then he’s fighting with a third hand-to-hand.

He’s mindful this time of the possibility of tricks and gadgets, hyperaware of each and every subtle movement both in front of him and in his periphery. His eyes are focussed, his stance is wide, and his ears are alert for shifts in the stifling basement air.

The hits his opponent throws are wild and clumsy and searching in the smog, and as Atsumu blocks them, he pays attention to the glints of metal on the guy’s belt, swiping at his hands with the blistering heat of his switchblade when he attempts to reach for them.

For a little while, he entertains the guy, makes him feel special, as though he’s keeping up with Rank One, but then he gets bored, sweeps his feet out from under him, and shoots a blaster bolt through his face.

Three.

A metal lasso wraps around Atsumu’s arm where his vambrace is hidden beneath his jacket. He doesn’t even blink this time. He does the same as he had done to Sakusa and yanks as hard as he can, pulling the person on the other end into a forced hug. He turns to face a fifth man and uses the guy he’s holding as a shield to block two blaster shots. When the guy’s weight turns dead, he throws him aside and quickly winds the length of the slack lasso up into his fist.

It flicks out like a whip when he throws it, and Atsumu hears a wet choking sound as it finds its target and tightens around the guy’s neck. He yanks and hears a crack.

Five.

A man runs into him, probably away from Sakusa judging by the screams and sparks lighting up the opposite side of the room.

Atsumu’s learnt a lot about mercy the last few weeks – the last time he let a man live, he almost paid for it with his own life. If this man wakes after this whole mess is over and tries to harm someone, he’ll wish Atsumu had killed him here. So he does: A quick bolt to the temple that makes his visor flicker as it adjusts to the close range of the flash.

Six.

The smoke starts to dissipate slightly. There are fans in this spaceship, ones that have only recently been turned on as someone with a working brain tries to turn the tides of battle far too late.

With his switchblade, Atsumu severs the metal still connecting his arm to the dead man’s neck, and turns his attention to the room again, looking for his seventh.

He finds him: Metal-san.

A pair of goggles are perched on his weirdly elongated head, and he’s wearing a set of dark blue overalls with a leather apron tied around the front. Those details are a secondary observation to the red-hot metal rod he’s brandishing as a sword, however.

“Fire swords, right?” Atsumu says. “I’m tryin’ to make that a thing. Think you have time to sign my petition before I kill ya?”

“The Director said you like to talk a lot of nonsense,” Metal-san sneers. “‘The one in red will run his mouth because he is physically incapable of shutting it,’ he told me.”

Atsumu spins his blaster around his finger, and from the corner of his eye, he spots Sakusa taking down what looks to be his sixth man too.

“He also tell ya what colour socks I’m wearin’ and how I like my eggs? Sounds like he’s a little obsessed with me.”

“No. He said you were so self-absorbed, so arrogant, that all I have to do to beat you is keep you talking by feeding your astronomically large ego enough bullshit to catch you off—”

“Seven! I win, Omi-kun!”

Metal-san’s body hits the floor with a loud thud after Atsumu stops spinning his blaster long enough to shoot him with it. The rod clatters to the ground and hisses as it cools against the metal. Atsumu picks it up and gives it a few experimental swings. He definitely needs a sword.

Sakusa narrows his gaze at Atsumu’s side of the room and scans the carnage. The second he’s through counting the bodies and confirming Atsumu’s advantage, he sighs and holsters his blaster. “I don’t know why I even bother,” he grumbles. “It’s like I’m cursed to lose every game I play against you.”

“That’s ‘cause ya already lucked out enough gettin’ shackled to the man of your dreams,” Atsumu grins.

Atsumu dodges whatever Sakusa throws at him, and steps over Metal-san’s body to get to the desk behind. There’s a miniature city of PC towers cowering beneath it, beeping and flashing and humming quietly. Atsumu dips down to insert Aran’s specialised USB into the front of one, then turns his attention to the monitors.

Sakusa gets to work too, upending a crate of scrap to throw all of Metal-san’s creations and blueprints into. Atsumu’s not even certain what most of it does, but the sooner they destroy it all, the better. “And I suppose you’ve already decided upon a prize, judging by the stupid smile on your face.”

Atsumu smashes one of the monitors with the rod and a colourful crack dents the screen. “Damn right,” he says. “Didn’t even have to think about it.”

That’s a lie. He thought about it for at least a minute, which is arguably longer than he thinks about most things. He wanted to choose something that would still piss Sakusa off, but would also strengthen the foundations of what they’ve started to build, rather than shatter them.

“I reserve the right to refuse if I—”

“Free Omibucks coffee for life,” he says proudly.

The clashing and clattering of gadgets piling up stops as Sakusa pauses. Atsumu throws a look over his shoulder and is met with a withering grimace. “What?”

“Whenever ya make a cup,” Atsumu clarifies, “I get one too. A good one. Not one you’ve spat in or somethin’.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Atsumu tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “What were you expectin’?”

“I don’t know. For you to make me lick the floor or throw my jacket in a dumpster?”

“Ah shit. Those are good ones. Is it too late to change my mind?”

“No refunds,” Sakusa says quickly.

“In that case,” Atsumu laughs as he turns back to the monitors. “I take ten sugars, honey dumplin’.”

When Sakusa places the mug of coffee down next to Atsumu, he does it so harshly it spills and wets the sleeve of his sweatshirt, which is something he’s taken to doing purposefully on account of the fact he doesn’t want to be doing it at all.

“Hope it tastes like shit,” he says, like he has done at least twenty times over the past four days they’ve been predominantly stuck in the apartment planning.

Atsumu picks it up and lets the warmth heat his hands as he stares at the laptop screen. It doesn’t taste like shit. It never does, even if Sakusa does complain about each and every spoonful of sugar he stirs in.

“I found it,” Atsumu sing-songs, “because I’m not a technologically incompetent pensioner.”

Sakusa stands behind Atsumu’s chair and rests his hand on the back of it, knuckles brushing against Atsumu’s shoulder blade. That’s another thing he’s taken to – small, subtle touches that he probably thinks Atsumu hasn’t noticed the increased frequency of because he’s being very careful not to react and give Sakusa cause to stop. But he is noticing; each one is making him feel like a live wire. The brushing of hands when passing laptops, the accidental knocking of feet beneath the table, the pressing of shoulders when they sit next to each other on the sofa.

“I would have found it if you’d let me look for more than three seconds before snatching it away and calling me technologically incompetent.”

“It was an hour,” Atsumu shrugs. “But sure.”

He takes a noisy sip of his coffee and puts the mug down to point at the screen.

It’s open on a page of building plans from almost five decades ago, before the midcity’s renovations began. In between helping Aran decipher and dissect the information from Metal-san’s workshop computers, Akaashi sent the old city blueprints over from the Bounty Archives. The surface of the city might have had a facelift, but its bowels remain unchanged, and it’s how they’re finally going to get around the little problem that’s been plaguing them for the past four days.

Since Atsumu and Sakusa took out Metal-san, and Bokuto and Kenma discreetly took Yaku and his brothers somewhere safe, the Director has concentrated security tenfold around the remaining workshops and their respective techs.

The night after their last success, they’d driven past the hardware store that houses Wizard-san’s lab to scope it out, but found the street outside busy with parked vans and the ground floor teeming with over fifty armed guards. Not even Atsumu and his belt of grenades had fancied those odds.

They’d stayed up long hours drinking coffee, arguing, agreeing, bantering, and trying to brainstorm hundreds of different paths around it to no avail. The Director has access to cameras, so climbing the side of the building is out of the question. Vents are no longer big enough for people to crawl through so there’s no chance of them sneaking in and knocking out the room with sleeping gas. Storming it alone would be a fool’s errand, and neither one of them wants to call for help from the rest of the guild, despite the fact Kuroo encourages it every chance he gets.

Curled up in an armchair, Atsumu had sat most nights with his cheek resting on his knee, watching Sakusa as he lied flat on his back upon the sofa cushions, steadily throwing and catching a tennis ball and rambling through dozens of hypothetical scenarios. He’s never felt so content just to sit and listen to someone before, but there’s something about the timbre of Sakusa’s voice that makes him want to hang on to each and every word from his mouth.

After the third day of scrapped plans, they’d both been considering reaching for the phone to make the dreaded, last resort call for backup, but then Sakusa had remembered a job he’d done in which he was stuck traversing the city’s old tunnels and things had started to fall into place.

If they can’t walk in the front door, and they can’t climb across the rooftops, then they’ll have to try their chances underground. It seems simple now.

Atsumu finger points to a section of tunnel beneath the canal a few streets away from the hardware store. “This entrance leads the quickest route past the store basement. We can blow the wall and enter through the side.”

Sakusa leans in and Atsumu can feel his face hovering nearby, can smell the freshness of his laundered clothes over the strong notes of coffee. “Do we have explosives powerful enough?”

With a nod, Atsumu says, “I’ve got a whole kit of heavy-hitting shit in my car from a job a few months back.”

“Okay. Then we’ll cut the power to the storefront remotely so that the elevator is out of use, and destroy the dealer and the lab before the guards even realise something’s wrong.” Sakusa pauses. “We’ll also need a tool for the manhole cover. They’re specialised to prevent ordinary people entering the tunnels.”

“I’m sure Samu has one somewhere.” Atsumu turns to the side and looks up to meet Sakusa’s eye. “We can go pick it up and start tonight?”

Sakusa holds his gaze, and Atsumu doesn’t smirk or say anything suggestive about their proximity. He doesn’t let his eyes drop to Sakusa’s lips like he wants to, and he doesn’t try to move any closer. He just offers a small, ordinary smile as he waits for his answer.

It’s Sakusa who looks away first. “Finish your heart-attack-in-a-cup and we’ll go.”

Fifteen minutes later they’re walking into Osamu’s arcade. Atsumu texted to warn him they were coming, but Osamu said it would take a while to find the tool considering how much of a mess his workshop is in. Atsumu had told him not to rush, and that they’d wait for him on the arcade floor.

Most of the machines are still powered down, so Atsumu makes a beeline for the switches behind Osamu’s desk and flicks them all on. Familiar music floods the room, and the once dark, dingy atmosphere becomes bright and playful with flashing lights. He forces open Osamu’s cash register with the blade of his knife, takes out two fistfuls of coins, keeps one for himself, and hands the other to Sakusa.

“Go wild,” he says.

Sakusa glances down at the coins. “Don’t you steal from Osamu enough?”

“It’s goin’ back into his machines anyway,” Atsumu shrugs. “And don’t call him that.”

“What?” Sakusa raises a brow. “His name?”

“Yeah.” He pauses, then he frowns as he idly kicks at the side of a machine. “Why don’t ya call me by mine too? Everyone else does.”

“Because Osamu is my friend,” Sakusa says like it’s obvious.

The coins in Atsumu’s hand creak as his fist tightens around them. What’s he supposed to say to that? We’re friends! They’re not. They’re rivals – colleagues, maybe, at a push.

And he’s very suddenly been thrown back into the unforgiving waters of sobering realisation again - that terrible burning is back, the one that Atsumu’s now cognizant of being connected with jealousy, the one that’s now telling him he doesn’t have a problem sharing his brother, he has a problem sharing Sakusa and the strange dynamic they’ve created for themselves.

As he stands there scowling, chewing the inside of his cheek, Sakusa scoffs. A nasty smile unfurls upon his face, one that tells Atsumu that Sakusa knows exactly what he’s doing and what Atsumu’s thinking. He asks, “Is there a problem, Miya?”

Yes, several.

“No,” Atsumu snaps.

Sakusa has the audacity to laugh as Atsumu shoulders past him, so in return, Atsumu finds Pac-Man and sits at it so Sakusa can’t play his stupid, dumb, favourite game or whatever. Fuck him.

They play in silence while Atsumu cools down and wallows in his own idiocy. Sakusa starts with Castlevania, then he moves over to Centipede, and Space Invaders, and Mortal Kombat 2, while Atsumu quietly fumes and refuses to budge from Pac-Man despite the fact it’s kicking his ass.

Each game he loses escalates his anguish further; the GAME OVER screens still boast Sakusa’s high scores, and the one for Pac-Man is arguably the most unbeatable – it’s reached three million. It’s the only leader board on which Atsumu’s name doesn’t appear at all.

He’s finishing another bad round when the air shifts around him and yellow nylon lights up his periphery.

“That’s where you’re going wrong,” Sakusa says over Atsumu’s shoulder.

“Where?” Atsumu frowns as the GAME OVER screen starts blinking with its continuation countdown. Again. “Sittin’ down at the machine? Pressin’ play?”

Sakusa huffs a laugh, “Yes. But also, you’re turning too late.”

There’s a pause, then Sakusa inserts a coin into the slot and his hand hesitates over Atsumu’s for a moment, as though waiting for him to move it aside. Atsumu thinks about moving, but then the warmth of Sakusa’s distinctly non-gloved hand envelopes his own around the joystick and Atsumu’s mind runs blank.

Sakusa leans down so that his chest feels dangerously close to Atsumu’s back and his head lingers just above Atsumu’s so that he can see the game screen.

“There are strategies,” he dips down to say into Atsumu’s ear as the game begins. “Certain paths you should memorise to maximise your score.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu asks thickly, and he knows he should be looking at the screen where Sakusa’s generously demonstrating his Pac-Man prowess, but he can’t tear his eyes from Sakusa’s slender fingers wrapped around his own, the subtle movement of his thumb smoothing experimentally over Atsumu’s.

He’s not used to gentleness. Not from his friends, not from his family, not from anyone, especially not from Sakusa. It feels like a secret, one that’s bleeding uncertainty from his gut, pulling tangled wires out of his brain and finally plugging them back into the right place.

Sakusa hums. “There’s a different one for each stage.”

“Who the fuck has time for that?” Atsumu asks absently.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how badly you want to win.”

Atsumu tips his head back to find Sakusa’s eyes, but Sakusa doesn’t tear his gaze away from the game. He uses his free hand to tilt Atsumu’s head downwards again. “Pay attention, Atsumu,” he says.

A shiver tickles Atsumu’s spine, and he swallows down the hitching of his breath. He can’t hear the game anymore through the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears, can’t feel anything but the point at which they meet. He vaguely registers the score climbing into the thousands, but then his eyes fall back to the flashing lights that flicker over the picture of their joined hands.

His voice is barely a murmur when he asks, “This a move, Omi?”

Sakusa’s hand tightens around his own.

“That depends,” he says again.

“On what?”

“On if you want it to be.”

Atsumu tilts his head back again. He watches Sakusa’s jaw tense, watches his eyes dart around the screen, watches his throat bob as he swallows.

He says, “I want it to be.”

The stage finishes. Atsumu distantly registers the congratulatory music he’s only ever heard once or twice. Sakusa looks down at him, eyes dark and searching. He says, “Okay,” so quietly Atsumu wouldn’t have known he’d said it if not for the movement of his lips, then he removes himself, straightens up, and tucks his hands back into his pockets.

Atsumu opens his mouth to protest the sudden regression, but then Osamu comes barging noisily through the door not a second later and he wonders just how loud his pulse must still be in his ears not to have heard him coming up the stairs.

He clears his throat and stuffs his hands into his pockets too, just in case Osamu takes one look at them and somehow works out what happened.

The moment Osamu steps inside there’s a brightness to him, Atsumu notices immediately. There’s a lightness to his step, and the shadows beneath his eyes have vanished. Maybe he’s just in a particularly good mood, or maybe Aran’s been making good on his promise to force Osamu to get more sleep – he hasn’t even yawned yet.

“This the thing you’re lookin’ for?” he grunts as he hoists something up onto the counter with a loud bang.

It’s unmistakably what they’re looking for – a rod as long as Atsumu’s leg, with a handle at one end, and a design made specifically to match and lock into the indents of midcity’s manhole covers at the other.

“Yes,” Sakusa says. “Thank you.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t melt it down and make somethin’ else with it,” Osamu laughs, then he stops when he realises Atsumu isn’t paying attention and narrows his eyes. “The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“What? Nothin’,” Atsumu says quickly. He pulls the tool off the counter and almost drops it with how unexpectedly heavy it is in his nervous hands.

“I’ll keep the shelf clear for that Oscar. I almost believed ya that time.”

“I’m just thinkin’ ‘bout the plan,” he lies. “It’s hard bein’ a genius.”

“Sure,” Osamu says slowly and sceptically. “There anythin’ else ya wanna badger me about before I go?”

Atsumu’s about to say no, but then he remembers something. “Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “There is one thing.”

“If it starts with ‘sw’ and ends in ‘ord’ I’ll jump over this desk and kill you with my bare hands.”

Atsumu sniffs. “Ya know what? I think I actually forgot.”

“That’s what I thought. Now get the fuck out.” He dips below the counter and switches the machines off again, then waits for them to start walking towards the door, to call, “If you’re gonna die!”

“Don’t die at all,” Atsumu returns.

Atsumu thinks he might deserve that Oscar after all. The drive to the other end of the city is quiet, and neither of them bring up the huge elephant sitting in the space between their hands. Their chat is limited to plan specifics and escape routes should they find something unexpected upon arrival, and Atsumu pulls his focus together to contribute normally.

They stop right beside the manhole cover. It’s a quiet street, so Atsumu parks how he pleases and lets Sakusa deal with the cover lifting while he fills his rucksack with explosives. He has more than enough. Saeko always gives him more firepower than he needs when he comes calling for Big Booms. He’d say it was because she found him charming, but deep down Atsumu knows it has more to do with her flippant pyromania and blatant disregard for the city’s wellbeing than anything else.

The climb down is long, and the sound of running water from the canal above reverberates around the stone walls, drip, drip, dripping rhythmically. Sakusa’s already waiting at the bottom when Atsumu jumps the last of the ladder rungs. There’s a slight splash as he lands – the ground is wet with stagnant water, and there’s a stench of rot that has them both pulling their masks up over their noses.

Like the map of the city that exists in his brain, Atsumu’s memorised the topography of the tunnels and leads the route to the hardware store basement by the brightness of his visor.

It doesn’t take long for Atsumu to notice that Sakusa is quieter than usual. He’s been sending subtle glances backward, disguising them as wide scans of the tunnel, and Atsumu knows the hard set to his shoulders and the frown tugging his brows together are not responses to what happened earlier. His mood shift is a result of the algae-slick walls that feel far too close, too encroaching, even for Atsumu.

He slows his pace slightly, so that they’re almost walking side-by-side, but not quite. “What kinda job had ya down here anyway?” he asks.

“A bad one,” Sakusa says tersely.

“Yeah. I gathered that, fuckin’ smartass. What kinda bad one?”

Sakusa doesn’t answer immediately; there’s only the sound of sloshing water and their muted footsteps. Atsumu keeps his attention forwards and continues leading the way, waiting patiently until he does. Or doesn’t.

“A-Grade,” he says after a while. “It was a drug ring leader that another gang wanted brought to them alive. I looked for him for weeks. Scoured every inch of the city. Eventually found him crawling out of a cover one day and realised he’d been hiding out under here the whole time. Chase lasted two hours because this place is a fucking maze, then I had to drag him all the way back.”

“How much’d it pay?”

“Not enough.”

Atsumu laughs. “That the worst job you’ve ever done?”

“No,” he says without missing a beat. “This is the worst job I’ve ever done.”

“Because you’re stuck with me, right?”

“Correct.”

“Y’know, I’m startin’ to believe ya less and less each time ya say that. I bet you’re actually smilin’ under there.”

“I’m definitely not.”

Atsumu laughs again and it echoes around the tunnel as they take a sharp left. “I’ll be honest,” he says, “I tried really hard to hate it but…I’ve been workin’ alone since the old days with Samu and Aran. It’s kinda fun havin’ someone to talk to again.”

“Who says I’m listening?”

“It’s kinda fun havin’ someone to talk at again,” he amends. It earns one of those quiet huff-laughs and Atsumu grins widely beneath his mask.

“You—” Sakusa starts but doesn’t finish.

“I what?”

He seems to choose his next words carefully, but Atsumu’s not sure why. It’s a pretty ordinary thing that he says, both a statement of fact and a prompt to elaborate: “You’ve been a Hunter for a long time.”

Atsumu tucks his hands into his pockets. “Hm. S’pose so. Wasn’t allowed to do much at first though. They don’t let ya kill people professionally at sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” Sakusa actually sounds surprised by that. He’d probably been expecting Atsumu to say he’d been Hunting for four or five years, not eight.

“Yeah. Got kinda bored stompin’ round the lower city by myself once Samu started enjoyin’ workin’ on his tech more than he enjoyed punchin’ shit with me. Aran told me ‘bout Kuroo who was just startin’ out as an Apprentice Officer and he was tasked with lookin’ out for me and assignin’ me jobs. He was kinda new to it all too, so he only let me take shit grades for like, three years or so. Guess that was probably for the best. Don’t tell Samu but the first A-Grade I ever did almost fuckin’ killed me. Only reason I’m still alive is ‘cause another Hunter was nearby. He stole the kill and locked me in a dumpster overnight 'cause he thought it was funny or whatever.”

He’s not sure why he’s telling Sakusa any of this. He’s never told anyone that story out of pure mortification. Not Osamu, not Aran, not Kuroo, or Suna. Maybe it’s because there’s no chance of it getting out when they’re so far underground. Maybe it’s because they’ve both recently dined at the same humiliation buffet so it doesn’t feel as embarrassing to admit. Or maybe it’s because he wants to.

“He was Rank One at the time,” Atsumu continues. “Sato-san, I think Kuroo said his name was. I just called him Bastard.” When he spots the question on Sakusa’s face, he grins and says, “He’s long gone now. Moved to another city after I got good enough to steal an S-Grade from him and set three of his cars on fire.”

“Maybe I should try and get in touch,” Sakusa says with some amusement. “Ask him for some tips.”

“Hey, no need to get all jealous, sweetheart. You’re way better at pissin’ me off than he ever was. Better lookin’ too."

Sakusa’s sigh is long-suffering. “Your comprehension skills are as terrible as ever. I just said I admired the man.”

“Whatever,” Atsumu sniffs. “Your turn.”

“My turn what?”

“Your turn to talk about a job ya fucked. There has to be at least one.”

“I don’t have any. I am a paragon of precision.”

“Fuckin’ liar.”

Sakusa clicks his tongue and Atsumu spots him shoving his hands further down into his pockets. “The only jobs of mine that have gone wrong have been the ones you’ve stuck your oar into.”

“Ha, like the time I stole your bike, right?”

“Yes, Miya, like the time you stole my bike.”

“I drove it to your apartment for ya though,” he remembers. “Locked it up and put your helmet safe.” At the time he’d told himself he’d done it to knock an extra nail in the coffin, but now he’s not so sure.

Sakusa hums, then Atsumu stops abruptly. “This is it,” he says, shrugging out of his rucksack.

“Are you sure?” Sakusa asks. He looks back over his shoulder with a confused frown.

“What? Too smitten with me to notice how far we walked?”

Atsumu has to glance down at his own hands to make sure he hasn’t turned into a moulding, festering pile of garbage in the last five seconds, because that’s the only way to describe the way Sakusa’s looking at him.

“I’m positive, Omi,” he laughs.

Saeko’s explosives are small, plastic boxes packed full of powder, and all Atsumu has to do to detonate them, is switch them on and press a button on a remote. He’s brought a few, because sometimes they work, and sometimes they don’t, and he’s not exactly sure how big an explosion needs to be to knock a wall down. Maybe he should have called someone about it, but how hard can it be?

It’s impossible to attach them to the wall – they’re far too slimy – but that doesn’t really make a difference. So long as they cause enough damage to walk through it once the smoke clears, the job’s as good as done.

Atsumu lays three of them down on a piece of stone above the grimy water level and turns on his heel. “We’re gonna wanna stand back as far as fuckin’ possible,” he says. “Saeko likes to surprise me, and by surprise I mean possibly kill.”

They walk to the nearest corner and stand behind it, and Atsumu pulls out the remote to study it beneath the glare of his visor. Before he can press the button, Sakusa’s hand tugs his wrist and turns his free hand around until his palm is facing upward. He pulls something out of his pocket and places it in Atsumu’s hand.

“You’re not going to be able to fight properly if your ears are ringing,” he mutters.

“Oh.” Atsumu blinks at the pair of rubber earplugs resting in his palm. He looks up at Sakusa but he’s already turned around to put a pair of his own in. “Thanks,” he tells his back, unsure of whether Sakusa can even hear him.

Only once he’s tucked the plugs snuggly into his ear and gotten an OK sign from Sakusa does he press the button, but both of those precautions are completely wasted: The entire tunnel shakes violently beneath the explosion, so loudly the plugs almost feel ineffective and they both lose their balance for a moment. He dreads to think what might have happened to his hearing had Sakusa been the type not to care for safety.

Debris flies past the gap to their left. Huge chunks of brick land on the wet ground and splash up wildly enough to spray against Atsumu’s visor, and the air fills with dusty fog that would be choking if not for their masks.

When Atsumu catches his bearings and peers around the corner, he sees that the explosion has taken out almost the entire section of tunnelway – both walls, and a huge portion of the ceiling too. There’s a crater where the devices had once been, and rubble keeps dropping from above and crashing to the ground with dull cracks of stone.

Sakusa’s face is still pinched into a wince. “When I said procure enough to take out the wall, I did mean just the one,” he shouts above the plugs.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “Uh. Yeah. Shit. Fuck. Uh… Oops?”

Maybe one bomb would have been enough after all.

“Oops?” Sakusa says. “The entire fucking city probably heard that! Shit.” He scrambles for his phone and Atsumu peers over the top of the screen to watch him open Aran’s security app. He remotely locks the doors and shuts the power off to the hardware store and its elevator, but Atsumu’s not sure how much good it’s done. They might have already sent some people down after hearing that commotion.

Sakusa tucks his phone back into his pocket and pushes Atsumu forwards. “Go,” he says. “Quick.”

They both pull their blasters from their holsters and run to the explosion site. Rubble has stopped falling, but the air is still thick with dust that has no breeze to carry it. Atsumu bats some of it away with his hand to see beyond the mess, and once he gets a proper look, he stops and says, “Oh.”

The explosion hasn’t just destroyed the tunnel. It’s also destroyed half of the lab on the other side.

There are at least seven bodies strewn about that Atsumu can see, and toppled shelves of glass vials have smashed against the floor on top of them, staining it dubious shades of purple and bloody red. Large pieces of stone are lodged in cabinets, huge dents mar the surfaces of tables, and the weird electrical wires that were once hanging from the ceiling are torn and sparking with jolts of live electricity.

Sakusa stops beside him and says, “Oh,” too.

Only three men still stand conscious, but they’re so disorientated they don’t even bother to reach for their blasters before Sakusa shoots them.

Atsumu climbs over the wreckage and into the lab. It’s more of a priority to kill Wizard-san than it is to destroy his work, so he lifts the dead faces of those the impact hit first, searching for who Lev described as ‘a man who looks as though he eats children’.

He walks past tables of experiments and more shelves of odd items; Hirugami had said different factions of the Director’s army were getting kitted out with all sorts of stuff, but Atsumu sees that here more than anywhere. Wizard-san seems to make a little bit of everything. Poisons, tasers, grenades (that probably increased the lethality of the explosion), launchers, and mines. There are quivers full of metal arrows with poison-filled tips, crossbow bolts, and blowguns. There’s plenty Atsumu doesn't recognise too, stuff that glows with both crystal cores and electricity.

Sakusa finds Wizard-san cowering beneath a table, and when he drags him out by the collar of his dirty white coat, his leg is twisted awkwardly, his glasses are broken upon the tip of his nose, and he’s whimpering and groaning.

“Oh, fuck,” Atsumu says. “Jesus Christ. Lev wasn’t jokin’ huh? You really are an ugly-lookin’ bastard.”

“H-he said you wouldn’t be a-able to get me!” Wizard-san screams. “He lied! He’s a liar!”

“Criminal mastermind lyin’ to his stupid little minions,” Atsumu scoffs. “Go figure.”

Sakusa ignores everything and crouches down next to Wizard-san. He grabs him by the face, wrenches it to meet his eye, then asks, “Which poison did you give to Hayashi’s gang?”

Atsumu tilts his head as he watches. Sakusa doesn’t usually talk during jobs.

Wizard-san screams again, a horrible, shrill noise, and tries to pull away. Sakusa straightens and stands on his broken leg, putting his whole weight of pressure onto it as Wizard-san writhes beneath him.

“Which one?” he asks again.

Once he’s through shrieking in pain, Wizard-san cries, “I-if I tell you, w-will you promise to spare me?”

“Sure,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu raises a brow, but doesn’t interrupt.

“Y-you swear?”

“I swear,” Sakusa says. “I want to kill your boss. The one that lied to you.”

“T-then it’s the p-purple one,” he says. “It slows the body towards sleep in small d-doses, but if the quantity is h-high enough it’ll violently shut everything down w-within a few seconds.”

Atsumu fights the urge to run his hand over the scar on his hip.

Kuroo’s voice fills his mind: The poison on that knife was a nick away from being lethal.

He’d been a hair and a few seconds away from shutting down. No second chances, no rescue, no miraculous cures. Just dead.

Movement shakes him from his thoughts. Sakusa walks over to one of the cabinets and finds a bottle of the purple poison. He studies it briefly beneath the flickering lights and sparking wires, then pulls the cork and walks back over to Wizard-san.

He crouches down again. “This one?”

Wizard-san nods frantically. “Yes, that’s the—aagh—”

Sakusa presses a knee into his leg to keep him still and get him screaming, then he jams a gloved thumb into his mouth and presses his tongue down. He pours the entire bottle down Wizard-san’s throat, shuts his mouth, and holds his hand over it until he’s forced to swallow.

“I lied too,” he says, as Wizard-san’s body convulses for three seconds before stopping completely and slumping back against the floor.

Sakusa straightens and pulls his gloves off, then he throws them on top of Wizard-san’s body and turns to Atsumu.

“If you have more of those explosives, leave them in here and blow the whole place up,” he says as though the last two minutes just bored him greatly.

Atsumu’s throat is too dry to speak. He stares after Sakusa, eyes wide and blinking, heart in his throat, gut twisting. “Y-yeah,” he manages.

Sakusa looks him up and down when he makes no effort to move. “Now, preferably, Miya. Before our luck runs out and company finds us.”

“Right, yeah. The—now. Yeah. Got it.” He shrugs off his rucksack and almost drops it, but Sakusa catches it before it hits the ground and kills them both. “Shit, sorry. My bad.” He clears his throat, takes the bag back and fishes out the last two explosives from the bottom. He places them on a table, switches them on, then follows Sakusa back out of the rubble door, stumbling over rocks as he goes.

Once they’ve gotten far enough away, Atsumu presses the remote button and hears the muted sound of the explosion. It shakes the ground beneath their feet, but neither of them mention it. Atsumu throws the remote away and tucks his hands into his pockets, staring at the murky water as they wade through it.

Sakusa takes the ladder first. Atsumu stumbles up it second.

They replace the manhole cover and Atsumu chucks the tool into the backseats. He doesn’t even bother to check his tires. He climbs into the driver’s seat and stares at the steering wheel, glancing over at Sakusa every three seconds as he fastens his seatbelt.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he asks when he tires of Atsumu’s staring.

“Nothin’,” Atsumu says quickly. He looks forwards again, and they sit in silence for a few seconds. Then Atsumu blurts, “That was really hot, Omi.”

“Miya,” he sighs.

“What?”

“Shut the fuck up and drive the car.”

“Yeah,” he says fumbling with the keys. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Atsumu sits at the building’s edge and lets his feet hang over the side and swing idly. He leans back on his palms and tilts his head to the sky to watch a string of thick, grey clouds pass over the moon and he takes in cold breaths through the fabric of his mask. It’s nice to be back in the lower city again, even if the breeze atop the rooftops makes him shiver without the warmth of his jacket.

For four consecutive nights they’ve made the hour long drive to the lower city outskirts to climb an apartment building overlooking Circuit-san’s workshop and stake it out. The warehouse is perched upon a stretch of concrete beside the old canal harbour, built of brick and sheets of corrugated iron discoloured with rust. The building they’re surveying it from affords them a nice view of the surrounding canal, and the streetlights dance across the rippling black surface like it’s beautiful, rather than stagnant and filled with floating rubbish like Atsumu knows it is.

There are over fifty men stationed outside tonight; three nights ago there were twenty.

They both know what needs to be done, but neither wants to be the one to suggest it. Calling in help would be a hefty kick to both of their egos, but the longer Atsumu stares at the warehouse, looking for blips in the watch rotations, looking for weaknesses, or angles of attack that might make it possible for two people, the heavier the scale tips in the direction of their last resort. There are no tunnels this time, no easy ways in or alternate routes. There is just a warehouse, and the army guarding it.

There’s a shuffle of movement behind him, then Sakusa fills his periphery as he takes a seat of his own. They’ve both shed their jackets to aid their blending with the skyline, so Atsumu gets an eyeful of his tight black-cotton shirt and the even tighter knife-proof fabric beneath it peeking out from his sleeves. Atsumu’s wearing the exact same thing, but there’s something about Sakusa’s litheness, the broadness of his shoulders compared to the narrowness of his waist, that makes Atsumu’s eyes wander and his throat run dry.

He settles down a foot or so away from Atsumu and leans back similarly, gloved hands splayed atop the concrete within touching distance, the vambraces on his arms catching what little light of the moon is peeking through the clouds.

They follow an unspoken routine each night: They start standing, watching the guards through binoculars, only speaking when they spot something noteworthy, then Atsumu gets bored and takes a seat, and Sakusa follows behind a few minutes later. Sometimes they talk – about Hunting, about jobs, about the city. Sometimes they’re preoccupied following and digging up information on their phones. Sometimes they just sit and watch until the sun rises beyond the distant midcity skyscrapers and the guards swap out seamlessly with energised replacements.

Tonight is a talking night.

“It would be so easy to push you off,” Sakusa says. “So little effort for such a rewarding payoff.”

“Waste of time,” Atsumu hums. “I’d land on my feet.”

“It’s a four-storey building.”

“I’d still survive.”

“I’d make sure you didn’t.”

“How?” Atsumu tilts his gaze from the sky to Sakusa. He’s already been watching Atsumu a while, eyes stuck somewhere around his shoulders and chest. Atsumu takes a purposefully long breath in, waits for him to drag his attention upward again, then asks, “You gonna go down with me?”

“That would be counterproductive,” Sakusa says. “Martyrdom doesn’t appeal to me. What good is a world free of Miya Atsumu if I’m not alive to enjoy it?”

“You got a workin’ memory don’t’cha? Just cast your mind back a few miserable years to the time before ya met me.”

“You mean the halcyon days?”

“An Omi with no thorns,” he smiles. “Wonder what that’d look like.”

“You will never find out.”

Atsumu huffs a laugh and turns his attention back to the workshop ahead of them. “Hope not.”

He feels Sakusa watching him a while longer, then feels the absence of him when he looks forwards again too.

There’s the 1 a.m. rotation shift – they both watch as two large cars pull up to the warehouse and swap the first batch of tired men for twelve fresh-faced and energised guards. The cars drive away again and Sakusa makes a note of the licence plates like he always does. The second batch will arrive in exactly fourteen minutes from now.

Atsumu yawns away his boredom.

“You grew up here,” Sakusa says suddenly in that weird way of his that makes a question not a question. Atsumu’s not quite sure why Sakusa acts as though he’s allergic to the idea of appearing interested in Atsumu when they both know for certain he is, but Atsumu’s never been one to pass up an opportunity to talk about himself.

Intrigued, he turns to find Sakusa scowling pensively out at the skyline, and he wonders if Sakusa’s stewing in his hatred for the lower city, or if he’s trying to imagine what a life lived here might have looked like. What Atsumu’s life might have looked like.

Atsumu nods at the canal.

“Samu and I used to hang out here when we were kids,” Atsumu tells him. “There was this boat that would come in once a month full of junk scrap from the midcity renovations. We’d fill bags with stuff for Samu to tinker with and he’d make me weapons so I could beat the fuck out of the older kids. To protect us,” Atsumu tags on. “Not ‘cause I was some kinda prepubescent homicidal maniac.”

“Not much has changed then,” Sakusa muses. “You still act like a child, and Osamu still enables you to a worrying degree.”

Atsumu grins beneath his mask. “We got bigger, that’s all.”

“That’s debatable,” Sakusa says with the amused lilt that Atsumu’s come to associate with him smiling.

“Yeah? Well, I’ll just go ahead and tell Samu to double your blaster prices. Bastard.”

Sakusa hums, and Atsumu digs into his pocket for a coin. He balances it on his thumbnail and asks, “Do I still have to flip this to ask you a personal question and get an honest answer?”

Sakusa glances at the coin, then away. “I’ll decide once you’ve asked it.”

The coin rolls across Atsumu’s fingers, then he holds it in his palm and asks a question he’s been sitting on for a while. “You got any siblings?”

There’s a pause, then Sakusa sits forwards and says, “Two.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Dunno. Just expected a no. You seem like an only child. I mean…most vampires are.”

After Sakusa rolls his eyes, there’s another long pause, as though he’s turning the answer around in his head like it’s a piece of new tech, checking it’s safe enough to part with. “They’re a lot older,” he says. “I grew up alone.”

That seems impossible for Atsumu to imagine. He’s always had Osamu, shared everything with Osamu; bedrooms, toys, jokes, meals, birthdays. Even when he’s alone on a hunt he still has Osamu’s blaster in his hand and his voice at the back of his head saying Die where I can find you.

Atsumu’s not sure who or where he’d be without him. Dead, probably, or kicking about in a shitty gang being ordered about by an even shittier guy like Hayashi. He supposes the same is also true of Osamu – without Atsumu’s penchant for protective violence, he’d have been drowned in the canal or beaten and left in an alleyway.

A lot of things about Sakusa suddenly make sense.

With a frown, Atsumu asks, “D’ya get along?”

“Heads,” Sakusa says instead of answering. Atsumu flips the coin and shows him tails. He sighs and says, “No. We don’t.”

Atsumu smooths a contemplative thumb over the ridged surface of the coin. “Thought ya said ya didn’t have a tragic backstory.”

“It’s not tragic. We just don’t share the same…opinions.”

“On killin’ people?”

“On most things.”

It makes him feel…something he can’t quite name. A loneliness and an anger that aren’t even his.

Atsumu ponders his next words a while, and chews on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from blurting anything before he’s thought it through. “Ya said ya talk to your cousin, though, right?”

“Yes.”

Sakusa sounds terse, so Atsumu drops the thread for now and flips the coin his way. He catches it and asks, “Run out of worthless questions already?”

“They aren’t worthless to me,” Atsumu tells the skyline. “But yeah. For now.”

There’s a clink of metal as Atsumu hears Sakusa flip the coin. He turns in time to watch Sakusa catch it upon the back of his hand and he looks at the result for a second or two, then pockets it.

“What was that one for?” Atsumu asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sakusa mutters. “Lost it anyway.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s the weightless kind that Atsumu’s gotten used to experiencing in Sakusa’s company. The kind that feels like its own unspoken conversation. The kind he doesn’t feel compelled to ruin with the sound of his voice.

They watch the second batch of guards rotate out. Sakusa writes down the plate numbers. Atsumu stifles his yawn.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and reads through Aran’s daily update concerning the USBs Atsumu pulled from Metal-san’s workshop. There are a bunch of encrypted files on them he’s been trying to access for the past week, and the algorithms are taking a long time to crack the passwords.

Nothing yet, Aran says, should be done in a few days. Looks promising if the other information we’ve found is anything to go by. This guy kept a record of almost everything.

Atsumu calls him a genius and asks him for honest updates on how hard Osamu’s working himself. The awkwardly vague replies and excessive usage of smiling emojis he receives in return tell him they’re both doing fine, and definitely doing a whole lot more than just blushing and touching each other’s pinky fingers.

“Miya,” Sakusa says suddenly. “Something’s happening.”

Atsumu’s gaze snaps up and he follows Sakusa’s eyes to the warehouse. The doors are thrown open and men are pouring out of it, grabbing, shoving, and pushing those stationed outside to run with them. Some run towards the road, while others throw themselves into the canal.

“The fuck’s goin’ on?”

“Do you think it’s—”

Sakusa’s cut off by the booming sound and force of an explosion.

The sound isn’t as terrible as the one had been underground considering their five-hundred-foot distance, but it makes Atsumu’s ears ring, and the sharp breeze it carries makes his hands sting as he brings them up to cover his eyes.

When he lowers his arms to survey the damage, he watches as huge pieces of corrugated iron fall from the sky, watches chunks of brick slam against the ground, and roaring-hot flames engulf what’s left behind.

There were fifty men stationed outside. Now there are none.

Their bodies are scattered across the concrete, unmoving. They lie crushed beneath slabs of stone, in pieces, broken and bloodied. The workshop’s roof has caved in and the walls are tumbling down into piles of dusty rubble.

He turns to look at Sakusa and Sakusa turns to look at him, but neither can find a word to say between them.

Movement from the canal catches both of their attention. Those quick enough to jump into its stagnant waters were protected from the brunt of the blast, and they’re pulling themselves out now and running for the road, shouting frantically over the noise.

They don’t need to discuss it; both Atsumu and Sakusa turn and grab their discarded jackets, then Atsumu finds the rope of his grappling hook and slides down the side of the building. Sakusa follows just as quickly, landing softly despite the speed at which he fell. They don’t waste time retracting the hooks – they run.

Atsumu leads the fastest route he knows, cutting through alleyways and turning sharp corners. Sakusa could probably outrun him if he wanted to, but he keeps just one step behind, trusting the path Atsumu carves through the unfamiliar geography of the lower city.

The closer they get to the warehouse, the harder it becomes to navigate the cluttered streets as the air fills with thick fog and dusty smoke. Atsumu finds himself coughing through his mask against the stench of burning flesh and scorched metal. The masks are designed not to clog their lungs, but each inward breath still feels stifling.

When they turn out onto the road, most of those who pulled themselves from the canal have long since disappeared, but there’s one man hobbling away in the distance that they immediately give chase to.

Sakusa pulls his blaster once they’re close enough, and he shoots a bolt at the guy’s leg that sends him sprawling across the rubble-strewn ground.

To his credit, the guy tries to get back up immediately, but he falls again and crawls a few paces before turning and scrambling backward with his hands.

“You are here,” he cries. “We were fucked either way!”

Atsumu walks around and crouches down behind the man, holding him still with an arm around his neck and placing the muzzle of his blaster to his temple. Sakusa stands in front of them, chest heaving through the open front of his hastily thrown-on jacket, blaster aimed at the guy’s forehead.

“The fuck does that mean, buddy?” Atsumu asks. “What happened in there? Anything we need to be worried about?”

The guy goes limp in Atsumu’s arms and rather than using his hands to fight him off, he groans and clutches tightly at his water-soaked clothes where a large red stain is spreading across his abdomen. He’s as good as dead anyway – if the wounds don’t kill him, the disgusting canal water will soon poison him with infection.

“I’m feelin’ charitable,” Atsumu tells him, patting his wet cheek. “I’ll let you go if you tell us.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the guy laughs, watery and a little hysterically. “If I somehow manage to live, the Director will kill me anyway. He doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

Atsumu shrugs. “S’not too late to join the winnin’ side before ya tap out, yeah?”

The guy’s face twists into a pained wince and then he nods jerkily. “Yeah,” he says on a shaky exhale, and Atsumu loosens his grip a little to let him talk easier. “Yeah, okay. It was the tech. The guy we were supposed to watch. He’d been acting strange all week, saying we weren’t doing enough to protect him, screaming and yelling about what had happened to the guy in the hardware store. He said that we should move him somewhere else because you were going to find and kill him like you did the others. The Director told us to stay. He said that if we couldn’t do our jobs, we weren’t worth the air we were breathing anyway.”

Sakusa scoffs and the guy swallows thickly and continues, “The tech asked for a few guys to escort him to pick up a shipment, but… the guys came back almost immediately and said he’d bolted and jumped in the canal. We were so busy panicking about what we were going to tell the Director that we didn’t notice the bombs until it was too late. The countdown was almost up.”

Circuit-san must have picked the stretch of canal obscured at the back of the warehouse for neither of them to have noticed him slipping away. Or it could very easily have been in one of the small moments they’d been a little too preoccupied looking at each other.

“So… no third threat?”

“No,” the guy coughs. “I don’t think so. I think he was trying to fake his own death.”

“Cool,” Atsumu says. “That’s one less pain in my ass.”

The devices he creates are redundant now anyway with Osamu’s fix. So long as the workshop is destroyed, there’s nothing to worry about, and something tells Atsumu that if they don’t find and kill Circuit-san themselves, the Director certainly will after tonight.

Atsumu looks up at Sakusa, brow raised in a silent question: You satisfied?

Sakusa holsters his blaster and turns to face the burning warehouse. Atsumu knocks the guy out with the handle of his, then stands and joins him, wiping canal water and blood from the sleeves of his jacket.

“Five out of five, Omi-kun,” he grins at the fire, knocking Sakusa’s elbow with his own when he pockets his hands. The warmth of the blaze cuts through the cold breeze and warms his cheeks as satisfaction unfurls within his chest. “Now the real fun begins.”

“So, was it like a… gradual descent into infatuation? Or did I do somethin’ insanely hot one day that made ya swoon and draw hearts ‘round my name in your diary?”

Sakusa kicks him beneath the table, hard, and says, “E-3.”

“Fuckin’ shit!” Atsumu yelps. “What’re your damn feet made of? Knives?”

“Contempt.”

“Ha! Hate me all ya like, Count Scrubula,” he sing-songs as he rubs the newly forming bruise on his leg. “Your missile still fuckin’ missed.”

He tucks his feet up onto the chair and sits back to watch as Sakusa stabs a white peg into the game board, face twisted in annoyance. They’ve played all the board games Kuroo has to offer over the past three days; Connect Four, Operation, Guess Who, and Ludo. Astonishingly, Sakusa has lost eight out of every ten games they’ve played, but no matter what mood he’s in, he still sits down to try again when Atsumu calls out to him across the apartment and says, “Omi-kun! Let’s play Battleship!”

“I’m guessin’ it’s the second one though, right?” Atsumu says with a smile. “I’ve done plenty of hot shit in my time. Hold on, lemme think.”

Sakusa says, “I’d rather you didn’t,” but Atsumu ignores him.

“The triple S-Grade haul at the upper city art gala? Or is that too far back? How long did ya say you’ve been into me again?” Sakusa scowls, and Atsumu tags on a belated, “Oops, sorry. A-7.”

“Hit. Submarine.” He returns his scowl to the board. “Shut the fuck up and play the damn game. B-2.”

“Miss. So not the gala? That’s fine. There’s plenty of other stuff to choose from. Guess I’m just gonna have to throw a whole bunch of shit at the wall to see what sticks.” He taps a red peg against the table as he ponders his own illustrious history, then breaks into a grin. “It’s the jacket, isn’t it? A-8.”

“Hit. Submarine.” Sakusa slams the red peg onto his board with such force the game rattles. “We’re not talking about this, Miya. C-10.”

“Miss. I mean, we kinda already ar—”

“Anymore.”

“Fine,” he says with a rolling of his eyes. “Borin’ bastard. We’ll talk about somethin’ else.” He affects looking around the apartment. “Nice weather we’re havin’ down here in our little bonding bunker, huh?”

“Sublime. Say a coordinate, clown.”

“Oh. A-9.”

“Hit and sink the fucking submarine.” Sakusa waits for Atsumu to finish laughing and gloating, then says, “A-1. And let me take a wild guess—”

“A big ol’ miss,” Atsumu gleefully finishes for him.

Sakusa mutters a curse under his breath and leans back in his chair with a wooden creak. He’s wearing a t-shirt today, rather than a sweatshirt, and one of his sanitary masks tucked beneath his chin. It means Atsumu gets to see the shifting of muscles in his arms when he crosses them over his chest, and the small pout on his lips as he scowls at the game board.

Atsumu tucks his knees up beneath himself on the chair and leans over the table, resting on his forearms and elbows. “How about I give ya a free turn?” he says with a grin. He glances pointedly down at the game beneath him, then finds the darkness of Sakusa’s eyes and settles into them. “If ya come over here, I’ll even let ya take a little peek, free of charge.”

“What did I tell you about pity, Miya?”

“That ya hate it.”

He raises a surprised brow. “Oh, so you are capable of listening.”

“Sure,” Atsumu says with an amused tilt of his head. “When it suits me. But this ain’t pity either, Omi-kun.”

“No?”

“Nope. This is generosity, and it’d be real rude of ya to turn it down.”

Sakusa’s eyes flicker from Atsumu’s face to somewhere lower for a fraction of a second. It makes Atsumu shift his weight to lean forwards a little more, makes his fingers curl and his nails dig into the skin of his arms.

“Have you ever known me to be polite?”

Atsumu allows his own eyes to wander, to Sakusa’s arms and the hands that have wrapped gently around his own, that have pressed against his throat, and pushed him against walls.

“No,” he says distractedly. “But bein’ Rank One means I know a whole lot about manners and generosity. I can give ya a quick lesson if ya like, rookie.”

One of Sakusa’s hands tightens around his arm, then it moves to reach into his pocket.

Atsumu watches curiously as he pulls out a coin, balances it on his thumb, and flips it high. Both of their eyes follow it upward, then Sakusa catches it on the back of his hand and glances at the result.

He clicks his tongue and pockets it.

“You gonna tell me what that one was for?”

“No.”

“Because ya lost it again, right?”

“Yes.”

“You really suck at games outside the arcade, Omi.”

He sighs. “Your very existence seeks to remind me of that every single day.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to respond, but the elevator doors open behind him and kill the words on Atsumu’s tongue.

He’d forgotten entirely they were expecting company; Aran finally cracked the codes this morning and sent all the information over to Akaashi for an easier debriefing. Kuroo insisted on coming along, and by tracking device extension, he brings Kenma and –

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto laughs, throwing his bag down on one of the sofas and jogging over to the kitchen. “You’re playing Battleship! Tetsu and I play that all the time! I’m not very good at it though.” He wraps an arm around Atsumu’s shoulders and peers down at his game. “Though I think I might be better than you, Tsum-Tsum.  Pretty sure you’re actually supposed to put your ships on the board before you start!”

Sakusa stands up so fast Atsumu wonders if he’s just given himself whiplash. When he spins the game around, he finds Atsumu’s side totally devoid of the ships he’s been trying to hit for the past twenty minutes, and instead finds it filled out with a crude image of a penis constructed of red and white pegs.

Atsumu winks at him.

Sakusa turns around and stalks over to the kitchen counter to find a knife.

“I was about to congratulate you both on your hard work but I’m starting to think it might have all been a convenient accident,” Kuroo drawls from behind them.

Atsumu turns and finds him standing by the elevator with Kenma and Akaashi. They’re slipping out of their shoes and carrying laptop bags over to the living room table. Once they start to busy themselves unpacking, Bokuto bounds over to join them and lays claim to Atsumu’s favourite armchair.

“Oh,” Atsumu says when he cuts back around and his throat is met with the horizontal line of a knife blade. Sakusa looks down at him from his left, mask back in place around company. Atsumu’s mouth expands into a smile. “Hello.”

“I want those twenty minutes back,” Sakusa says, quietly, so that the words find nobody but Atsumu.

“Yeah?” Atsumu returns just as softly with the subtle raising of a brow. “How d’ya want ‘em?”

When Sakusa doesn’t respond, Atsumu leans into the blade encouragingly, but no matter how far forwards he tilts, Sakusa follows along with Atsumu’s movement so that the knife never actually touches his skin.

“Boo,” Atsumu says. “No fun.”

“Could you two stop antagonising each other for five minutes and come over here to do your jobs please?” Kuroo calls across the room.

“You heard the man, Omi-kun,” Atsumu grins, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Stop antagonisin’ me.”

Sakusa lowers the blade and throws it onto the Battleship board so that it clatters and ruins Atsumu’s peg-penis. He turns on his heel and Atsumu follows behind until they’re both settling onto the sofa with barely a breath between their shoulders and elbows aimed at each other’s sides.

Kuroo sighs like it’s still an act of bitter rivalry rather than what it currently is: an excuse for Atsumu to touch Sakusa without it seeming like he’s looking for an excuse to touch Sakusa.

“There’s a lot to discuss,” Kuroo says. “The USBs are pretty damning for the Director.”

Atsumu leans forwards. “Yeah?”

Akaashi nods and turns his laptop around on the table. “The file Ojiro-san broke into was titled ‘Insurance’. It appears that the tech kept a record of each and every gang member he supplied, just in case he ever needed a Get Out Of Jail Free Card. It means we now have access to a comprehensive list of every gang across the city currently affiliated with the Director and where to find them. Full names, addresses – even the list of weapons he supplied and the quantities.”

“No shit?”

“Yes shit,” Bokuto says. “There’s more too! Go, go detective ‘Kaashi!”

Akaashi nods a second time and adjusts his glasses, eyes deeply shadowed beneath them, as is the usual with his tendency to overwork himself. “It seems this tech was also being paid large sums of money to continue his research by an anonymous donor. My guess is that all five of them were, but only this guy was smart enough to make note of it.”

Atsumu looks to Sakusa. They’ve discussed this before, the possibility that the Director is being sponsored by someone with large amounts of money and nothing better to do. Sakusa offers him an acknowledging glance in return, but nothing more.

“He was obviously technically adept,” Akaashi continues, “because he was able to trace the payments through multiple banks back to the source. I triple checked it and we have a name – Sakamoto Masaaki.”

“What?” Atsumu stands up. “The guy who owns the speedraces? That Sakamoto Masaaki?”

“That’s the name we have,” Kuroo says. “Ojiro-kun has done some digging through the surveillance and found additional evidence of him climbing into cars he doesn’t own and meeting with masked people as cameras shut down. Pretty decisive stuff.”

“Nobody talks to people like that unless they get an invite,” Sakusa says, pulling Atsumu down by the back of his shirt to sit. “There’s no way either of us will get close enough with that level of security and our reputations, especially if the Director’s warned him about us. No amount of brute force is going to change that.”

“That’ll be one of your next challenges, to figure out a way to work aroun—”

“I know a way,” Atsumu blurts. They all turn to him and he digs his phone out of his pocket to pull up a website. “Sakamoto only cares about talkin’ to people who interest him. And the only people who interest him are his racers.” And criminal masterminds, he supposes, but that’s besides the point. He shows the website to Sakusa and points to something with his thumb. “There’s an amateur qualifyin’ race next week. If I win that, we’ll be on his radar. Then all we’ve gotta do is stay interestin’ enough for him to pull us aside.”

Sakusa looks at him strangely. “How do you know all of this?”

Atsumu breaks out into a grin. “Didn’t I ever tell ya, Omi-kun? I used to speedrace every weekend. I’m a natural.”

“Of course you are,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu can hear the strained grimace in his voice.

Bokuto makes an awed sound. “Woah, really, Tsum-Tsum?”

“Had to make up rent money somehow. I only entered the small money races, but I was good enough for Sakamoto to invite me up to his fancy penthouse. He offered to pay for my ascension into the League, assign me a mechanic and a Sponsor, but I was startin’ to get more jobs and I was way more interested in Huntin’ than racin’. I can do it again though. Easy. I’m a talent-scout-magnet.”

“Won’t he recognise you?” Sakusa asks.

“Nope. Racin’s changed these days, s’more about playin’ up a character and growin’ a fan base to buy your merch than about bein’ any good. You heard of The Grand King? Mad Dog? Eagle?” Sakusa shakes his head at each one. “They’re the top three speedracers in League One. Nobody knows who’s beneath the helmets – aside from each other and Sakamoto, probably. I can get Suna to loan us a bike and make us suits and helmets. We’ll remain totally anonymous.”

“What do you mean we?” Sakusa’s face twists and he recoils a little. “I’m not getting on a godforsaken speedrace bike, Miya. I’d rather let the Director blast my brains out than end up in one of those wreckages.”

Atsumu laughs. “Don’t burst a vessel, Omi-kun. I’ll do the racin’. All you gotta do is stand around and look pretty as my Sponsor. Racers don’t go anywhere without ‘em, so we’ll still be stuck together ‘til I’m on the tracks.” He leans back and spreads an arm across the sofa, resisting the urge to drop his hand on Sakusa’s shoulder and feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. “I’ll give it a maximum of five races before Sakamoto’s invitin’ us both to dinner.”

“It’ll be easy to fake your names for entry,” Kenma says without looking up from his phone. “The speedrace stadium security is a mess. Koutarou and I can hang around nearby just in case anything goes wrong.”

“Ohh! Even Kenma’s fired up!” Bokuto jeers. “He loves watching speedracing!”

“It’s okay.”

“That means he loves it!”

Atsumu can’t help the excitable bounce to his leg as he thinks about racing again. Every now and then he’ll watch a televised race or two when he has the time – he’s already familiar with most of the tracks and the Racers that frequent them. Some, like The Grand King and Mad Dog, he’s been itching to compete against for years. It might be a challenge to work his way up to League One that fast, but here’s to hoping he does before they meet with Sakamoto and blow their cover.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Kuroo says with a wary glance between them both. “Maybe there’s hope for you both yet.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, boss,” Atsumu says, and he does drop his hand to Sakusa’s shoulder. Lightly at first, then firm as he tightens his grip and pulls him in like he had done the day Kuroo told them they were free from the healing prison. He affects his voice the same way too, deviously sweet, and says, “I already told ya you won’t find best-er friends than us.”

Sakusa doesn’t curse beneath his breath or push him off this time. He doesn’t even tense or stiffen his shoulders.

“I believe you less every time you say that, Miya,” Kuroo sighs. “Regardless, I want you both to know that if you need funds to pay Suna, you can charge it to me. This is a guild matter – I won’t put you out of pocket, but don’t mess me around. No excessive spending.”

Atsumu heckles him and starts letting his mind run wild with ideas for helmet designs. He doesn’t remove himself from Sakusa, and Sakusa doesn’t remove him either; his curls tickle the bare skin of Atsumu’s arm and make him shiver.

“In the meantime, here.” Kuroo hands over a slip of paper that Sakusa takes and Atsumu leans closer to look at it too. “I have a good friend in law enforcement. You’ve done jobs for him before, Sakusa-kun.”

“Sawamura-san?” Sakusa asks.

Kuroo nods. “He’s been chasing a lot of these criminals for years to no avail, and he thinks it’s because his superior is involved, purposefully brushing their crimes under the rug. Sawamura-kun’s prepared to put his job on the line to catch them all. He’ll prepare cells, and you’ll bring him the gang leaders alive for him to deal with. Or at least as many as you can. I’m aware things tend to go south when blasters and Bounty Hunters are involved.”

That’s arguably better than killing them. The uncertainty of a detained leader will cause more chaos amongst the ranks than a dead one will. The Director will be stuck herding sheep for a while.

“There’s only five on there,” Atsumu notices. “That doesn’t seem like many.”

“That’s because we’re helping!” Bokuto chimes in.

Atsumu snaps his gaze to Kuroo and narrows his eyes. “What?”

“We’ve spread the work out,” Kuroo says tiredly like he’d been expecting Atsumu to disagree. “There are over twenty gangs on that list, it’ll take you forever to work through them alone. Hoshiumi, Hirugami, Hinata, and Kageyama will be helping along with Kou and Kenma.”

“Fuck no.”

“Yes, Miya. This is non-negotiable.”

Atsumu goes to stand up and negotiate the fuck out the situation anyway, but Sakusa stops him. “Shut the fuck up and sit down,” he says, grabbing Atsumu’s wrist and pulling him backwards. “Five is enough for us to deal with. We have more important things to be doing than traipsing around the city chasing stupid thugs.”

Atsumu falls back against the cushions and scowls at him for a moment, but Sakusa’s unimpressed stare and lack of mirrored frustration has him acquiescing with a huff.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“Oh?” Kuroo raises a brow in disbelief. “You don’t shut up that easily for me.”

Atsumu shrugs and folds his arms over his chest, and Bokuto immediately frowns and crosses the room to place the back of his hand on Atsumu’s forehead.

“Are you feeling okay, Tsum-Tsum?” he asks, tapping Atsumu’s cheeks and tilting his face. “Are you sick?”

Atsumu bats his hand away. “What? No. Why?”

“You usually would have responded with something like, ‘That’s because I’m waitin’ on you to make me shut up with your mouth, Tetsu-chan’.” Bokuto’s frown deepens, pulling on his thick brows and darkening the bright gold of his eyes with concern. “You haven’t flirted with Tetsu at all yet. Should I call Shirabu?”

Sakusa snorts a laugh next to him, and Atsumu feels his own cheeks heating. “No,” he snaps. “I’m fine. Are we done here?”

“Guess we are,” Kuroo says with a smirk. “I’ll text you Sawamura’s details. Let me know when you’re going to race, I’ll turn off the trackers for the duration. Though I would advise you not to stray too far from each other.”

Atsumu traces a thumb over the patch of skin Sakusa had just touched. He’s starting to think that won’t be much of a problem anymore.

Sawamura takes forever to respond to messages. In the time it takes to get the aggressively capitalised paragraph detailing the location of the cells from him, Atsumu takes a long, cold, shower, chugs a Sakusa coffee, and has a forty-five minute conversation with Suna about speedracing and helmet designs.

It’s been a little while since Atsumu’s had a job to bring someone in alive rather than kill them outright. Most people who pay for bounties don’t care either way and prefer not to get their hands dirty, but on the odd occasion that someone does want the personal pleasure of hurting whoever they’ve asked for, Atsumu finds himself enjoying the challenge.

Because it’s one thing to enter, kill, and leave.

It’s another entirely to enter, subdue, and leave carrying an unconscious body without incurring fatalities. And Sawamura’s the kind of square that’s insistent on the ‘without incurring fatalities’ part.

Luckily for the both of them, Metal-san’s information is disturbingly detailed. He has addresses for the gang hideouts as well as the leader’s personal homes, and it’s at one of them that Atsumu and Sakusa find themselves crouching outside the front door of three hours later.

It’s a classy midcity apartment on the floor below the penthouse, and it doesn’t take them long to force open the lock; breaking and entering seems to be one of Sakusa’s specialties.

“You shoulda been an assassin,” Atsumu tells him as they step inside and he flicks the lights on. “You’re real good at bein’ a sneaky bastard.”

It’s a nice apartment - sleek sofas and expensive-looking televisions. One wall has been replaced with a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city, and the others are cold and bare save for the one boasting a large, flat screen television. Not bad, but not great for a gang boss – Atsumu’s seen better. They must not be one of the big hitters.

“I was,” Sakusa says. “Before I became a Hunter.”

Atsumu stops and ignores the fact that Sakusa’s possibly offered up information about himself for free, to ask, “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?”

Sakusa leans against the apartment’s kitchen counter, hands tucked into his pockets. “I don’t know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. “Am I?”

It would certainly explain how Sakusa was able to climb the ranks so quickly after joining the guild. It would also explain the assured way in which he moves, the lightness to his steps, and the indifference on his face when he kills.

But Atsumu’s also certain Sakusa was born wearing gaudy neon nylon, and that doesn’t fit with the image he’s currently painting in his mind of him swathed in shadow and tight black fabric with a knife strapped to the underside of his wrist.

Atsumu narrows his eyes at him and fishes a coin from his pocket. “Heads you tell me the truth,” he says.

When it turns up tails, nobody’s more shocked than Sakusa. He stares at Atsumu for a moment, eyes a fraction wider than usual, then he reaches into his own pocket and picks out the coin Atsumu tossed to him that night on the roof.

Whatever Sakusa finds on the back of his hand after flipping it makes his smile drop to a scowl again. Atsumu doesn’t bother asking what it was for this time. He lets Sakusa pocket it wordlessly and takes a seat on the sofa, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table and turning the TV on.

Sakusa disappears for a while. Atsumu hears him opening and closing drawers and cupboards in different rooms, checking the apartment for possible dangers or traps. Atsumu flicks through the channels as he does so, looking for something interesting to watch while they wait for their guy to return from a day of crime.

He finds a channel re-broadcasting yesterday’s League One speedraces and feels a thrill of excitement as he reclines to watch. The tracks have changed since he last raced; they’ve added far more obstacles. In addition to the simple ramps, alternating levels, and sliding doors, they’ve carved large gaps into the asphalt and constructed indoor zones that limit sight with smoke and flashing lights.

The race he’s watching now is focussed on the frontrunner - The Grand King – a vision of white and pale blue carving corners far ahead of the pack. The fabric of his capelet snaps against the wind, revealing the suit beneath that’s highly decorated to resemble a regal doublet.

His racing style isn’t too dissimilar to Atsumu’s own – loud, obnoxious and inherently crowd-pleasing - though The Grand King looks as though he’s meticulously learned and memorised every inch of the track, while Atsumu’s only ever relied on instinct.

After a lap, Mad Dog starts to catch up, bike roaring loudly like it’s coming from the twisted snarl of his helmet visor rather than the engine. He narrowly avoids crashing into walls, kicking up dust as he drifts at the last possible second. The commentators love him and the unpredictability he brings – speedracing is dangerous and nobody leans into that quite like Mad Dog. He’s caused more than a few wreckages and wiped out more racers than the rest of the League One roster combined. He’s taken a few hits himself too. He’s sat out whole seasons with broken limbs and his returns are always vengeful.

“I don’t like this,” Sakusa says just as Mad Dog sends a racer veering off the tracks and rolling across the asphalt. Atsumu’s not sure when he returned or how long he’s been standing behind him, but Atsumu tilts his head back against the sofa cushions and smiles up at him sweetly.

“Aw, you worried about me, Omi-kun?” When Sakusa effectively says yes by neglecting to respond at all, Atsumu tilts his head forwards again and drops both his voice and his smile. “Well don’t be. I know what I’m fuckin’ doing.”

Gloved fingers curl in his hair and yank his head back again. Atsumu hisses at the bite of pain against his scalp and scowls up at Sakusa who is scowling right back. “What did I tell you of your arrogance, Miya?”

Atsumu narrows his gaze. “Dunno. Wasn’t listenin’ for that one. Remind me.”

“It’ll be your downfall,” he says, tightening his grip on Atsumu’s hair until he winces. “I know you like to think you are indestructible, but you aren’t.”

They hold each other’s gazes for a while – equally as loaded with words physically incapable of leaving their mouths.

“I don’t need to be indestructible,” Atsumu says, “I just need to be good. And I’m better than good.”

Sakusa’s grip on his hair loosens slightly and Atsumu almost says something stupid just to encourage him to tighten it again because he likes the way it feels.

“Chew properly before you swallow,” Sakusa warns him. “Your brother will be upset if I let you choke on your own ego.”

Atsumu studies him; his brow that’s softened, and the downturn to his lips that’s no longer a scowl. He knows real concern when he sees it, whether it’s warranted or not.

It should still piss him off, but it doesn’t. He knows Sakusa’s not underestimating him, rather his innate perfectionism is just wary of something as unpredictable and risky as speedracing.

Irritation ebbs away like the slow unfurling of Sakusa’s fingers in his hair, because maybe the thought of Sakusa caring a damn about him ignites a different sort of fire in his chest.

He asks, “Just Samu?”

Sakusa pulls away. “You’re not as stupid as you pretend to be,” he says quietly as he walks around and takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. “You already know the answer to that.”

Yeah, Atsumu thinks. I do.

The first job goes well. The guy walks in two hours later with his suit jacket strewn lazily over his arm and an exhausted hand in his hair, and he nearly collapses when he finds Atsumu and Sakusa watching a gameshow on his television.

They knock him out with tranq darts and cuff him, and Atsumu carries him to the car on his back while Sakusa opens the doors. Sawamura’s waiting with two other officers ready to take the guy off their hands. He thanks them profusely for their help, shaking Atsumu’s hand a little too hard and offering his services in return should they ever need them. Atsumu assures him they won’t.

In the days between jobs Atsumu devotes his time to studying the race tracks. He’s never bothered before on account of it being a huge fucking buzzkill, but after his conversation with Sakusa he’s decided to take a little time to prepare.

For hours at a time he’ll sit on the floor in front of the coffee table with one hand resting on a laptop and a remote aimed at the television screen in the other, studying the maps, learning turns, and counting the timings for moving obstacles.

Every now and then, Sakusa will leave a cup of coffee on the table, or throw a snack at Atsumu’s head, or sit with him as he rambles about the qualities and traits and histories of each of the racers. He’ll quiz Atsumu on details and linger to watch races even though Atsumu can tell he hates the sport immensely.

Sometimes Sakusa will pull the coin from his pocket and flip it. Sometimes Atsumu asks what it means, and other times he won’t bother to ask at all. It never matters, because Sakusa always loses.

As soon as the night hits, Atsumu puts his research aside in favour of his Hunting gear and they’ll leave to break into the unsuspecting home of a gang leader. Some apartments are nicer than others, and some men take longer to return home. It means Atsumu gets to play around with their technology as he waits, which also means he gets to challenge Sakusa to more games, like laser darts and holo-shuffleboard, and watch him pout and curse whenever he loses.

The second man tries to run and they chase him around the apartment for five minutes dodging shot glasses as he launches them like grenades. The third plays a few rounds of cards with them before proffering his own wrists for cuffing, claiming prison will be both safer and wiser than continuing to work for the Director. The fourth results in a chase around midcity which ends with them both racing up flights of metal fire escape stairs to corner the idiot on a high-rise rooftop.

Every night they drive their haul to Sawamura for Atsumu to get his hand crushed in an overzealous shake, and every damn night Atsumu thinks perhaps Akaashi sifted through the gangs and purposefully found the easiest ones to assign them.

He still thinks that as they chat idly on their drive down to the lower city for the fifth and final job, but maybe Sakusa was onto something when he said arrogance would be Atsumu’s downfall.

The guy doesn’t have an apartment of his own; he shares a cramped hideout with the upper echelon of his shitty little fighting gang. It’s a lower-city house, a narrow, terraced slab of bricks with boarded up windows and a padlocked fence barring the front door.

They climb up to the roof and over the other side of the house, landing upon the small slab of concrete at the back where there’s a door that’s much easier to break in to. Sakusa picks the lock and Atsumu follows him inside.

It leads into a cluttered kitchen that stinks of leftover food and damp. The place is tiny, so it’s a tight squeeze as they wrestle their way through piles of cardboard boxes and trash bags. Sakusa mutters something about bleach as he kicks things aside, and Atsumu can hear voices beyond the thin walls, deep, gruff, and rowdy as the gang unwind for the night.

Without a word between them, they loosen sleep grenades from their belts and pull their masks up. Atsumu takes the ground floor, and Sakusa soundlessly takes the steps up to the second two at a time. The voices grow louder as the gang realise they’ve been broken into, but by that time it’s too late – Atsumu and Sakusa have already thrown the grenades and made a break for the door again to wait for the effects to settle in.

They wait ten minutes to be sure - Sakusa makes them wait an extra two – then Atsumu pulls his mask back down and leads the way in.

It’s silent this time. The smoke has cleared and all that remains are the unconscious bodies of men strewn out across the stained carpets and slumped against shoddily painted walls. Despite how dirty the place is, it’s far more homely than any other apartment they’ve broken into. It actually looks lived in, with empty beer cans stacked high on the tables, and angry fist-shaped craters in the poster-tacked walls.

Sakusa pulls up the image of the guy they’re looking for on his phone, and Atsumu sticks nearby, rolling them around with his feet to compare their sleeping faces against it and rate their terrible haircuts out of ten. He lengthens his reasoning the longer they search, on the off chance he earns one of Sakusa’s small, huffed laughs or a quip about the mess of Atsumu’s hair in the mornings.

Atsumu almost spots him too late – the guy standing in the doorway. He’s holding a cloth to his face with one hand and a blaster in the other pointed shakily at Sakusa’s head.

He doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t need to.

Atsumu digs a sharp elbow into Sakusa’s side and uses his entire weight to push him out of the way in the split second before the bolt leaves the blaster. The timing is a little clumsy; as Atsumu twists out of the way to avoid the shot now aimed at his own head, he bungles his footing and the bullet grazes his cheekbone as it passes by and slams into the wall behind.

It takes a shocked second for Atsumu to realise he’s been hit. Then agonising heat unfurls upon his face and makes him hiss a curse through his teeth. He’s able to ignore it long enough to pull his tranq blaster free and down the shooter, but then pain catches up and knocks the breath out of him. He buckles to one knee, cradling the wound, a little dazed, a little confused.

“Atsumu!”

Hard hands grab his arms and force him back to his feet, then one wrenches his face up and he cracks an eye open to find Sakusa glaring at him and the wound on his cheek. The anger simmering in his eyes is unlike any Atsumu’s seen before. It’s concerned, enraged, scared, and furious all at once, a combination that makes Atsumu shrink back into himself with a wince because he knows Sakusa’s going to hate what he did, but Atsumu’s quickly realising he’d do it again in a heartbeat, no matter how loudly Sakusa lectures him about pity.

“What the fuck was that?” Sakusa snaps, breaths almost as ragged as Atsumu’s own. “Are you stupid? Do you realise how close that came to killing you?”

It definitely would have killed you, Atsumu bites back, and the relief he feels that it didn’t is bone deep.

He doesn’t need a hand of fingers to count the number of people he’d put himself into harm’s way for. It’s an extremely short list: Osamu and Aran. But now, he supposes, that list has extended to include Sakusa.

And well, he thinks with an inward smile, ain’t that somethin’?

“I’m fine,” he says slowly, forcing his breaths and his voice under control. It hurts so badly to talk it’s dizzying, but he hopes he sounds as ordinary as he thinks he does. “S’just a graze.” He blinks blurriness from his eyes a couple of times and tries to survey Sakusa for damage. “You good?”

Sakusa ignores him and tilts his face carefully to the side like it’ll break it he moves it too fast. “That is not just a graze.”

Atsumu pushes him off. “Looks worse than it is.”

He tries to carry on working, tries to roll another man over, but his eyes keep watering and he can’t keep them open long enough against the throbbing of his cheekbone. Blaster bolts have caught him before, singed the skin of his arms and hands, but it feels far worse than all of those combined. It feels like the pain is everywhere, like it’s torn his entire cheek off rather than skimmed the surface.

Sakusa grabs his shoulder and turns Atsumu back around to face him but he can’t seem to find any words. He just stands there, staring, eyes frantically flickering from Atsumu’s to the wound and back again, hand hovering near his cheek for a moment before curling into a fist and dropping to his side.

“Like what’cha see, sweetheart?” Atsumu quips with a weak smile and waggle of his eyebrows. It sends a jolt of pain across his face again and he cringes. “Ha. Ow.”

Sakusa’s face twists and his hand tightens around Atsumu’s arm. “Fuck you,” he says, and his voice is so taut it makes Atsumu cringe harder.

“It’s nothin’,” Atsumu says, trying to shirk him off. “Let’s just find the—”

Sakusa pushes Atsumu towards the front door with none of the gentleness that had tipped his face to the side moments before. Atsumu stumbles over his own feet beneath the harshness of Sakusa’s strength, but Sakusa props him back up and grabs a fistful of red leather to steer him the right way through the hallway and navigate him across the sea of unconscious bodies.

He throws the door open and shoots the padlock with his blaster, then kicks the gate out of the way and forces Atsumu towards the car waiting across the street.

“Omi, hold up, what about the—”

“Someone else will deal with it,” he says. “Get in the fucking car.”

The blast of cold air that hits his open wound is both a blessing and a curse. It cools it somewhat at first, but then the delicate caress of the breeze feels more like hard fingers pressing into the charred skin.

Atsumu can’t argue – it’s taking all of his energy to stay nonchalant, not to betray how much pain he’s in. He lets Sakusa push him into the passenger seat and he pats around in his pockets to hand him the keys.

Sakusa snatches them and the door slams.

Atsumu groans and says, “Don’t slam my fuckin’ door,” but Sakusa doesn’t hear it, and only would have opened it to slam it again if he had.

He lingers outside of the car for a moment. Atsumu catches a glimpse of screen light as he pulls his phone from his pocket, and the low notes of his muted voice as it makes its way tersely through a call.

Atsumu leans back against the headrest, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, hoping it might relax his muscles and stop them from aching like hellfire.

It doesn’t.

His eyes are still closed when Sakusa slips into the driver’s seat two minutes later, and they remain closed when Sakusa leans across him to fasten his seatbelt.

“I coulda done that,” Atsumu hums, a small smile trying to tug at his lips.

“Stop talking.”

Atsumu sighs and opens his eyes. He finds Sakusa’s face inches from his own, brows furrowing deeper when Atsumu winks and says, “You’re not mad, are ya?”

“Furious,” he says immediately. “Stop fucking talking.” He pulls away and starts the car and the second the engine hums to life he turns the music up so that if Atsumu is stupid enough to try talking again, he won’t hear it.

It reminds him of the night he’d stumbled upon Sakusa’s feelings, of the awkward, music-filled drive from the lower city to the apartment that had followed. Back then, Atsumu had spent the whole time bewildered and desperate. Afraid that he’d fucked up something he wasn’t even aware he’d had, uncertain of his own conflicting thoughts.

He feels none of that now. As the lower city rolls by he feels more certain of himself than he ever has in his whole life.

Though it hurts, Atsumu tips his head to the side to watch Sakusa as he drives, fingers tapping impatiently on the wheel as he stops at lights, jaw tensing but never turning to snap at him for staring. He should hate that Sakusa’s sitting at the wheel of his car. He should hate how slow he’s driving. He should hate how many shortcuts he’s missed and the way he’s adjusted Atsumu’s seat.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t hate it at all.

Once he’s looked his fill he closes his eyes again and leans back, tapping a rhythm into his thigh along with the music, counting down the minutes until he knows they’ll end up back in the apartment carpark where Shirabu’s burn salve is waiting to relieve him of his pain.

It takes Sakusa thirty-six minutes to make the twenty-five minute drive, but he doesn’t turn off to the underground carpark. He stops on the street opposite the Bounty Office and manhandles Atsumu out of the car towards the front door.

Atsumu keeps his mouth shut as Sakusa types in the door code. He keeps it shut as he gets pushed along the carpeted hallway. He keeps it shut as Sakusa throws him onto a barstool and tells him to, “Sit the fuck down and stay there.”

Sakusa walks around the bar and reaches beneath the counter. He retrieves the first-aid kit that Kuroo keeps around for surface-level injuries and slams it against the counter. Atsumu’s face remains pinched in pain, but his chest doesn’t stop smiling as Sakusa tugs his gloves off and rummages around inside with a scowl, throwing things he doesn’t need aside like they’re personally offending him by existing.

He finds the salve and wrenches the lid open, then he grabs Atsumu’s face and pulls it harshly to the side to allow himself better access. His fingers hover over the wound for a moment, hesitant when Atsumu pinches his eyes closed and braces himself for pain, but his touch is feather light as he dabs it on.

Atsumu’s shoulders sag with relief immediately. It douses the fire ravaging his skin until it feels so cool it’s as though Sakusa’s pressing an ice cube to his cheek. He opens his eyes and it no longer hurts to do so. He smiles, and it no longer hurts to do that either.

“Thanks a bunch, Doctor Omi,” he says after Sakusa finishes applying a gauze swab and securing it with medical tape. “Toldja it wasn’t that bad.”

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” Sakusa snaps at him, looking down at his curled fists on the bar counter. “How many fucking times do I need to tell you? I don’t need you playing hero. I don’t need saving. If I fuck up and die, that’s my own damn fault for not paying enough attention.”

“No it’s n—”

“You asked me how hating you and…the other thing overlap,” he says through his teeth. “This is how. Because you are fucking stupid.”

“What I did wasn’t stupid.”

Sakusa glares at him. “You don’t throw yourself in front of goddamn bullets for me, Miya. That’s not how this works.”

Atsumu huffs and turns away. “Is now.”

Sakusa grabs Atsumu’s face and forces him to meet his eye. “No it’s not.”

“Why not?” he asks, batting Sakusa’s hand away. “What if I actually like havin’ you around? I’m not allowed to want that? I’m not allowed to try and keep you alive because you’ve got some kinda complex about lettin’ people give a fuck about you?”

“No,” he says. “Not at the expense of you.”

When Atsumu swallows it feels as though his saliva is salve, cooling and numbing his insides as Sakusa’s words sink in.

“Well that’s too fuckin’ bad,” Atsumu says thickly. “I already told ya the only way I’m lettin’ you die is if I’m the one killin’ ya. I’m not gonna let some pathetic gang scrub get the pleasure before I do, and if I gotta collect a few holes and scars in the meantime then so fuckin’ be it.”

Sakusa scoffs and moves to start packing stuff away, but Atsumu’s chest feels like it’ll cave in if he leaves it here; he’s never been one for patience. With a determined hand, he grabs Sakusa’s wrist to pull his attention back and yanks him close.

“Ask me again,” he says.

Sakusa tears his gaze from Atsumu’s hand around his wrist and meets his eye. The storm brewing in their depths has settled now, but his attention still flickers to Atsumu’s gauze-covered cheek every few seconds.

“I know you think you exist at the centre of everybody’s universes, Miya, but nobody can actually hear your thoughts. Ask you what again?”

Atsumu stands from his seat on the barstool and tugs him so close he can feel Sakusa’s breaths mixing with his own. “The ‘What I want from you’ question, ask it.”

Sakusa looks at him strangely for a long time, and when he makes no effort to ask the question, Atsumu answers it anyway: “The same damn thing as you.”

Sakusa’s eyes pinch closed like they had done in the hallway, and when he opens them, Atsumu tightens his grip on his wrist and dares him to say No you don’t when he definitely fucking does.

His gaze drops from Atsumu’s eyes, to his cheek, to his lips, then down to his own hand where he’s now balancing a coin on his thumb. Atsumu lets him go so he has space to flip it.

It turns up heads.

“Did you win that time?” Atsumu murmurs.

Sakusa stares at the coin for two, three, four, seconds, then he says, “Yes,” drops it, and the same hand finds the back of Atsumu’s head and pulls him in until their mouths meet.

Sakusa’s kiss feels like fire. Not the bright orange of a warehouse set ablaze, or the blistering heat of a blaster bolt to the face. It’s the numbing kind, a flame that’s so hot it’s a deceptively dangerous blue. Each and every one of Atsumu’s nerve endings feels impossibly alight with it, like he could explode and bring the whole damn Bounty Office down with him.

Atsumu reciprocates immediately, and Sakusa drives him back against the bar so he thumps against the counter and has no option but to grip the edge until his knuckles turn white. He uses that leverage to push himself in, to encourage Sakusa to take whatever the fuck he wants.

Sakusa’s hands are desperate on him. His hold of Atsumu’s hair is tight and biting - just the way he likes it – as he keeps their lips close to pant through frantic, open-mouthed kisses that are simultaneously everything and not quite enough.

Atsumu breathes him in – the bitterness of coffee, the sharpness of alcohol wipes, and the lingering musk of sleeping gas stuck to his clothes. He loses himself in the strength of Sakusa’s hands, the warmth of his tongue, and the urgency of his body pressing against his own.

“Shit, Omi,” Atsumu groans as Sakusa’s mouth moves to his jaw and one of his hands dips beneath the layers of shirts to rest upon the sensitive skin of his side.

“I knew it wouldn’t last long,” Sakusa says against his ear. “The bliss of your silence.”

The barstool falls over when Atsumu finally relinquishes his grasp of the counter to hop upon onto it. He fists a hand in Sakusa’s curls and tugs him into the newly created space between his legs.

“Then bring your mouth back here,” Atsumu says against the swell of his kiss-bitten lips before he captures them again with his own.

When Atsumu tries to tug down the zipper of Sakusa’s jacket, Sakusa doesn’t bother to help him. He snakes his hand further beneath Atsumu’s shirt, tracing his skin with light fingertips, occasionally applying pressure to pull Atsumu in according to his rhythm as he kisses him breathless, like the world might end if he stops.

“I’m going to set this fuckin’ thing on fire,” Atsumu says into Sakusa’s open mouth when the zipper of his jacket gets stuck.

“I have another one,” Sakusa hums, catching his lips again.

Atsumu laughs into it, and feels Sakusa smile too. “I’ll burn them all,” he promises. “Ya look way better without ‘em.”

“I can’t let you do that. Road safety is not a joke, Atsumu.”

He kisses Sakusa again through the shiver that wracks his spine at the mention of his name spoken so quietly, so breathlessly. He wants to hear it again, would burn the whole city down for the chance to—

“Oh? Do I need to impose a new bar rule?”

They both snap apart and Atsumu looks over Sakusa’s shoulder to find Kuroo standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised so highly in surprise they reach his hairline.

“No,” Sakusa says quickly as he pushes Atsumu off him.

Atsumu stumbles back and reaches out for something to hold on to, but he finds nothing behind him and falls from the bar top with a yelp.

“I came to check on you after Kou told me something had happened. I guess you’re doing just fine, though. That’s great.”

From the floor, Atsumu hears Sakusa clear his throat and straighten out his jacket.

“It was just a graze!” Atsumu says, popping up from behind the bar. “No need to call the doctor. Omi fixed me up.”

With a smirk and a pointed once over, Kuroo says, “I can see that.”

Atsumu follows his gaze down to his bunched up shirt and catches the reflection of his finger-mussed hair in the shiny metal of a nearby drink cabinet. He can’t find it within himself to care or be embarrassed, his mind can’t seem to think of anything but Sakusa’s mouth and how long it’ll take for him to find a way to kiss it again.

Sakusa zips his jacket up to his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m leaving,” he says tightly, making a beeline for the door.

For a stupid moment, Atsumu just stands there and watches him go, unable to coordinate any of his limbs with his brain.

“Thirty feet, Miya,” Kuroo says with a nod in Sakusa’s direction. “You’d better go catch up before I start drafting the banishment papers.”

Atsumu stares blankly at Kuroo then blinks and says, “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Cool, I’ll just. Go. Then.”

Kuroo laughs as Atsumu climbs over the bar and knocks several things off in his Sakusa-drunk clumsiness. As he jogs towards the door that leads down towards the apartment, he hears Kuroo's exasperated, “Guess I didn’t need to worry about a goddamn thing.”

Chapter Text

There’s only the dim buzz of the kitchen bulb lighting the apartment when Atsumu stumbles inside and locks the door behind him. It’s dark and dingy, but Atsumu’s eyes find Sakusa immediately. He’s sunken into a sofa seat, staring at the blank television screen with his hands tucked into his pockets and the lower half of his face buried in the zipped-up collar of his jacket.

Atsumu doesn’t know what to say or do, but he knows he doesn’t want to go, so he claims his favourite armchair nearby and flicks the television on to join him.

The living room fills with cold, blue light as a late night news anchor mumbles through the daily reports, and though Atsumu’s staring at the anchor’s face as she drones on about politics, he’s not paying any real attention to the stories she tells. He’s far too preoccupied replaying the last fifteen minutes over and over and over again in his mind’s eye.

He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to stop thinking of Sakusa, or his mouth, or his hands. Whenever he blinks he’s on the bar counter with Sakusa’s fingers pressing into his skin; each measured breath he takes is laced with the familiarity of Sakusa’s signature coffee; the gauze in his periphery is a permanent reminder of Not at the expense of you.

There’s so much energy swimming beneath Atsumu’s skin that he curls his fists until his nails bite and puncture his palms, hoping the pain will release the pent up pressure like a knife in a tyre.

Ten quiet minutes pass that way before Atsumu finally tears his gaze from the screen and dares a glance over at Sakusa. The veneer of calm he’s managed to wrap himself up in during that time is stripped away instantly; Sakusa is already watching him, eyes dark and heavy with a want that feels just as intense as his own.

Atsumu swallows down the urge to cross the room and kiss him.

By the flickering light of the television he holds Sakusa’s eye for a while longer as he muddles through the mental minefield of right and wrong things to say. It takes him a while, but he throws all of his chips in and gambles on, “No refunds.”

Sakusa looks away and sinks down further into the cushions. His voice is muffled when Atsumu hears him mutter, “I don’t want one.”

Atsumu coughs the urge back up and crosses the room embarrassingly fast.

For a moment he simply stands in front of Sakusa, looking down at him with a question in his eyes. When he’s not met with a blaster or a terse fuck off, Atsumu levels a hand on the cushion behind his head and climbs onto his lap, knees straddling his thighs.

“Miya.”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice unmuting somewhere in the middle as Atsumu unzips his jacket to expose his mouth. There’s no surprise or anger on his face, just a curious raising of his brows.

“The fuck does it look like I’m doin’?” Atsumu pulls the zip down further and it doesn’t get stuck this time. It reveals a torso of tight black fabric and Atsumu lets his eyes wander shamelessly. “Kick me off if ya want me to stop.”

Sakusa’s brows have furrowed by the time Atsumu drags his gaze up from his chest to his face, like he’s suddenly thinking laboriously through his actions, acutely aware and in control of the desperation Atsumu had felt at the bar. Atsumu pauses, waiting to see if Sakusa really will decide to push him off and call it a night, but then he takes his hands out of his slackened pockets and rests them tentatively on Atsumu’s sides, tugging him an encouraging fraction closer.

“Why so shy all of a sudden, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asks with a grin. “Power Up wear off already? Or are ya just feelin’ a little lost without a wall to push me against?”

Sakusa pinches him and Atsumu’s pained hiss turns into a laugh. He moves a hand around to the back of Sakusa’s head and lets his fingers entangle within his curls, softly at first, then tighter as he brings their faces closer together.

“S’fine,” he says quietly, lips hovering over Sakusa’s, eyes focussed on the ones staring back at him. “I know plenty of moves. None of ‘em require coins either.”

The grip on his side changes as Sakusa’s hand travels beneath Atsumu’s shirt, and his thumb absently traces the jagged line of scarred skin that marks his hipbone. “Show me whichever one shuts you up the fastest.”

“Easy,” Atsumu says. “That’d be this one.”

He closes the distance between their mouths and Atsumu settles into a kiss that’s slow and explorative; a deliberate unwinding of tension; an establishment of his pacification.

Despite the threat of a crumbling city, Atsumu decides there is no rush. He takes his time learning the topography of Sakusa’s mouth, the rhythm of his tongue, the cadence of his inhales and the depth of his exhales.

As Atsumu lets his free hand roam to push his wretched jacket from his shoulders, he maps out the places that make Sakusa’s breaths hitch in his throat and cause his lips to hang open for a suspended second or two. He smooths a palm over the muscular planes of Sakusa’s abdomen and grins against the annoyed sound he earns when he bites Sakusa’s bottom lip and runs his tongue over it in a playful apology.

Inevitably it turns a little frantic again when Sakusa’s hands lose their caution and continue their search of Atsumu’s body, warm and inquisitive. All Atsumu is capable of in those moments is resting his forehead against Sakusa’s and breathing shakily into his open mouth as he shrugs out of his own jacket and allows deft fingers to push the layers of his shirts up.

Sakusa kisses him once more before his mouth moves to Atsumu’s jaw and he marks a path along it. He presses his thumb into Atsumu’s exposed ribs as he does so, firmly tracing the bones beneath the surface like he’s expecting to find the evidence of where they’d once been broken.

“You wanna check the one on my thigh too?” Atsumu hums. “Mark it off yer little injury bingo card? I’ve got a coupla older ones ya don’t know about. Might have to take some more things off to get to ‘em though.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sakusa says against the side of his throat.

“Stick around there long enough and you’ll probably find the hole you made with that tranq dart.”

Sakusa’s teeth catch the exact patch of skin he’s referring to and Atsumu sucks in a sharp breath.

“Best five thousand coins I’ve ever spent,” Sakusa says into his ear. “Every day I battle the urge to alleviate my suffering by using it on you again.”

Atsumu ignores the fact that Osamu’s been criminally undercharging Sakusa for commissions and says, “You’ve always gotta choose the long, prickly, and painful way ‘round, huh?”

Sakusa scoffs. “It’s not as though you’ve gone out of your way to make the road any easier.”

His hand finds Sakusa’s chin to guide him upward, and Sakusa’s attention is slow in travelling from Atsumu’s jaw, to his cheek, to his eyes. Atsumu’s grip on his face tightens inexplicably as he takes in the blown-out darkness of his pupils and the hue of his skin flickering and changing as the television continues to hum quietly behind them.

How many times has Atsumu looked into those eyes and the fire in their depths and wanted to punch him? How many times has he thought that Sakusa wanted to punch him back just as hard? Probably the right amount of times, he supposes, but there are likely just as many times he’s misread both himself and Sakusa entirely.

“Guess not,” he says quietly, running a contemplative thumb over Sakusa’s swollen bottom lip. “But I’ll show you a shortcut this time. Pay close attention, Kiyoomi.”

He lifts himself up onto his knees to gain a height advantage. He tips Sakusa’s head back against the cushions and they stay that way for a while – Sakusa propping him up with a hand on his thigh, Atsumu kissing him like an eager question no number of flipped coins can answer.

When Atsumu lowers himself onto his lap again a sound pulls unexpectedly from Sakusa’s throat, low and heavy. It makes something twist pleasantly in Atsumu’s gut, makes his joggers feel a little too tight all of a sudden. He grinds down again and the friction finds him this time too. It forces an equally as desperate groan from his chest that drops to a whispered, “Fuck,” as Sakusa’s hands find his hips and pull him down harder.

The energy at the bar returns when Atsumu tries it a third time. The kisses grow wet and messy, because it’s hard not to get greedy, not to try and pull as many of these rare reactions and noises out of Sakusa as he can while he’s still pliant and hungry.

In his urgency, Atsumu’s hand moves unthinkingly to the waistband of Sakusa’s joggers. He applies a pressure that makes his breath catch, then the rise and fall of Sakusa’s chest grows erratic as Atsumu dips two fingers beneath the fabric and tugs at the elastic.

There is no fourth time. Sakusa throws Atsumu off him with a slightly strangled sound, and he lands in the seat next to his so that they’re both sitting, staring wide-eyed at the television, dazed and breathing heavily like they’ve run a lap of the midcity.

“Sorry,” Atsumu says in his winded stupor. He runs a hand through his hair and stares up at the ceiling. “Shoulda asked.”

“No, it’s—” Sakusa clears his throat. “I wouldn’t have—I wasn’t stopping you.”

Atsumu blinks a billion times. “Oh,” he says, but he might not have. It might have just been a shaky exhale.

He’s not sure why Sakusa would hold himself back when Atsumu’s very obviously giving him permission to do whatever the fuck he pleases. But he’s also unsure of how Sakusa manages to affect him so greatly, or why he’s acting so goddamn stupid around him all of a sudden. It’s like this new proximity has pulled more than just the rug from beneath Atsumu’s feet – the Earth’s axis has tilted a degree.

They sit like that for a few minutes. Or a few hours - Atsumu’s not sure how fast time is passing. Maybe it’s stopped entirely. Maybe it’s sped up and the millennium has changed.

After a quiet eternity of slowly relaxing breaths, Sakusa stands and shrugs his jacket back on. He starts towards his room, then stops halfway and Atsumu has to strain his ears to hear his next words over the thumping of his own pulse:

“No refunds.”

Atsumu sits forwards and stares holes into Sakusa’s back. “I’ve, uh… incinerated the receipt.”

Sakusa’s shoulders jolt slightly through a soundless laugh, and Atsumu’s lips quirk into a smile that’s incapable of holding back a laugh of his own. It sobers him slightly, enough for him to call out after Sakusa as he starts walking away again. “Sweet Tsumu-filled dreams, Omi-kun! Hope ya wake up in a cold sweat wishin’ you’d never pushed me off.”

Sakusa’s response is a middle finger raised over his shoulder.

He watches Sakusa disappear down the hallway then slumps back against the sofa and rubs a hand over his face, wincing when he forgets the gauze and tugs at the tape.

It takes another eternity for him to collect his wits and stand. He readjusts his shirt and picks his jacket up off the floor, and something metallic falls out the pocket when he slings it over his arm.

It’s the pot of burn salve.

Atsumu’s not sure when Sakusa slipped it in, whether it was at the bar, or on the sofa. He curls his fist around it and brings it with him to the bathroom where he takes his time in the longest, most enlightening and dizzying shower of his goddamn life.

The next morning yields no time to talk. Atsumu wakes to a barrage of texts from Suna claiming he’s finished the speedracing set and he rushes them out of the apartment so fast he doesn’t even make time for a Sakusa-coffee.

Suna’s garage is located in the heart of the midcity. It sits in a section dedicated exclusively to the motor industry, a large cul-de-sac of squat buildings surrounded on all sides by stretches of flat concrete. There are hundreds of vehicles on display, packed closely together in an infinite number of clashing colours, styles, ages, and models, and there’s a short race track nearby too that allows for test drives. Shops, garages, professional cleaners, dealerships, and modifiers; they all congregate into one huge outdoor outlet.

Atsumu bought his own car there, from a woman called Shimizu in the place neighbouring Suna’s. She specialises exclusively in high price tags, the sort of cars that frequent the streets of the upper city. Rich men drop by all the time thinking they can haggle numbers with her, but Atsumu’s seen her navigate the conversations so expertly that she ends up getting more for the cars than they’re actually worth.

But she hadn’t needed to do that to Atsumu – he’d saved for years to afford the six figures taped to the window of his baby. No negotiations, no bartering, just the proud puff to his chest and the wide grin on his face as he’d watched the numbers deplete from his bank and felt the cool metal of the keys against his palm.

When they park up outside the open shutters of the garage, Suna’s already waiting for them on the bonnet of an old car, sitting cross legged and hunched over his phone. His goggles are resting around his neck and his overalls are down around his waist as usual, arms tied at the front, stained with paint and motor oil.

Atsumu rolls the window and hangs out of it to wolf whistle at him through his fingers.

“Honey,” he calls, “I’m home!”

“I’m filing for divorce,” Suna says without looking up. “You left me hanging on a Scrabble turn for eighteen hours.”

“Don’t be like that, Sunarin!” he whines. “I’ve been a very busy boy.”

“That excuse might work on your other flings,” Suna drawls, “but I’ve already made a breakup playlist and thrown your bike in the trash.”

Atsumu drums his fingers on the side of his car. “Aw, that’s a damn shame. Kuroo was super grateful you were helpin’ us on such short notice. He said I could pay ya triple.”

Suna picks his head up. “Atsumu!” he suddenly beams as though the previous conversation never happened. “My favourite Miya twin! You’re finally here! Come inside, I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

He hops off the bonnet and disappears into the back of the garage, through the door beyond into where Atsumu knows his workshop lies.

Atsumu winds the window back up but neither one of them makes an immediate effort to leave the car. The flurry of the morning crawls to a stop in the silence that follows the killed engine, and Atsumu’s suddenly aware that this is the closest they’ve gotten since last night. It almost feels like a test, like whatever follows will determine what’s changed and what hasn’t.

“I distinctly remember Kuroo warning you not to take advantage of the guild’s generosity,” Sakusa says. “Are you trying to get yourself banished?”

Atsumu turns to face him and tests the boundary by setting his arm along the back of Sakusa’s headrest. When all Sakusa does is watch him with a withered grimace, Atsumu smiles. “You think Kuroo has any idea how much a custom speedrace bike costs?”

“No. But I’m sure he’ll be grateful when I tell him.”

“You wouldn’t.”

The smile Sakusa sends him is not kind. “The list of things I wouldn’t do for the chance to land your arrogant feet in hot water is incredibly short, Miya.”

As he leans in, Atsumu places his free hand on Sakusa’s knee and pats it. “How about you shut yer goody-two-shoes mouth and be a good sport for now, huh?”

Sakusa glances downwards. “How about you move your hand before I break it?”

“Move it where?” Atsumu inches his hand higher to Sakusa’s thigh, then settles it there and squeezes in another test. “Here?”

Sakusa grabs his wrist and bends it back until he jumps and yelps. “A-A-Ah! There! Okay! Got it! Gotitgotitgotit!”

“Stop wasting time and get out of the car,” he says, throwing Atsumu’s hand aside.

“Get in the fuckin’ car, get out of the fuckin’ car,” Atsumu mutters, shaking out his wrist as Sakusa opens the passenger door. “So damn bossy. And don’t slam my—”

Sakusa slams the door.

Atsumu stumbles out after him.

“You try that shit one more fuckin’ time and I’m gonna do more than break your hands,” he warns as he falls into step beside him.

“It was an accident.”

“Lyin’ bastard.”

Sakusa offers no more than a bored hum in response as he pulls his mask into place and tucks his hands into his pockets. Atsumu opens his mouth to chastise him further, but his words die in his throat when for the first time in a while he spots the familiar shade of red that Sakusa’s ears have turned.

Any annoyance he’d felt is swiftly lost to a satisfied smirk, because somehow, everything is different, and yet nothing’s changed at all.

They pick their way across Suna’s garage, around the heaps of spare parts and lazily strewn tools. There’s a radio playing quietly in the corner, tuned into the station that plays the old rock music he likes, and the disassembled skeletons of two motorcycles mounted on drying racks that are half-painted and missing seats.

Atsumu’s known Suna long enough to understand that his task management skills are nowhere near as polished as his modification ones are. Suna’s always got at least ten projects underway at any given time, flitting about them as his interest piques and drops, as his moods and energy levels fluctuate.

The waiting times for Suna’s modifications can be astronomical if he’s not passionate about the job, but customers pay his prices and wait the lengthy queues regardless, because Suna’s work speaks for itself.

He’s already waiting for them inside, sitting at a table boasting two mysterious mounds covered in a layer of paint-speckled cloth. Atsumu takes a seat opposite him, but Sakusa stands nearby, eyes cautiously roaming the workshop, attention split between their conversation and the door like he’s constantly expecting another blaster wielding idiot to materialise.

“I went a little crazy,” Suna says, pocketing his phone. “I was hoping it might give you the push you need to hang up the Hunting gloves for the speedracing ones.”

Since his old speedracing days Suna’s been battling valiantly to get him to make the switch. He was the only one of Atsumu’s friends to be genuinely disappointed after he turned Sakamoto’s offer down, but Atsumu’s certain it has more to do with Suna’s desire for free tickets and backstage access than his interest and belief in Atsumu as a racer.

“I don’t wear gloves,” Atsumu reminds him, trying to lift the cloth.

Suna reaches across the table and slaps his hand away. “Well you should. Speedracing is way cooler and you know you’re better at it than—Oh.” He stops and taps his own cheekbone, mirroring the place where Atsumu’s is covered in a square of gauze. “Your money maker. I thought you were all healed up. What happened?”

Atsumu makes a dismissive sound. “Some lanky dumbass got in my way,” he says, waving him off noncommittally. “S’just a graze. No big deal.”

Sakusa makes a point of pulling his switchblade from his pocket to open and retract it in a threatening rhythm.

“Ah. My point exactly,” Suna says with a smug smile. “If you were speedracing that would never have happened, because you’d have been wearing one of these.”

He pulls back the cloth and Atsumu dies and resuscitates himself in the space of a millisecond. “Ohh, Sunarin,” he groans. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

The helmets are black, but that’s where their typicality ends. They’re slightly angular in shape to resemble the sharp face of the jackal character they’d agreed upon. Ears protrude from the top, so pointed Atsumu’s certain they would pierce the tips of his fingers if he were to touch them, and while one helmet is left plain – Sakusa’s, as a Sponsor – the other is fitted with thin strips of bright gold light around the visor rim and inside the concaved triangles of the ear shells.

The racing suits to match them are similar. They’re both constructed of a tight, yet durable black fabric meant to mitigate burn damage to the body when rolling across asphalt at high speeds. The fronts are accented with gold trims – the pockets, the zips, the collars – and the sides are marked with two thin, parallel strips of glowing crystal-core-infused light.

The back of Sakusa’s is plain, but Atsumu’s boasts a large, three-clawed gash that extends from the right shoulder to the left hipbone. It’s tailored to look as though a real beast has torn its way through his suit to reveal a layer of golden skin beneath the ripped fabric.

“I know,” Suna says. “I’m a genius.”

Atsumu picks up his helmet and turns it around in his hands. When he tilts it to the side, the light dancing across the visor illuminates a pair of golden eyes hidden between the layers of fortified thermoplastic, like that of a predator lurking in darkness. He pulls it on and it’s surprisingly lightweight. There’s no sign of the eyes from the inside; Atsumu’s vision is clear and wide, affording him a full, uninterrupted scope of Suna’s workshop.

“Shit, Suna,” he marvels. It’s beyond what he’d been hoping for – it’ll feel right at home amongst the dozens of other racers boasting similarly elaborate designs and characters. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t eager to see himself lined up against the League One greats.

It’ll be more than enough to catch Sakamoto’s attention.

“And it somehow gets better,” Suna adds.

He hops off his stool and wanders over to the far end of his workshop. Atsumu takes off the helmet to follow, and Sakusa trails behind, warily eyeing the shiny black surface of it tucked under Atsumu’s arm.

They stop before another piece of draped cloth. Suna peels it back and Atsumu lets out a low, impressed whistle. “You weren’t lyin’ huh? Ya really are tryin’ to kill me, Sunarin.”

Speedrace bikes differ to ordinary motorcycles. The seats are lower, and they’re agile and light, with lithe frames to allow for higher speeds, and thinner, spring-loaded wheels to make successful jumps across the track obstacles.

The side fairings are often where the elaborate designs come into play. Some of them reach to racers’ shoulders to protect from them from low swooping turns or nudges from opponents, while others prefer to keep them short and highly decorated for extra mobility.

Atsumu prefers the latter, and that’s exactly what Suna’s done; it’s as though he’s created a motorised jackal fit perfectly to suit both Atsumu’s body and driving style  – slim and angular, wild and nimble.

The whole frame is an impossibly matte black, and the fiberglass fairings have been painted to match. They hug the sides like jagged shoulders, one of which is carved with a similar claw mark to the one on the back of Atsumu’s uniform.

The frame itself and the crystal core engine it protects have been wired up with a warm, gold glow, as though the black fibreglass is no more than a coat protecting the furnace within that is alive and humming with energy. The wheels are glowing too, so that the metal trims look molten with heat.

“This baby deserves some screen time,” Suna says wistfully. “You’d better get it to League One, or I’m charging six times the price and taking it from you personally.”

Atsumu smooths a hand over the seat and trails it up to the handlebars. “I’ll get it a trophy,” he promises. “A gold one.”

“That is not the priority, Miya,” Sakusa reminds him with a glare.

“Is now, Omi-kun.” He turns to Suna. “Can I test it?”

Suna grins and pulls a set of keys from his pocket that he spins around his finger. “I thought you’d never ask.”

They wheel the bike out to the track behind Suna’s garage, and he adds a few makeshift ramps and cones to simulate the conditions of speedrace obstacles. It’ll be far more dangerous in the stadium alongside the other racers, but it’s enough for Atsumu to reacquaint himself with the weight and feel of the bike after being separated from one for so long.

“You should probably let Kuroo know I’m test drivin’,” he tells Sakusa as he rolls to a stop in front of him. He lifts the visor of his helmet and winks. “Unless ya wanna get on and let me take ya for a ride?”

“No.”

“Sure?” Atsumu pushes himself up on the handlebars and leans forwards. “You can hold on as tight as ya like. I’ll take real good care of ya, buttercup. Promise.”

Sakusa lowers his mask so that Atsumu can see the magnitude of disgust etched into his grimace. “I would rather die,” he says, then pulls it back up and retrieves his phone from his pocket.

“This is no good, Omi-kun,” Atsumu pouts, shoulders slumping. “You’re gettin’ it all wrong. You’re supposed to say, ‘Sure! Scoot over, Tsumu! I can’t wait to wrap my arms ‘round your big, strong,’—Ack!”

Sakusa reaches over and slams the visor of his helmet closed so hard his vision shakes. “Why don’t you run along and complete your ego laps, Miya? The prospect of some time away from you is making me giddy with excitement.”

“Ya don’t sound excited.”

“Believe me,” Sakusa mutters. “I am.”

He walks off to join Suna on one of the spectator benches and Atsumu huffs as he flicks the ignition.

And it’s true, Atsumu figures, what they say about bikes – you never forget how to ride one, no matter what kind. The moment he revs the engine to life it feels as though no time has passed at all since he was last stationed at the starting line, surrounded on all sides by noisy racers and roaring crowds.

It only takes a single lap for Atsumu to fall in love. This bike is far kinder to him than his old ‘generously provided rental’ ever was. Back then, races had felt more like wrestling matches as Atsumu wrangled the stiff handlebars under control and strained his core to force turns. He’d made it work for the chance to race and earn some money, but now it feels as though the bike is working for him, like it’s alive and hungry and Atsumu’s simply guiding it.

For the first few laps he lets himself gradually climb in speed, pushing beyond what would be ordinary for a ride around the city to an eye-watering swiftness that cuts against the exposed skin of his hands. Once he’s comfortable cornering at that pace he starts to integrate the cones Suna set out, sometimes arcing around them, other times rapidly bouncing and weaving between them.

The first jump he completes doesn’t make his head rattle – the wheels actually absorb the shock and it makes his blood sing beneath his skin. From there, he starts to pretend that this course is the qualifying race. He’s already learned the track, so he times the obstacles to match what he remembers and hugs the corners like he’s trying to rise the ranks to the frontrunner’s seat.

Crystal core engines don’t usually make much noise, but they can be engineered to do so to match the persona of a racer. Mad Dog’s roar is the loudest, a nasty snarl that rips from the engine as he pushes it to its limit. But there are others too – The Living Dragon’s bike lets out a low, ominous bellow, the Eagle’s a swift rush of artificial air.

Suna has made this one sound like the predatory grumble of a beast. Each ramp Atsumu jumps fills his ears with a content growl. When he corners it purrs, and the smile that stretches across his face is inevitable. Suna wasn’t wrong when he said that speedracing – at its core - is cooler than Bounty Hunting.

After a while, Suna fires up an old bike and joins him. He’s not an experienced racer, but he’s ridden enough in his spare time to keep up with the speed of the turns. Atsumu insists that Suna try to nerf and nudge him off the track so he can familiarise himself with the feel of other racers, and he spends another hour or so dipping and dodging away from the spiked side fairings of his bike as he tries his hardest to ram into him.

It’s well into the afternoon by the time he kills the engine and calls it a day. His bones still feel the vibration of driving long after they wheel it back into Suna’s garage, and there’s a bounce to his step he can’t contain.

“I’ll get it to the stadium for you,” Suna says. “The qualifier is tomorrow evening, right?”

“The best we could manage as newcomers was Bank Four,” Atsumu says in confirmation. It’s the worst possible starting position, at the very back of the pack, but Atsumu’s not bothered. He’d still win a qualifier if the others had a whole lap head start.

Suna nods and yawns, slumping over the table in his exhaustion. “When you win,” he says, voice muffled by his own arms, “don’t tell anyone where you got your bike mods. The last thing I need is more customers whining at me.”

“Ya gotta let me do somethin’ for ya, Sunarin,” he laughs. Suna’s already declined money for his work three times.

“I don’t want to be the only one with a sleazy villain edit when they make the movie about this shit,” he’d said when Atsumu held his phone out to transfer the money. “If Samu’s working for free then I am too. Besides, once you’ve made the screen I’ll be able to sell this stuff for five times the price as collectibles.”

He waves Atsumu off again now. “Just bring me the trophy like you promised. I have just the shelf for it. Also, make my day by knocking The Grand King down a peg or two. He’s won the past five League One races in a row and his fans are getting a little too loud about it. It’s about time someone wiped the smile off his helmet.”

“With that bike,” Atsumu grins, “I’ll teach his helmet to cry.”

“We should fight,” Atsumu says as he joins Sakusa in the kitchen later that night. He’s just finished watching his last recorded race, but he’s too keyed up to think about sleep. Especially not with Sakusa lingering nearby, watching him discreetly whenever he thinks Atsumu isn’t paying attention.

It’s bordering painful to pretend he isn’t noticing the weight of his stares.

“Do we not do that every waking hour of the day?” Sakusa asks tiredly. He’s not making a coffee this time, he’s making some kind of herbal tea that smells so strongly it makes Atsumu’s nose wrinkle when he sidles up close enough to catch a breath of it.

Atsumu peers inside at the muted brown colour and makes a face. “What’s in that?” he asks instead of answering.

Sakusa finishes stirring it and turns to lean his back against the counter. “None of your business,” he says, holding the mug in his hands without taking a sip.

Atsumu copies him and huffs. “I meant we should spar,” he clarifies. “S’gonna be a while of just sittin’ around waitin’ for races. I don’t wantcha to get rusty before we storm the Director’s palace.”

“No,” Sakusa says immediately.

“Scared?” Atsumu returns just as quick.

He gives Atsumu a pointed once over. “I think we’ve established that I don’t have a phobia of clowns.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Atsumu plucks the warm mug from Sakusa’s hands and sets it aside, then he steps closer and cages him against the counter with two hands gripping the edge either side of him. “Worried ya might wanna make out with me halfway through?”

Sakusa looks down at him and narrows his eyes.

“Easy fix. We can just get that out of the way before the match,” Atsumu grins, closing the distance between them.

Sakusa’s palm finds Atsumu’s mouth and covers it before he gets close enough to kiss him. It’s warm with the residual heat of tea, and Atsumu’s body can’t decide if that’s riling him up or calming him down.

“You may think it, but I don't exist under your thumb, Miya," Sakusa says. "And your loud mouth can't always get what it wants."

Why not? Atsumu asks with the raising of a brow and the insistent inching forwards of his body.

“It would be counterproductive to your speedracing plight for me to beat you senseless the night before a race,” he continues in a way that makes Atsumu’s grip on the counter tighten.

Atsumu waits for Sakusa’s hand to move, and it doesn’t stray far; he drops it to rest at the junction of skin between Atsumu’s neck and shoulder.

“Thought you didn’t want me to race at all,” Atsumu says. “Shouldn’t beatin’ me up to stop me be an incentive?”

“Yes, but unlike you, I don’t let selfishness rule my decision making.”

“S’good in moderation.”

“Not when lives are on the line.”

Atsumu smirks. “You really think you’d win, huh?”

“I know I would.”

“Yeah? How d’ya figure that?”

Sakusa watches his own thumb as he absently smooths it over the skin of Atsumu’s throat. “Because it’s finally a game that doesn’t rely on luck.”

Atsumu hums and the pressure of Sakusa’s fingers tightens a fraction around the sound. “It’s a game I can still cheat at though.”

“You think I haven’t familiarised myself with your petty tricks by now?”

His mind wanders to the weeks they spent healing, to the long mornings and nights Atsumu would get this close to whisper his name just because he’d known it would give him an edge. He’s not sure how Sakusa managed to hold himself back for so long, especially if the desire he’d felt was even a fraction as potent as what Atsumu’s feeling now.

“Nope,” he says. “I keep plenty of surprises where you can’t see ‘em.” He pauses and moves one hand from the counter to the small of Sakusa’s back. “You gonna stop yappin’ long enough to kiss me?”

Sakusa tears his gaze from his hand at Atsumu’s throat to his eyes. He guides Atsumu closer, then says into his ear, “Maybe you should stop yapping long enough to listen. Did I not just tell you that you can’t always get what you want?”

He tugs Sakusa closer so that their bodies are flush against each other. “What about what you want?”

“Oh? You’ve made enough room in your tiny, narcissistic brain to care?” Sakusa scoffs with some disbelief, the breath making Atsumu’s skin shiver.

“Did a little spring cleanin’ recently,” he hums. “I’m just as surprised as you are, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa’s hand finds his chin and tips his face back. “What I want, is to drink my tea so I can finally go the fuck to sleep,” he says, mouth hovering over Atsumu’s own.

Atsumu tries to chase his lips as he pulls away, but Sakusa keeps him at a distance as he reaches behind himself for his mug and brings it to his mouth as a barrier.

“You havin’ trouble sleepin’?” he asks with a frown. There are no dark shadows beneath his eyes to suggest he’s had any sleepless nights, but they’re both Bounty Hunters – they can go days without sleep in the pursuit of a job. Atsumu would never know any different. Maybe Sakusa drinks that tea every night and Atsumu just hasn’t paid enough attention until now to notice.

When Sakusa’s response is no more than a raised brow, Atsumu reminds himself, “None of my business. Got it.”

He takes a few steps back to lean against the kitchen table and crosses his arms over his chest in compliance.

“I’d say you were a quick study but that would be a lie,” Sakusa hums.

Atsumu watches intently as Sakusa takes his first sip of tea; his shoulders relax immediately, and the line between his brows irons itself out until he looks… Comfortable? Happy?

“Guess I’ll just have to hit the books,” he says, wondering how he can achieve the same thing without bad smelling tea.

Sakusa looks at him for a moment, then drops his gaze to the contents of his mug. “Chapter One,” he says thoughtfully. “Compromise. If you win your first three races and leave the stadium in one piece, I’ll consider sparring with you.”

The corner of Atsumu’s lip quirks into a smile. “It’s only gonna take one for you to realise there’s nothin’ to worry about.”

“I highly doubt that.”

Atsumu straightens up and starts off for his room. “Then I’m just gonna have to prove it to ya,” he says. He throws a wave over his shoulder. “Sweet dreams, Omi-kun.”

He’s not off to a great start.

The moment he catches sight of Sakusa in his Sponsor uniform the next afternoon he’s forced to lock himself in his room and think of sad puppies and Suna’s grandmother.

He never thought he’d wish for Sakusa’s ugly jacket to make a reappearance, but here he is, staring at the wall, begging a merciful god to take pity on his body, mind, and soul because the suit fits Sakusa like a glove, and the glove is snug in all the right places.

It takes him twenty-five minutes to collect himself, and even that isn’t enough to stop his eyes from wandering as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the elevator with their helmets tucked beneath their arms.

The drive to the stadium is quiet. Sakusa spends most of the time absorbed in whatever is on his phone, and Atsumu’s happy to drive at a slower pace so that he can let his mind fall into the rhythm of racing. He taps corner timings into the rubber of the wheel and traces map patterns onto his thigh as he waits patiently at lights.

An alert pings on Atsumu’s GPS the moment they hit the upper city; it’s a warning that the same rules no longer apply. If Atsumu causes a public stir here, law enforcement are less likely to be lenient or turn a blind eye. The rich folk of the upper city dislike Bounty Hunters and the fear their blasters bring despite the fact a large portion of jobs are funded with the money from their pockets. Any work has to be completed with discretion; Atsumu’s kryptonite.

The busy neon lights of the midcity fade as the dull grey pavements brighten to a white stone that always looks immaculate no matter how many pairs of shoes tread it. There’s greenery lining the pathways, well-kept bushes of topiary, beds of blooming flowers, and trees genetically engineered to remain lively throughout the year.

Buildings grow few and far between – each one they pass is large, with acres of surrounding land and high metal gates to keep what they deem the undesirables out. The upper city exclusively houses mansions, official buildings, and the upper echelons of society, at the heart of which the pride and joy of all three cities sits: the speedracing stadium.

“You wanna make a quick stop at the hospital for a pacemaker fittin’ before we get any closer?” Atsumu grins. “Or maybe the blood bank for a quick drink? Yer lookin’ a little pale.”

“I’ve lost count of the number of things I’ve told you that you haven’t retained,” Sakusa says with a sigh. He finally locks his phone and tucks it into the pocket at his chest.

Atsumu hums. “What this time?”

“You aren’t funny and the vampire material is fucking exhausted.”

“That sounds like somethin’ a vampire might say. Y’know, ‘cause you’re a vampire. And you’re sayin’ it.”

“If you weren’t driving, I’d strangle you.”

“Ooh”—Atsumu flicks the turn signal—“then lemme pull over real quick.”

Sakusa flicks it back off.

“Boo.”

The GPS signals an alert again, and this time it’s to tell Atsumu that Aran’s cameras are no longer operational. He’s cut all access for the time they’re due to get out of the car and walk the rest of the way to the stadium on the off chance their identities get uncovered and end the game before it’s even begun.

Atsumu parks up five minutes later on a quiet street near the upper city library and kills the engine.

He reaches over to Sakusa’s side of the car and pops the glove compartment to retrieve the bounty disc sitting inside. Akaashi’s updated it with times, schedules, and any last minute information on opposing racers he’s managed to collate. Atsumu holds it out for Sakusa to place his thumb on, then places it on the dashboard so he can scroll through it.

“You know exactly what you’re doin’?” Atsumu asks him as he skims a racer’s history and finds out he’s a complete novice.

“It’s hardly a difficult job,” Sakusa scoffs.

That might be true for Sakusa, considering he’s not a real Sponsor, but Atsumu knows how difficult their lives can be. They’re managers, publicists, bodyguards, and strategists all rolled up into one. Not to mention the monetary aspect of actually sponsoring their racer’s life on the tracks, pushing their public persona, securing trustworthy mechanics and keeping on top of the latest upgrades.

Since Atsumu’s not actually planning on sticking around, all Sakusa will have to do is stand at his side and pretend as though those same thoughts plague the mind beneath his helmet.

“You’re right,” Atsumu says. “You’ll be a natural. Standin’ around lookin’ scary. Easy.”

He spends a little more time reading, categorising numbers of racers and working out who’ll be safe to nerf and who’ll pose more of a threat. None of them are particularly noteworthy. There are no ex-racers making grand returns or upcoming bigshots from the weekend races. Just a roster of scrubs hoping to work their ways up the ranks.

“Pick a number between one and three,” Atsumu says.

Sakusa’s sigh is long-suffering. “What manner of idiocy am I subjecting myself to this time?”

“Just pick a number, Omi-kun.”

“Fine. Two.”

Atsumu smiles. “That’s how many laps I’m gonna win by today.”

Sakusa makes a face. “I’d rather you just raced normally. Please.”

“No can do. Gotta entertain Sakamoto somehow.”

A qualifying race is more than just way into the leagues for the top five racers. Ranks are assigned personally by Sakamoto. Most newbies start out in League Four and slowly climb, but Atsumu’s hoping to land himself in League Two or Three to expedite the whole process and make some waves.

Sakamoto’s invited him to League One once before. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t get him to do it again.

They walk to the stadium with their helmets on and Atsumu feels slightly lost without a blaster at his hip or a switchblade in his pocket. Kenma was right about the speedracing stadium security being weak, but one thing they do not compromise on is weapons. The checks are meticulous – there’d be no way to sneak one in without a detector finding out about it.

A guard shows them into the restricted access entrance for racers, and since Suna’s already dropped off his bike as promised, they get led along the pristine white halls to the Bank Four waiting room where a portion of today’s racers and their Sponsors have congregated.

It’s a room with four walls and nothing else. No tables, chairs, or benches. Just a place for people to stand so that they aren’t loitering in the hallways.

As Atsumu scans the room he finds that not many of the amateurs actually have Sponsors, but the ones that do are sporting the personas they’re hoping to popularise. Some are more conceptual – moods or feelings – like the racer dressed head-to-toe in sequins baring the moniker Party Animal, while others resemble places, things, or animals. There’s a diamond, a rocket, a moth, and a swordfish, but none are as cool or as polished as Atsumu’s Jackal.

There seems to be a sense of camaraderie amongst most of them, a familiarity of multiple time losers on their fifth or sixth attempts at entering the league. Atsumu and Sakusa walk past them all to claim a corner of wall untouched by anyone else, and it’s hard not to smile when people quickly part and move aside like they’re rightfully intimidated.

“First time?” Swordfish wanders over to ask. Their helmet is iridescent with painted on scales, and there’s a large horn protruding from the top that’s a little off-centre. They extend a hand towards Sakusa that gets ignored and Atsumu makes no effort to shake it either.

“Complete newbie,” Atsumu lies, voice light. “Never raced before! But I heard it isn’t that hard to get into the league, so I thought I’d try it out for some fun.”

The room dips into a lull of silence as people abandon conversations to listen in.

“Well you heard wrong,” Swordfish says tightly. “Qualifying races are brutal. You’ll get wiped out in a heartbeat if you aren’t careful. We don’t take kindly to strangers. Especially not ones who aren’t taking us seriously.”

“Ah,” Atsumu says, “but you’re all really bad, right? Or else you’d be in the league too.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I should be fine. Thanks for the warnin’, Guppy.”

“Not another pretty boy type,” Moth scoffs from across the room. “Bet your dad paid for that suit, huh?”

Atsumu gasps. “How did you know?”

“Guys like you come and go all the time. Your rich, upper city fathers think all it takes to make it big as a racer is to pay for elaborate costumes and force some depressed house butler to tag along as a Sponsor.”

Atsumu gasps louder, and Sakusa mutters, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“You’re really good at this guessing game, Mothman!” Atsumu ignores him to say. He throws an arm over Sakusa’s shoulders and pulls him in until their helmets clash. “This guy’s been workin’ for our family for years! He’s a superfan! Never misses a race. He’s the one who told me how awful you all are and that I could beat you with my eyes closed! Ain’t that right?”

Sakusa doesn’t respond and it’s probably the smartest decision he’s ever made, because had he said even a single word, Atsumu would have forced him to tag ‘master’ on the end.

They have the attention of every racer in the room now and Atsumu can feel the stiff set of Sakusa’s shoulders warning him to shut the fuck up.

He doesn’t.

“I’m sure he told me about you,” Atsumu says. “Said ‘The moth guy sucks at cornering and drives like he’s permanently towing a truck,’ or somethin’ like that.”

“Yeah?” Moth says, cracking his knuckles like he’s some kind of old-fashioned gang bruiser.

“Yeah!” Atsumu says, unfazed. “You should probably work on that before we go out there, huh? Or maybe it’s too late. Oh well, someone’s gotta lose to make the winners win, right?”

Moth crosses the room and goes to send a fist into Atsumu’s gut, but Sakusa catches it. He twists it sharply until Moth cries out in pain, then kicks at his shin so that he buckles to one knee in front of them both.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me to dinner before proposin’?” Atsumu laughs. “Not sure my rich family will appreciate this kinda discourtesy.”

Moth snatches his hand back from Sakusa and climbs to his feet. “Watch yourself on the tracks, kid,” he says. “Without your fancy butler-bodyguard around to fight your battles for you, I’ll show you the true meaning of discourtesy.”

“Can’t wait,” Atsumu says. “Maybe I’ll stick around in last place to chat with ya for a while.”

The door opens as Moth turns away with a grunted curse, and an usher calls through to announce that it’s time for the racers to take their starting positions.

Atsumu and Sakusa hang back to leave the room last and the second they’re alone, Sakusa snaps, “Do you have a death wish? What the fuck was that?”

“Just makin’ your job a little more fun with some pre-race banter, Butler-kun,” Atsumu sing-songs.

Sakusa moves to send a quick punch to his gut just like Moth had, but this time Atsumu catches it and threads their gloved fingers together. “Aw. If ya wanted to hold hands on the way down all ya had to do was ask.”

He snatches his hand back and pushes Atsumu towards the door. “I hope that guy runs you off the track and I hope it’s as painful as it is humiliating.”

“That’s the spirit!” Atsumu laughs as he allows himself to get manhandled down the hallway.

They fall into step again and while Sakusa’s are heavy with annoyance, Atsumu’s are light and excited. They follow the crowd of racers and Sponsors down flights of stairs to the Pit and as soon as the doors open they’re met with the deafening roar of the crowd.

The Sponsors start to say final words to their racers and make their way to the spectator box, so Atsumu turns to Sakusa and says, “Guess this is where we part ways, Butler-kun. Try not to wither and die without me.”

Atsumu’s undecided on whether he’s scowling or rolling his eyes beneath the helmet. Probably both.

“I’m sure I’ll feel more alive than I have in months,” he drawls.

“Sure,” Atsumu sniffs. He turns on his heel to follow the other racers towards the starting line of lined up bikes, but Sakusa pulls him back by his wrist.

“If you’re going to crash,” he starts, grip tightening.

Atsumu tilts his head in amusement at the familiarity of the words. “Crash sexily?”

“Attempt to preserve the bike,” he corrects. “Suna told me how much it cost.”

With a pat of Sakusa’s hand, Atsumu says, “Whatever. I’m gonna go win us the bread now, honey. Cheer me on.”

“I won’t.”

Atsumu turns again. “Thanks, babe.”

He gets two steps in before he hears Sakusa mutter, “Don’t fucking crash at all.”

Bank Four comprises the fourth and final line of racers, and Atsumu’s bike is waiting for him on the outside corner in the worst possible starting position.

“Oh hey!” he says as he climbs on. “We’re right next to each other, Mothman!”

Moth’s bike looks like it’s spent a lifetime jumping mud dunes, painted with beiges and light browns to resemble the patterning of a common moth. The side fairings are high and jagged like roughly torn wings, and the back of his suit is fixed with long pieces of cloth that’ll catch the air once he’s racing and give him the appearance of a real insect.

“Good luck breaking out of that position, amateur,” he scoffs. “You’re destined to crawl to the finish line.”

“I’m planning on lapping you twice,” Atsumu says, holding the corresponding number of fingers up. “Not once,” he says, turning his fingers around and holding up a single middle one. “Twice.”

Moth scoffs and turns away, and Atsumu focusses his attention forwards.

He hears Sakamoto’s pompous voice running through his usual pre-race speech, welcoming the crowd and encouraging the racers to entertain him. A second voice drones through the names and the corresponding starting positions, and while some of the frequent racers earn cheers, there isn’t much noise when the unfamiliar name Jackal is called.

Atsumu vows to change that by the end of the first lap.

The commentator announces the countdown and Atsumu lowers his body against the frame because the first few moments will be crucial.

Upon the large arch of metal that comprises both the start and finish line, three orange lights flicker on above the racers’ heads. The crowd go wild as the first light goes out with a loud, sonorous beep. They cheer again as the second cuts out the same way. Then they erupt as the third and final light goes out with a blaring horn, and the engines roar to life to start the race.

While most racers take the first few of the five laps steadily so as to not push themselves too early, Atsumu pushes the engine hard and fast immediately. The pack sticks to the inner corner, but Atsumu takes the outside where the perilous ramps lie in waiting, and he uses them to build extra speed and momentum, gradually pulling inward with each new level of speed until he’s already pushing those in Bank One.

He laughs beneath his helmet when he pulls ahead of the frontrunner after half a lap, because he’d driven faster with Suna on the makeshift course outside his garage. It’s no wonder none of these scrubs have ever made it to the league. Sakamoto’s probably been waiting for someone like Atsumu to show up in a qualifier for eons, someone who’s not afraid to actually put the ‘speed’ in speedrace.

The bike growls happily as he pushes it further, and now that he’s alone, he works on widening the gap between the other racers by hugging the corners. He dips low so that the side fairings spark as they catch against the asphalt, and the route is so familiar after having played through it in his mind’s eye for the past week that racing it already feels like second nature. He weaves seamlessly throughout the pillared obstacles, and lands the jump across the gap to the first lap finish line flawlessly.

He’d promised Sakusa a two lap lead, but as he crosses with no contention, he thinks he might manage three on the stragglers.

He blocks out the crowd and his surroundings and focusses entirely on building speed for his second lap, guiding the bike and its glowing wheels around the track. He’s forced to take the outside again once he catches up with the other racers and starts to lap them, and he flies past their right sides with an obnoxious wave thrown over his shoulder.

Qualifying races are notoriously easy compared to the danger of league races, but it feels a little like toying with children as he laps everyone again. There’s a small pileup as someone clumsily nerfs another racer a little hard and causes a collision, but Atsumu weaves his way around the carnage and pulls ahead again. For the last two laps, he races like his life is on the line, pushing for that third lap lead on the slowest racers.

Atsumu doesn’t even register crossing the finish line. He’s going so fast it takes him half a lap to slow enough to see anything but a blur of fast-moving colour. He slows to the ridiculous speed of the rest of the racers as he waits for the OK to leave the track, and joins the back of the pack where Moth is still slugging his way around the course on his own.

He sits up and leans his helmeted chin in his palm upon the handlebars as he observes him

“You can do it, Mothman!” he shouts, though he’s not sure anything can be heard over the screeching crowd. He’s certain one section is exclusively chanting Jackal! Jackal! Jackal!

It feels like it takes forever for him to be allowed off the course, but once he’s finally parked his bike in the pit again, he’s greeted by people he’s never met before, slapping his back and clutching his arms like he’s just set a world record.

“That was incredible!” he hears. “Fastest qualifying time in years! Where have you been hiding?”

Atsumu knows better; his time is nothing special, especially not to those in League One. If The Grand King had raced the simple qualifying track today he’d have comfortably lapped the slackers four times.

He shakes their proffered hands anyway and allows them to lead him towards the podiums. Sakusa’s waiting for him there alongside the other four qualifiers’ Sponsors, and Atsumu jogs up to him wearing a grin nobody can see.

“That was disgusting,” Sakusa says as soon as he’s close enough, and Atsumu feels his gut twist with satisfaction and the need to touch him somehow.

“Right?” Atsumu laughs. He settles for slinging an arm over his shoulder like he had done earlier, ready to blame it on the character if Sakusa tries to shirk him off. “I can’t believe they even let those scrubs touch bikes.” Sakusa scoffs at that and Atsumu drops his voice. “Was I right? One race do the trick?”

“Maybe,” Sakusa says, and his own arm moves around Atsumu’s shoulders to squeeze the top of his arm.

To the tune of blaring victory music and an uproarious crowd, they’re ushered onto the winner’s podium and presented with medals to signify their inauguration into the league. Atsumu feels the cacophony of noise vibrating in his chest throughout the ceremony, can practically hear Suna’s voice in his ear saying, ‘You’re loving every minute of this, aren’t you?’

He spends what feels like forever rambling through the same repetitive congratulatory conversations with speedrace officials while Sakusa sticks to his shoulder and refuses their handshakes.

It feels as though Atsumu is dropped underwater when they’re led back inside to make way for a League Four race to begin its preparations and to discuss the matter of their placements and contracts. The noise cuts off alarmingly and his ears ring the whole elevator ride up to the offices.

Sakamoto himself doesn’t make an appearance, but his extravagantly-dressed delegate Kimura invites each of the five pairs into her office separately to take her time in congratulating them. She leaves Atsumu and Sakusa for last and smiles widely at them when she calls them in by their team name.

It’s an expensive-looking room – large mahogany desk, dark leather sofas, and shelves of trophies and accolades. It almost feels odd for Atsumu and Sakusa to be standing in such an antiquated room wearing suits fit with lights and jackal-eared helmets, like they’ve accidentally stepped back in time a few dozen decades.

Kimura takes a seat behind the desk after shaking Atsumu’s hand and gestures for them to do the same. Atsumu settles himself down into one, but Sakusa refuses, lingering near the shelves and the katana tacked to the wall on display.

“Sakamoto-san was very impressed with your performance,” she says, voice the upbeat lilt of someone trained to make others feel special. “He wanted to commend you in person, but sadly had other commitments. I hope you don’t mind.”

“S’fine,” Atsumu says lightly. “I’ll just make it so that meetin’ me is more important than whatever fancy dinner he’s at.”

Kimura laughs. “With that attitude he’ll take to you in no time at all,” she says. “Sakamoto-san enjoys fun characters. Which, I suppose, is precisely why he’s taken such an unorthodox approach in your placement.”

Atsumu tilts his head. “Unorthodox how?”

Kimura’s smile widens and she pushes a slip of paper across the table. “He wants to see you racing again this Saturday,” she says, tapping it. “In League One.”

Chapter Text

To his credit, Sakusa waits until they get back to the apartment to kill the buzz. He keeps a firm hold of his tongue as Atsumu digs his congratulatory pint of Cookies and Cream out of the freezer, and he’s even polite enough to wait until Atsumu slumps down into his armchair before he settles onto the sofa opposite and says, “I don’t like it.”

Atsumu hums around the spoon and kicks his feet up onto the table. “That’s why I gotcha a different flavour. S’in the bottom drawer.”

“You know what I mean, Miya.”

“Not sure I do, Sakusa.”

Sakusa’s eye twitches. “You mean to tell me that you don’t find an immediate promotion to League One by the sponsor of the Director suspicious?”

“Nope,” he says seriously. “Not at all. Cool stuff like this happens to me all the time. Samu says it’s ‘cause I have a loud mouth and Main Character Syndrome, but I think it’s more to do with how hot and good at everythin’ I am. You saw me race - Sakamoto shoulda made a whole new league just for me.”

“How the fuck have you lasted this long?” Sakusa asks incredulously, leaning forwards and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re an embarrassment to the entire guild and all the guilds beyond.”

Atsumu laughs and scoops out another spoonful. “Pull the breaks on the slander train, I’m just fuckin’ with ya, Omi the Ominous,” he says and his next words are muffled by the chewing of cookie chunks. ‘Course I find it weird. S’just not that big of a deal.”

“No, you’re right. You getting assassinated mid-race isn’t a big deal at all. If anything, it would be a cause for celebration. And thanks to you, I won’t have to waste money on the confetti because I still have a whole fucking motorcycle full of it.”

The corner of Atsumu’s lip quirks into a smile. “Y’know, this protective streak of yours is real cute, but I’m gonna have to ask ya to cut it out – all these Omi-shaped butterflies you’re givin’ me are makin’ it hard to enjoy my ice cream.”

Sakusa looks up at him, eyes hardening into a glare, and Atsumu doesn’t think he’ll ever get bored of finding ways to bait his annoyance. He also doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of Sakusa’s shoulder-to-waist ratio in his Sponsor uniform (or the blush colouring his ears).

“I’ll call an exterminator,” he mutters, then sits up a little straighter as though he’s heard Atsumu’s thoughts and found the kindness within himself to offer him a clearer view. “If the Director puts someone out onto the tracks to kill you, then this whole thing is—”

Atsumu cuts him off with a loud error-noise buzz. “Not gonna happen.”

“I can think of eight-thousand different ways it could.”

“And I’ll tell ya the one reason it won’t.” He drops his feet from the table and sits up, elbows resting on his knees, voice devoid of its usual mirth. “The speedraces are Sakamoto’s pride and joy. It doesn’t matter what the Director has over him, a suspicious death on the tracks would stall the sport under an investigative media frenzy for months. Stocks and merch sales would drop, promoters would pull their campaigns, racers could rethink their contracts - Sakamoto would never let that happen. Hell, I don’t think the Director would let that happen either. S’where all his money’s comin’ from, right? I’m probably safer racin’ than I am in here.”

More than that, the entire city would find reason to complain. Speedracing is the only sport universally loved by all three sectors; the grand finals of league races are public holidays. The riots its cancellation could invoke would throw all sorts of wrenches into the workings of a carefully planned coup.

Sakusa narrows his gaze, but he looks less sceptical now than he does interested in the logic. “How can you be so certain?”

Atsumu had given it a lot of thought on the drive home, but the only conclusion he’s managed to draw is that he isn’t certain at all. Not really. He’s unsure of whether the game is up or not, whether Sakamoto is simply that impressed, or if he’s recognised Atsumu even through years of distance and the guise of a moniker.

A lot of things don’t make sense, but it’s not Atsumu’s job to piece that puzzle together. It’s his job to get to Sakamoto by any means necessary, and if that’s by getting kidnapped, or ambushed, or navigating the minefield of speedrace politics, then he’s going to take his chances; he’s always been pretty lucky.

“Because I have Always Right disease,” he says as he tucks back into his ice cream. “It’s a heavy burden, but someone’s gotta carry it. Makes sense it’s me.”

“An appalling misdiagnosis,” Sakusa says. “You should seek a second opinion. I don’t need a medical degree to see that your ailments are narcissism, delusion, and arrogance.”

Atsumu makes a pleased sound around a mouthful of ice cream. “Ya sound real hot when ya insult me, Omi-kun.”

“And you sound like a pathetically horny teenager. Would it kill you to take something seriously for once?”

“Fine,” Atsumu sighs. “Here’s some seriousness for ya: If anyone should be worried about all this, it’s me. It’s way riskier for you to be alone in the Sponsor box, but I’m not worried at all. You wanna know why?” He finds Sakusa’s eye and holds it. “‘Cause I know no scrub is gonna get the jump on you. I trust you to take care of yourself.”

Not once has Atsumu ever truly doubted Sakusa’s abilities, because in climbing the Bounty Ranks, Sakusa’s accomplished in a single year what took Atsumu nearing four. The day he’d walked into that trap he’d almost singlehandedly taken out a whole room full of armed men with nothing but his fists, wit, and a standard blaster.

Atsumu’s never bothered to spare any of his precious time for the useless or incompetent, and that’s precisely how Sakusa’s managed to thoroughly occupy so many corners of his mind.

Sakusa opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and looks away. He’s quiet for a little while, and Atsumu continues eating, scraping the spoon noisily around the sides of the tub as Sakusa’s brows furrow in deep thought.

Eventually, he says, “I do too.”

“Do what?” Atsumu asks, cupping a hand around his ear.

Sakusa’s face twists like the next words are clawing their way out of his throat: “Trust you.”

Atsumu snorts and ignores the satisfied clench of his chest. “You wanna try sayin’ that without soundin’ like I’m holdin’ a blaster to your head?”

“No.” Sakusa stands up from his seat and tucks his hands into his pockets. There’s another moment in which he stares at Atsumu, looking as though he wants to say something more, but he decides against it and turns to leave.

“Don’t I get a goodnight kiss?” Atsumu calls after him.

“No,” Sakusa says again, with feeling.

“That’s too bad. I’m startin’ to really miss your mouth, Omi-kun.”

Atsumu watches him disappear down the hallway with a smile, and it continues to stain his lips until he clears half of his pint and returns it to the freezer.

He drums his fingers on the cold metal surface and allows himself a moment for the day to sink in, to calm the adrenaline of the race still humming beneath his skin.

There’s a lot to think about, a lot to consider. He’ll have five days to prepare for a League One race, to bring himself to a standard fit to impress Sakamoto again. There’s no chance of him winning, but if he makes it to the middle of the ranking table during his first race he’ll definitely turn a few heads.

But that’s easier said than done; the League One tracks are slightly more difficult. Unlike the qualifying race track, they’ll be rife with trickier obstacles and jumps and winding hallways that’ll require all of Atsumu’s attention not to collide with at high speeds. He can’t imagine his sudden promotion will be welcome amongst the ranks either. There’ll be a target on his back the moment the third starting light blinks out.

His knuckles knock a light rhythm into the fridge as his mind whirs with thoughts, and he doesn’t hear Sakusa return until it’s too late and a hard hand on his shoulder is spinning him around and pushing him back against the fridge with a thud.

Sakusa’s mouth is on his before he gets a chance to speak, and his free hand cups Atsumu’s jaw to tug him closer. Atsumu meets him so eagerly the pull is unnecessary, but the warmth of Sakusa’s palm on his skin is as electrifying as it is welcome.

As Atsumu opens his mouth to deepen the kiss he remembers he has hands of his own and places them on either side of Sakusa’s waist. He lets them travel to the broad expanse of Sakusa’s back and the length of his sides, but he goes no further than that, conscious of the mistake he’d made last time that made Sakusa push him away.

“Was startin’ to think you were losin’ interest,” Atsumu smiles between breaths.

“Because I haven’t kissed you in two days?” Sakusa asks with a grimace. “God, you really are pathetic.”

“Two days,” Atsumu echoes as he pulls him closer. “Is that all? Felt like forever.”

Sakusa pushes him back against the fridge again. There’s a bite of pain as the handle hits Atsumu’s shoulder blade, but Sakusa smothers his curse with another kiss.

His back feels so cold and his front so warm that a confused shiver rolls out across his skin. Atsumu suppresses the gratified noises building in the base of his throat as best as he can and follows Sakusa’s rhythm attentively until it slows to another stop.

“You taste like a heart attack,” Sakusa mutters, forehead a sliver of space away from resting upon Atsumu’s.

“You can say sweet. It won’t kill ya.”

“It might.”

Their next kiss is slow, and it’s the one that finally wrenches a sound from Atsumu’s chest when Sakusa’s knee presses between his legs.

“You bastard,” Atsumu groans. “You’re doin’ this on purpose.”

“Doing what?” Sakusa asks.

“Torturin’ me.”

Sakusa glances down, then quickly retracts his knee and Atsumu tips his head back against the fridge in a mixture of disappointment and pent-up frustration.

Maybe his next question is born of his desperation, maybe it’s a genuine want to understand, or maybe he’s just not in the right frame of mind to start up another avoidant dance routine when Sakusa’s standing in front of him looking like that.

He lets out a breath, then asks, “Will ya answer somethin’ truthfully for me?”

Sakusa’s hand trails from the side of Atsumu’s neck to the back of his head and he tilts it forwards until their eyes meet. “One question,” he says. “Choose it carefully.”

Atsumu nods and tightens his fists in tough fabric. He thinks of the night on the sofa, the bending back of his wrist, the mug in front of Sakusa’s lips, the quick retraction of his knee, and he asks, “Am I doin’—Is there a reason you don’t wanna go further? Should I stop?”

“No,” Sakusa says immediately, and he doesn’t even bother to correct Atsumu’s double question. His gaze drops from Atsumu’s eyes to his shoulder and he frowns as he attempts to find the right words. The moment he chooses them is obvious - his face weakens into a wince before he says, “You play a lot of games and do a lot of stupid and impulsive things, Miya. I just… want to be certain this isn’t one of them. This isn’t a game to me.”

Atsumu had a sneaking suspicion that might have been the case, but to hear Sakusa say it aloud still makes him want to roll his eyes after he took a fucking bullet to the face for him. Though it shouldn’t come as a surprise, not really. Sakusa’s so cautious he checks his own jacket every morning before he slips it on; Atsumu should probably count his blessings that he’s gotten this far.

“Scope me for however long ya need,” Atsumu says, “but I can save ya a whole lotta trouble by tellin’ ya right now: I’m takin’ whatever the fuck this is seriously. I said I wanted the same and I meant it.”

Sakusa’s throat bobs as he swallows and Atsumu feels the hand in his hair tighten. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

Atsumu brings his finger and thumb to Sakusa’s forehead and flicks it so hard he flinches. “Right at the front, Robo-Omi,” he says as Sakusa blinks at him in shock. “Where all the important data should go.”

Sakusa loosens his grip and takes a step back. “I’m going to be generous, and I’m going to grant you three seconds to get yourself as far from me as you can manage,” he says through his teeth. “Or they’ll be wheeling you around the track of your next race on a hospital bed.”

“Ooh,” Atsumu grins, “‘cause you’re gonna blow my back out?”

“Because you’ll be in a coma.”

“That’s way less fun.”

“Three,” he starts threateningly.

“Fine, fine.” Atsumu tucks his hands into his pockets as he starts off for his room. “Good talk, Omi-kun! Lemme know when honesty hours are next open. Got a couple more things I wanna ask. Things about eggs and how ya like ‘em in the mornin’.”

The next afternoon Sakusa gets a call from Akaashi.

It comes as Atsumu’s busy poring over screens, learning the styles and tempos of the twelve League One racers he’s about to encounter. He’d been so focussed on Leagues Two and Three as starting points that he’d put League One on the backburner, and now he’s having to clear out a whole week’s worth of research from his brain to cram more in last minute.

He tries to strain an ear to eavesdrop on the conversation as he works, but Sakusa makes it impossible, sticking to wordless nods and quiet hums of affirmation in response to whatever information Akaashi’s relaying.

Eventually he ends the call and takes his usual seat opposite Atsumu. “They’ve invited you to the practice stadium tomorrow,” he says, and last night’s talk must have gotten through to him somewhat because he manages it without scowling. “You’ll get an hour alone with the track.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says as he picks his head up. “Cool. Thought they were gonna force me in raw.”

Sakusa’s mouth twists at his phrasing. “Akaashi says it’s rank based. The top five times earn themselves a whole uninterrupted day of practice with each other. The rest get less time alone as the ranks descend.”

So entering at rank thirteen means Atsumu’s left with the scraps. Ideally he’d have liked some time against the other racers to acquaint himself with their speeds, but he supposes he’s just going to have to make do until he can break into the top five.

“Guess that’s how the standings have remained so stagnant over the years,” he mutters. “S’no wonder the fans are eatin’ this shit up.”

It’s only been a day since the qualifier and already the speedracing news coverage has blown up. Dozens of articles about Jackal have flooded the websites, papers, and magazines. It’s a mixed bag of reactions: some are debating Sakamoto’s decision, while others are praising it as the shakeup League One sorely needed. There are pictures of Atsumu on the podium, of him racing, of him waving as he taunts Moth. There are thousands of comments beneath them all too, expressing excitement or laughing that someone will finally take the last place position from this season’s perpetual loser Fury Falcon.

There’s even one comment Atsumu recognises from Suna’s handle that says: this guy looks like a total loser lmao.

Atsumu downvotes it and reports it as defamation and spam, but at this stage any publicity is good publicity – the larger the wave Atsumu makes, the more inclined Sakamoto will feel to approach him personally. Aran’s already confirmed from the history of his city surveillance that several racers and their Sponsors have been spotted climbing into cars with Sakamoto or entering the high-rise that houses his penthouse.

He calls upon his favourite racers often to treat them with meals or discuss new merch ideas - it’s only a matter of time before he’s asking for Jackal.

“If you make the top five on Saturday,” Sakusa says suddenly, “I’ll spar with you.”

Atsumu drops his phone but catches it against his knee before it hits the ground. He looks up at Sakusa. “Really?”

“I won’t feel as guilty about throwing you around if you’re allowed sufficient time to prepare for races.” His lips lift into a nasty smile. “It’ll have to be at the start of the week so that you’ll also have time to recover once I’m through humbling you.”

“Humblin’ me, huh? You sure about that?”

“I let you brag about your racing skills because you are a better driver than I am, but you are not a better fighter.”

“I’ve seen ya fight, Omi-kun,” Atsumu laughs. “You’re no more special than I am.”

There’s some amusement in Sakusa’s voice when he says, “You haven’t seen me fight, Miya.”

“Then what the fuck have we been doin’ for the past few weeks? Bakin’ cakes?”

“Cleaning up,” he corrects. “Have you gotten serious since we started?”

Atsumu casts his mind back - to the night they left the apartment to confront Hayashi, to the brawl at Lev’s workshop that followed it, to Metal-san, Wizard-san, and Circuit-san, to the gang leaders they ambushed - and he realises he’s hardly broken a sweat.

“No,” he says.

“Neither have I.”

There’s an automatic thrill that wracks Atsumu’s spine as his thoughts linger on Wizard-san and the flicker of seriousness Atsumu had seen that night. He remembers Sakusa’s hardened glare as his foot pressed mercilessly into broken bones. He remembers the strength in Sakusa’s hands, his thumb forcing Wizard-san’s tongue down until he choked on poison. He remembers Sakusa’s nonchalance, his mercilessness, the ease with which he’d carried it all out.

“Guess we’ll have to wait ‘til after Saturday to find out who’s mouth is runnin’ faster, huh?”

Sakusa leans back against the cushions but maintains steady eye contact. “Guess we will.” He breaks it to glance down at Atsumu’s notes scattered across the table. “You should be able to push Leviathan out of the top five quite easily if you pay attention. The gap between him and Living Dragon is large and his times are shaky.”

Atsumu’s brows shoot up to his hairline. Sakusa’s sat with him as he’s rambled about this kind of stuff before, he’s lingered to quiz him on racer trivia and watched a few races, but he’s never offered any solid opinions of his own other than varying iterations of ‘This is stupid.’ Atsumu’s long since given up trying to sell the sport to him.

“Thought ya hated speedracin’. Now you’re a pundit?”

“I keep close tabs on a lot of things I dislike.”

“Like me?”

Sakusa narrows his eyes. “Especially you.”

“Uh-huh,” Atsumu grins. “Got any more observations for me, Omi-kun? I wanna hear ‘em.”

He looks as though he debates it for a while, and Atsumu prepares himself for the inevitable shutting of doors to the tune of a No, but what he gets instead is, “The top four are the only ones worth your time. The rest of League One are there to make up numbers.”

It isn’t anything Atsumu hasn’t observed himself already, but hearing it echoed by Sakusa feels vindicating.

Atsumu shuts the lid of the laptop and makes himself comfortable. “Go on,” he prompts.

“Twelfth through to eighth should have been relegated two seasons ago. Titan and Soul Reaper are passable, but the fact that they’ve never managed to steal fifth from Leviathan speaks volumes of their ineptitude.”

Atsumu keeps Sakusa talking for as long as he can, asking encouraging questions and listening intently to his mean-spirited bites of wisdom. He’s definitely been paying a whole lot more attention to it all than he’s been letting on - Sakusa confidently knows stats, times, and current ranks without needing to consult his phone and his thoughts are so well-articulated he wouldn’t be too far out of place on the commentating panel alongside Takeda and Hibarida.

“Living Dragon,” Atsumu prompts.

“Could climb and rival Eagle if he stopped hanging back in fourth to block other racers.”

“Mad Dog.”

“Tunnel vision. Only cares about pulling ahead of who’s currently in front of him, no matter the position.”

“Eagle.”

“Waits too long to peak.”

“The Grand King.”

“Don’t bother. You won’t beat him.”

That makes Atsumu stop. He cocks his head. “No?”

“No. He’s you but far worse and with years of experience to justify the self-importance.”

Atsumu wants to argue that nobody is unbeatable and that The Grand King won’t be expecting his unpredictability, but it’s possible Sakusa has a point, no matter how blunt.

“Suna’s gonna be disappointed,” Atsumu hums. “He was bankin’ on me takin’ his trophy.”

“For the sixty-fifth time: You are not racing for a trophy.”

“Yeah,” he says, drawing it out. “But I kinda really want one though.”

Sakusa shifts in his chair. “You could have had one quite easily. Multiple,” he says, a slight frown tugging at his mouth as though he’s reaching the realisation as he speaks. “But you turned Sakamoto down years ago. Why? You’re good enough. And you obviously enjoy it.”

“Can’t bring yourself to kill me so you’re tryin’ to get rid of me some other way, huh?”

“I could kill you so easily.”

“Sure,” Atsumu says, making a point of scratching the new lightweight patch covering the wound on his cheekbone. Sakusa’s gaze flickers to the motion and his eyes harden for a second, then he scowls when he notices Atsumu’s knowing smile.

“Sakamoto offered me a lot of pretty things to race for him back then – money, contacts, midcity apartments for me and Samu. He called me his wildcard or somethin’ stupid like that.” Atsumu shrugs and tips his head back to look up at the ceiling. “Kept listin’ all this dumb shit he wanted me to do for him, pushin’ the character he wanted me to play, the stories he wanted me to act. I thought I wanted it too, but the more he kept talkin’, the more I started realisin’ I’d rather be dead than be told what to do every day.”

Atsumu brings his attention forwards again. “What was it ya said? ‘I chose Hunting because I like punching things and working on my own terms.’ That’s it. That’s why.”

Sakusa huffs at the recollection of his own words and Atsumu’s stellar rendition of his low, midcity accent. “Why would you even remember something like that?” he mutters.

“Because we’re two peas in the same rotten pod, Omi-kun. We don’t play well with others. S’why we’re so good at Hunting. We were made for it.”

Sakusa doesn’t answer that, but Atsumu’s familiarised himself with his contemplative silences.

If something’s not worth saying, Sakusa won’t bother to say it. Which is why, despite their predilections for solitude and differing strains of perfectionism, they work. Because it just so happens that if something’s not worth listening to, Atsumu won’t bother to listen to it.

The League One practice stadium is a smaller building a few dozen miles away from the regular speedracing stadium. It doesn’t house any seats for crowds, just an indoor track made to replicate the one currently on display in the heart of the upper city.

Atsumu was hoping to snag a few extra minutes by arriving early, but officiators delay him with pointless conversation about race specifics and expectations until his designated time slot formally begins.

In the real stadium on Saturday, Sakusa will be expected to wait up in the observatory box again with the rest of the other League One Sponsors, but for today’s practice laps he’s allowed on a thin spectator bench beside the tracks.

“Time me,” Atsumu tells him from the seat of his bike. “I need an average of under a minute to break the top five.”

The top four typically set times ranging between forty-five and fifty seconds per lap, but Leviathan’s lap times hover around the sixty-second mark. If Atsumu trains himself to hit fifty-nine as a starting point, he should be able to figure the rest out as he’s racing.

He lets the engine rumble for a few seconds as he imagines the crowd roaring, the weight of the racers in his periphery, and the countdown above his head. He lets his mind conjure the sonorous beeps until the third blinks out, then he leans forwards and slams the engine.

The track, as expected, is trickier to navigate. It starts as a long stretch of uninterrupted asphalt meant to build speed, then it turns a sharp corner onto another stretch rife with ramps and gapped dugouts to leap over. It’s a method used to separate the frontrunners from the stragglers immediately – those who miss jumps will reduce their speeds, while those who pick the best ramps and land securely will pull ahead and widen the gap.

The top five will get a whole day to try and test which ones allow for faster times – Atsumu will only get this single, rapidly depleting hour.

After the ramps, the track declines down into a cavernous tunnel. Atsumu’s never raced an indoor section before, and after entering one for himself for the first time, he can see why it’s the place most accidents happen. Visibility drops severely; the tunnel is lit an ominously dark red that blinks slowly and forces him into seconds of pure darkness. It’ll require all of his concentration not to underestimate his own speed and crash into walls as the tunnels snake around in wide looping patterns.

Halfway around he reaches a crossroads – the tunnel branches off into two smaller tunnels, one of which he’s sure will lead a faster way to the finish line than the other.

He tries the right side for his first attempt, and it almost catches him off guard. There’s an immediate jump with only a small ramp on the leftmost side to support the leap, and an insanely tight corner right after it. It’ll be foolish to try it the faster he pushes himself, but when he starts to feel the weight of an incline and catches the brightness of the stadium up ahead a few seconds later, he realises that’s probably the beauty of a high risk high reward shortcut.

The course finishes with a series of corners, then repeats again after the checkerboard start line with the long speed stretch.

Atsumu spends the next two laps testing theories. The first of which is the ramps – he tries different combinations and rather than working out which is fastest, finds the ones that are the most comfortable to land. The second is the tunnel branch, and he finds that the second path is far less perilous, but a whole ten seconds slower than the shortcut.

From there he tries racing five laps using the long tunnel, then he pulls over and asks Sakusa for his times.

“Sixty-one average,” he says. “Do whatever you did the first time. That was a fifty-eight.”

It’s then Atsumu decides that he’ll take the shortcut no matter what. There’s no room for cowardice in League One; if Atsumu were watching at home, he’d call racers scrubs for neglecting to shave seconds off their times by taking it. The top four won’t hesitate, and more importantly, Sakamoto won’t care a damn about him if he doesn’t stay interesting.

It takes a few tries to achieve it without having to think or slow the approach, but he finds a rhythm and spends the remainder of his time committing it to memory, gradually building up speed with each lap and putting himself in tricky situations to simulate the unpredictability of a race.

When his time ends, the staff usher them out quickly to make room for the next racer, and Atsumu tries to hide his bitterness behind a thin veil of gratitude to keep up appearances.

“Fifty-six consistently,” Sakusa says, fighting to be heard above the noise of loud announcements over the speakers. He shows Atsumu his phone and the string of times that differ by milliseconds. “Some broke fifty-five. If you keep you keep the bullshit to a minimum and don’t make any enemies on Saturday, you should be fine.”

“I’ll be more than fine, and when I get my whole day with the track, I’ll make it forty and ride circles ‘round those scrubs.”

“That’s precisely the kind of bullshit I’m referring to. If you run your mouth and someone tries to punch you, I’m not going to stop them this time. You’ll deserve it.”

“Fine,” Atsumu says as he pulls open the door. “I’ll be a good boy just for you, Butler-kun. Since ya asked so nice and all.”

Someone attempts to walk through the door at the same time they try to exit it. A pair dressed head to toe in feathers of grey, white, red, and gold. Fury Falcon stands expectantly, waiting for them to step aside, but Atsumu doesn’t bother to move.

“Oh,” Fury Falcon says, “you’re still in one piece.”

“Sure am. Were ya hopin’ I’d break a few bones so you could taste what it’s like not to be in last place for once?”

Fury Falcon scoffs, and their sponsor puts a hand on their shoulder. “I knew the moment I watched you race that you’d have a bad attitude. We’ll see how long a jackal can last amongst the wolves.”

“Hopefully long enough to finally see ya relegated. Ya might have a bit more fun in League Two – see the tracks without eleven other racers spoilin’ the view.”

Fury Falcon shirks their Sponsor’s hand from their shoulder and leans forwards. “What kind of times did you clock on the grown up tracks, kid? Sounds like your measly hour might have shaken you a bit if you’re acting out this bad.”

“And it sounds like you’ve got a few too many feathers stuck in your ears, Budgie-kun. Maybe that’s why your starts are so slow.”

There’s a sudden pressure on Atsumu’s side as Sakusa snakes a hand around his waist and tugs him harshly out of the way. He keeps it there until Fury Falcon and their Sponsor march past with hard shoulders, then he slides it over to the small of Atsumu’s back and pushes him out of the door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks as they fall into step and start the long walk towards the car.

“Sorry,” Atsumu sing-songs. “Just kinda slipped out.”

“You call that blatant harassment a slip?”

“Yeah, I’m super clumsy.” Atsumu sidles up next to him and copies his movement from earlier, winding a hand around his waist until he reaches the opposite side. He slips his hand into the pocket of Sakusa’s suit and tugs him close. “Ya caught me though, didn’t ya? Even though ya said ya wouldn’t.”

Sakusa moves the arm trapped between them, but he doesn’t use it to carve distance like Atsumu thinks he’s going to; he places his hand on the sliver of exposed skin where the back of Atsumu’s helmet meets his suit and squeezes. “Next time I really will sit back and watch you choke yourself.”

“That’s not the threat ya think it is.”

“For the record,” Sakusa says pointedly, “I’m rolling my eyes.”

“For the record,” Atsumu echoes, “I find that really hot.”

The week passes by in a blur. Most days they visit Suna’s garage and Atsumu claims the track outside with a spare helmet and bike now that Jackal is something of a hot topic. From memory, he recreates the shortcut turn with bits and pieces from the workshop, and he practices it until the sun goes down or he gets bored.

Other days they dust off their jackets, and Kuroo sends them out on some basic clean up jobs to alleviate the Director’s potential suspicions and draw his attention elsewhere. Some gangs are attempting to rebuild after having their leaders swiped, and Sawamura hasn’t said it explicitly, but it’s pretty obvious he wants to stop them before they regain control and dig new thorns into his side.

The hours between speedrace practice and dismantling hideouts with shock grenades and baseball bats are quiet. Some days they’ll walk around the city just for something different to do – others they’ll end up at Osamu’s arcade and Atsumu will steal the money in his cash register to fund his shootouts against Sakusa in Time Crisis 4.

Some nights Atsumu will invent new games to play having exhausted the board games Kuroo owns. Some nights Sakusa will join in, and other nights he’ll tell Atsumu which circle of hell to hike to.

In the early hours of one morning after a particularly fun hit, Atsumu kisses Sakusa against the hardness of the elevator doors. When Sakusa cuts him short, he doesn’t complain; he keeps his quips and questions to himself, content just to explore the slice of neutral territory that temporarily sheaths their blades for the moments their mouths align.

On Saturday morning Atsumu sleeps in an hour longer than usual and wakes with an abundance of excess energy swimming beneath his skin. The day seems to drag endlessly, and though he busies himself all day, he can’t name a single thing of significance he’s done by the time they’re finally climbing into the car in the late evening.

Sakusa talks to him now, unprompted. The whole journey to the upper city is filled with theories concerning Sakamoto’s relations to the Director and his potential ideas for new Hunting tech (Atsumu’s particular favourites are the Handcuffs on a Stick that would allow Sakusa to contain and move bounties without having to touch them). The thread of worry that used to pinch his brows has untangled itself; he looks as bored and relaxed now as he does when he hunts, and it’s all too easy for Atsumu to settle into their rapport with a smile.

They’re an hour early, but the roads still thicken with traffic as they near the stadium. The turnout for League One races is significantly higher than that of qualifiers. People reserve tickets months in advance, and with the excitement of a new racer joining the ranks, lines have been forming around the entrance for hours for the chance to hear the roar of the crowd.

Unlike the first time, they’re not led to shitty blank holding rooms upon their arrival. Kimura finds them personally and keeps them sweet with chat as she escorts them to an elevator and presses the button for the third floor.

“Sakamoto-san is very excited to watch you race,” she says, hands clasped politely atop the sleek navy material of her pencil skirt. “He’s talked about nothing else all week.”

“I’ll do my best not to disappoint him then,” Atsumu returns.

She smiles pleasantly at Atsumu’s reflection in the mirror. “I’m certain that won’t be a problem for you, history-maker. I got to see some of your practice footage for myself. It certainly will be an interesting race.”

The doors open out into a wide hallway lined with plush red carpet and white and gold-accented walls. “The waiting room is just up ahead,” she says, gesturing down the length of it. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted with your new opponents. A steward will collect you once it’s time to race. Good luck, Jackal.”

Kimura offers a small wave as the doors close, then they’re left alone.

“I can’t tell if she’s smilin’ ‘cause that’s her face, or if she fuckin’ knows somethin’,” Atsumu mutters.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sakusa says with a hand at Atsumu’s back to push him forwards. “Just move.”

“Wow. Sure. Okay. What the fuck happened to Omi the Over thinker? He doin’ okay? Do I need to call someone?”

“I’ve put him aside in order to deal with Atsumu the Asshole.”

Atsumu stops. “You stealin’ jokes now too, huh? That’s pretty la—”

“Move.”

Sakusa pushes him until his feet start moving again and Atsumu mutters curses beneath his breath as they fall into their usual rhythm of steps.

“You gonna warn me to keep my mouth shut?” he asks as they hover outside the waiting room door. “Be all authoritative and sexy about it?”

“What would be the point? I doubt you could manage more than a minute before you said something that would make me want to staple my own eardrums closed.”

“Yes I could, bastard. I just haven’t before now ‘cause it’s fun pissin’ ya off. I’ll prove it.”

Sakusa’s hum is a blatant dismissal and Atsumu nudges him out of the way to pull the door open.

The room is huge – a repurposed conference hall fitted with large sofas, chairs, and television screens playing highlights from the week’s races. One corner is dedicated to expensive game tables and consoles, while another houses a small food court of luxurious-brand snack machines and the appliances to cook them with.

The racers and their Sponsors are spread out, and Atsumu’s shocked to find that the majority of them have forgone their helmets. If not for the differing designs of their suits, it’d be hard to discern the racers from the Sponsors.

Eagle and his Sponsor sit on one of the long sofas, helmets between their feet as they lean back to read identical copies of a popular manga. On the opposite end, Living Dragon and his Sponsor chat as they watch the television, occasionally pointing the remote to pause and discuss. There’s noise over in the gaming corner as the two dressed in Mad Dog’s uniform yell at each other over an intense game of air hockey, and Soul Reaper and his pink-haired partner hover nearby, jeering them on with lazy smiles.

Leviathan, Fury Falcon, Titan and Phantom seem to be the only ones insistent on still wearing their helmets. The four of them and their Sponsors sit near the section of glass wall that overlooks the tracks, some on their phones, some with tablets and sheets of paper as they discuss the course.

But that’s not where Atsumu’s attention lingers. He’s drawn immediately to the pair sitting on the shorter sofa next to Eagle’s. 

They’re both wearing their classic white and blue uniforms, fabric adorned with rows of silver buttons and intricate embroidery to imitate historic European royalty. One is built, with short, dark hair and a natural scowl to rival Sakusa’s, and the other is taller, even when sitting, with effortlessly styled brown hair and a handsome face perfectly matched to the moniker The Grand King.

He’s sprawled out across the sofa, long legs taking up most of the room while his Sponsor sits unbothered, absorbed in whatever is transpiring on his tablet.

“Oh, look who’s finally here,” Falcon Fury’s voice picks up from Atsumu’s left. A few heads turn and a few conversations cut short to follow the remark, but Atsumu doesn’t bother to check who.

He turns to the group huddled near the observatory window and holds up a hand in a wave. “Hey scrub! You’re still tryin’ to figure out the track, huh? Two hours wasn’t enough? Need to borrow a couple off yer friends?”

Falcon Fury scoffs and turns away again.

“Eleven-and-a-half seconds,” Sakusa says, holding up the stopwatch app on his phone for Atsumu to see.

“That didn’t count,” Atsumu says with a wince.

“It absolutely did.”

With a roomful of eyes on them, they pick a spot on one of the free sofas, and since he’s already fucked his pact of well-behaved silence, Atsumu easily keeps up the appearance of arrogance by tipping his head back against the cushions and kicking his feet up onto the table with a contented sigh.

“Oh,” comes a honeyed voice from somewhere opposite him. “Santa-chan must be granting me my Christmas wish a few months early. I’ve been begging for a new puppy to play with. One that won’t bite my fingers off whenever I get too close.”

Atsumu tilts his head forwards and finds The Grand King watching him. He’s no longer lounging sideways; he’s sitting up with one arm draped along the back of the sofa and one foot resting on the opposite knee. His once playful eyes have sharpened into scrutiny, as though he’s trying to peer through the layers of darkened thermoplastic that comprise Atsumu’s visor to find his face hidden beneath.

Atsumu takes his feet off the table to mirror him. “Who says I don’t bite, pretty boy?”

“Hm? Big attitude for a little nobody.” The Grand King pats his lap with a smile. “Why don’t you come over here for a moment so I can get a feel for your fangs?”

Sakusa nudges Atsumu’s knee with his own in a warning, but it’s unnecessary. The Grand King’s Sponsor knocks the back of his head, and he reacts dramatically, clutching it like he’s been hit with a club rather than a soft palm. “Ack! Iwa-chan! You said you were going to let me have this!”

“We don’t have time to get you a tetanus shot before the race, idiot. Stop with the weird biting shit and talk normally.”

“I am talking normally. I know it’s been a while since we’ve needed to, but even your prehistoric caveman brain must remember how pre-race banter works.”

The Sponsor looks up from his tablet. “You want to say that again?”

“Sure. I said, I know it’s been a while, but even—A-a-ah! Don’t pinch, Iwa-chan! You know I’m sensitive!”

“No you’re not.”

“Am! Look! I’m turning red already!”

“I’m gonna be honest,” Atsumu says, watching them bicker, “I thought you’d be way different.”

The Grand King drops the smile he’s sending his Sponsor and turns to Atsumu. It doesn’t escape his notice that Eagle has lowered his manga volume to listen in either, or that Living Dragon has paused the television indefinitely.

“Oh, don’t be shy. Speak up,” The Grand King says. “I do love to hear the opinions of my fans. Even the ones that mean less than nothing to me.”

“I’m more of an Eagle enthusiast, but sure, I’m always open to a little roleplay.”

Eagle’s Sponsor makes a delighted sound as he taps his racer’s shoulder excitedly.

The Grand King’s eye twitches. “Indulge me.”

Atsumu affects his voice with a casualness that would make his own blood boil if someone were to use it on him. “Just thought you’d be way less immature, y’know? Ya look cool on the bike. Guess you’re just a really great actor. Good for you. Makin’ contingency plans for when ya finally retire.”

There’s another sound from the game corner – Soul Reaper and his Sponsor have abandoned Mad Dog’s game and are watching the sofas, laughing behind their hands. The Grand King sends them a glare, then turns to Atsumu again and his face brightens into a smile.

“Such a loud, annoying bark,” he says, shifting his gaze over to Sakusa. “Like a Chihuahua whose owner is a little too lenient, perhaps?”

Sakusa doesn’t respond, and The Grand King’s smile widens. “Let’s hope you’re as loud on the tracks, hm? It’s been a long while since I’ve had any real fun. Winning over and over and over again gets a little tedious when nobody’s there to try and stop me.”

“Filthy lying bastard,” comes a harsh voice. “I’ll knock you off your bike tonight and slam your dumb head against the stadium walls. That’ll be fun for everyone.” Mad Dog has paused his game and is scowling at The Grand King. Now that he’s turned his head, Atsumu can see the same design that usually marks the side of his helmet painted into his buzzcut – a snarling mouth that bleeds into two jagged lines.

“Simmer down, Puppy-chan,” The Grand King says. “Don’t act like you aren’t just as excited to see what sort of games the new kid is going to bring to the playground.”

Atsumu hums. “You’ve been stuck playin’ marbles and hopscotch for a while, huh? League Two’s been havin’ way more fun recently. Whole kingdom is fightin’ insteada just the monarch.”

Eagle’s Sponsor leans his elbows on his knees to prop his chin up as he studies Atsumu. “Gee, you’re very funny golden boy. Very interesting. Very bothersome. Very brash. But you’re forgetting something important!” He straightens back up and places one hand beneath Eagle’s chin, and the other on top of his head like he’s displaying an art piece. “The King isn’t the only racer you need to worry about. You’ll have to find your way passed the original Miracle Boy too!”

“His qualifier was fast, but it was nothing special,” Eagle says. “I am not concerned.”

“Perhaps you should be,” Sakusa cuts in.

Like a switch has been flicked, Atsumu’s blood suddenly feels hot beneath his skin, and the weight of effort it takes not to betray a physical reaction is monumental. He wants to turn and ask Sakusa a billion questions, but he doesn’t. He wants to take his helmet off and kiss Sakusa breathless, but he doesn’t. Instead, he balls his hands into fists and internally berates himself for how easily he lets Sakusa affect him.

“Ooh, so Tall, Dark, and Handsome does have a voice after all?” The Grand King coos. “Such a nice one, too. Have you ever thought about using it to do your job a little better? To tame your rabid pet?”

“Oikawa,” The Grand King’s Sponsor warns.

“Don’t be jealous, Iwa-chan. Two out of three isn’t bad, and your voice could be pretty if you spent less time scolding me with it.”

“Your ugly personality makes that impossible. Cut it out and stop showboating.”

They all settle somewhat after that, but the room still feels charged with an odd energy. Everyone is busy, but Atsumu wagers nobody is paying any real attention to the things they’re busying themselves with. All Atsumu does is stare at his phone, bounce his leg, and purposefully hit Sakusa’s knee with his own until a sharp elbow finds his side.

It’s almost a relief when the steward finally comes to collect the racers. They leave in small groups to fit in the elevator, and they do so by order of starting positions. The Grand King, Eagle, Mad Dog, Living Dragon, and Leviathan leave first, after exchanging brief words with their Sponsors.

Titan, Soul Reaper, Phantom, Blizzard, and Scorpion leave next, which leaves Atsumu alone with Comet and Fury Falcon.

“Don’t let yourself get carried away,” Sakusa tells him before they part. “Even if you think you can overtake Living Dragon, hold back and aim for fifth. That’s interesting enough to start.”

Atsumu nods with a grin beneath his helmet. It’ll be no fun if he tries to win right away. He’s going to give Sakamoto the show he’s asking for.

The Pit feels different amongst the League One racers. Despite leaving at different times they all congregate again as they wait for the doors to open onto the tracks. Atsumu stands at the back of the pack, leaning against wall, watching the small cliques that form and straining to hear the buzz of their chatter over the music playing above his head.

“Jackal-chan,” a voice sing-songs to his left. An accompanying arm lands on his shoulders and The Grand King pulls him in like they’re old friends. “You looked so lonely standing here all by yourself without your bodyguard keeping you company. Not great at making friends, hm? With that extraordinarily large mouth of yours.”

“You got me,” Atsumu says, holding his hands up. “It’s all the innate talent. Scares people off.”

The Grand King leans forward and peers into Atsumu’s helmet so that he can see his smile. “Aw. You don’t scare me.”

“No?”

The Grand King hums. “Not at all.”

“Then whatcha want, pretty boy? You here to sweeten me up with all the ways yer gonna make me scream on the tracks now yer grumpy boyfriend isn’t here to set ya straight?”

“Oh no, no, no. Even without Iwa-chan’s big, strong hands holding me back, I’m not allowed to do that. I’d get in lots of inconvenient trouble.”

“The fuck’s that mean?”

The Grand King’s laugh is light and musical. “Now that’s a surprise! Sakamoto’s golden boy is being kept in the dark. I thought for sure you were acting so unbearably arrogant because you knew. How funny! You’re just naturally that annoying!”

“Knew what?”

His voice loses its humour and drops to that low, intimidating drawl as his hand tightens around Atsumu’s shoulder. “Sakamoto-san has made it abundantly clear that we aren’t allowed to hurt you. Expulsion, he promises, for any one of us stupid enough to damage his new toy. I wonder what makes you so special. How pretty must your face be to make him act so stupid?”

Atsumu frowns at the wall ahead of him for a moment, then the doors open and the hall is flooded with roaring noise.

“Guess I’ll just have to find out myself,” The Grand King says. “Good luck out there, Jackal-chan.”

He slips away and tugs his helmet on, red capelet catching the breeze in what is probably a practiced motion. Atsumu watches him push his way to the front of the crowd and he leads the way out onto the tracks with waves to the maddening crowd.

Atsumu’s bike is positioned at the back of the pack again, but it’s not as severe as the qualifying race since there aren’t as many people clogging the tracks.

The atmosphere is so heavy with noise that Atsumu can feel it vibrating in his chest as he climbs onto the seat. He stares ahead at the long stretch of road identical to the one he’d raced in the practice stadium, then he lets his gaze wander over the impressive array of bikes he’s admired through television screens for years.

Blizzard’s looks as though it’s made of ice, with hunks of jagged white rock comprising the side fairings and icicles dripping from the metal components of the frame; Comet’s is black, like Atsumu’s, but the frame is lit with thousands of tiny lights to make it look like a piece of the night sky; Living Dragon’s is covered in hard, green scales that fade to gold as they near the handlebars; The Grand King’s is white, pristine, and ornate, like it’s been carved from alabaster.

Atsumu’s looks just as impressive amongst them, the rumble of his engine just as loud as he flicks the ignition and prepares himself. He hopes Suna’s at home watching it outshine Fury Falcon’s right next to it.

When the names get called this time, they start with Atsumu’s in last place, and the crowd cheer for him excitedly. The cheers increase in volume the higher up the ranks the commentator goes, until the screams are so deafening it’s hard to differentiate the intensity as they reach the top four.

Sakamoto’s speech starts off no different than normal. With his usual pomp and flair, his voice rings around the stadium as he demands entertainment of his racers and encouragement from the audience. But he signs off with a special nod at Atsumu.

“I’ve been searching for a new racer worthy of the League One tracks for what feels like eons,” he laughs and the crowd laugh with him. “Jackals are notoriously territorial creatures. Hungry, aggressive, and wickedly smart. Let’s see if he can’t hunt down a few of our favourites, hm? It is sure to be an interesting race!”

The lights blink out: one, two, three. Then everything fades as Atsumu’s mind quietens to race.

The engines roar to life and the racers take off like blastershots, tearing down the stretch of asphalt. Atsumu pushes fast immediately, inching towards the inner corner as he builds speed, climbing past Fury Falcon, Comet, and Scorpion easily. He settles in front of them as he takes the first corner, and up ahead he can see the others already jumping the ramps.

The Grand King chooses specific jumps that everyone copies, and though Atsumu knows that means they’re faster, he sticks to the ones he landed perfectly during the practice hour.

The queue that builds behind the front runner slows them somewhat; Atsumu’s able to climb again and by the time he’s entering the tunnel, he’s passed Blizzard too.

To his surprise, only the first four racers take the shortcut, and Atsumu almost fumbles his timing in shock because not even Leviathan bothers with it. He’d thought for sure they’d be fighting for the chance, fumbling boisterously for the tiny ramp, but Atsumu enters the tunnel alone. He amps up his speed as he approaches, and clears the jump like it’s second nature, following it with the tight corner that makes his bike scratch the floor.

The lights blink more rapidly than they had done during the practice run, and they aren’t just red – they’re also blue, green, white and yellow, flashing and strobing, and the accompanying roar of the crowd echoing around makes Atsumu’s mind feel like it’s going to explode it’s all so exhilarating.

When he breaks back out into the artificially-lit stadium, the first thing he notices is that he can see the back of Living Dragon’s bike, and he doesn’t need to look back to know he’s already snatched fifth.

Though he wants to try for more, he honours Sakusa’s request and focuses solely on maintaining his position for the next two laps. There are at least four seconds between him and Living Dragon, and Atsumu can see Mad Dog up ahead swerving tauntingly back and forth behind Eagle, trying to push past him.

The Grand King is still comfortable in first – waving at the crowd whenever he reaches the finish line to start up the next lap.

The fourth lap inspires Leviathan to desperately attempt catching up. He tries for the shortcut a few seconds later than Atsumu, and he can hear the thundering engine of his bike and the thumping of metal as its frame catches the wall in his unpractised clumsiness. It’s not enough to throw him off, but it slows him further as he catches his breath and Atsumu laughs beneath his helmet.

For the fifth and final lap, Atsumu sates his curiosity and boredom by climbing a little closer to Living Dragon. He hears the cheers pick up as he does so, and he deviates his usual path of ramps to follow closely behind, revving the engine threateningly.

It’s true what Sakusa said about him – Living Dragon could challenge Eagle if he pushed himself, but the moment he catches Atsumu in his periphery, he drops a little speed and focusses entirely on blocking any attempts Atsumu makes of passing him.

He never lets his bike get too close - The Grand King can’t have been lying when he said Sakamoto warned the racers not to touch him - but he does swerve his bike to follow Atsumu’s movements so that it’s hard to overtake him.

It’s impossible not to hear when The Grand King passes the final finish line. Noise erupts and sirens blare and people bash the hard plastic of their seats to start up victorious chants for their favourite racer. Eagle crosses next, followed extremely closely by Mad Dog, then Living Dragon pulls ahead for a better time, and Atsumu chases to land his fifth.

He slows considerably for the victory lap, lets satisfaction wash over him in waves as the announcers call times over the speakers. Atsumu’s average is fifty-four – better than it was during practice.

After a while, Living Dragon slows to ride alongside him, leaning forwards on his handlebars and tilting his head to look at Atsumu. The two-fingered salute Atsumu sends him is probably insufferable, but Living Dragon pauses for a moment, then returns it with one of his own.

There is no ceremony when the race finishes. Regular season races aren’t given medals or trophies, but the top three are taken aside and interviewed by the press. If the other racers want publicity it’s their Sponsor’s job to find it for them, but the moment Atsumu finds Sakusa lingering on the outskirts alongside the others, he leads him straight towards the covert racer’s exit, regardless of how many reporters would give their arm for a chance to speak with Jackal.

“This can’t be good for your ego,” Sakusa sighs.

Atsumu stretches the adrenaline out of his limbs as he walks, arms so high above his head they strain his voice as he says, “I’m startin’ to think maybe I was right about needin’ a whole new league just for me. I coulda taken fourth if I wasn’t behavin’.”

“Yes,” Sakusa says with some disgust. “I know.”

“Jackal!” someone suddenly calls after them. “Wait!”

It’s accompanied by the sound of heeled shoes on marble floor, and Atsumu spins around to find Kimura walking briskly to catch up with them.

“Congratulations!” she says, exhausted face breaking into a smile as she approaches. “Sakamoto-san is incredibly pleased. You certainly know how to put on a show.”

“Yeah?”

“He was on his feet the entire race! He’s become something of a Jackal superfan already,” she laughs. “He hasn’t gotten this excited since he discovered Mad Dog.”

Atsumu studies her face as she speaks, the inscrutable smile and the glint to her eye. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking, if her words are tactfully layered, or if she’s genuinely that happy to be saying them.

“Someone’s gotta do somethin’ ‘bout the sorry state of League One,” he says lightly.

Kimura laughs again. “And I imagine that’s why you’re making such a quick exit?” she says looking at Sakusa. “You are a fantastic racer, but you also appear to be a PR disaster waiting to happen.”

When Sakusa doesn’t bother to say anything, she dips a hand into her pocket and hands Atsumu a small white card. “Sakamoto-san has a challenge for you,” she says. “I have faith that you’ll work hard to follow his dreams through to fruition. See you nice and early at the practice stadium on Tuesday, Jackal.”

Atsumu waits until she’s gone to look down at the card, and Sakusa must have peered over his shoulder because he scoffs as Atsumu reads the finely printed words: Place third next time, my dear Jackal.

Atsumu fills Sakusa in on what The Grand King said during the car ride home – the allusion to preferential treatment and the ban on harming him. They also discuss the implications of the message, and Atsumu gloats about how great his off the cuff plans are while Sakusa grimaces and laments the size of his rapidly growing head.

“When they write the book,” Atsumu says, “they’ll call me the mastermind genius of the century.”

“And when the city reads the book,” Sakusa returns, “they’ll consider me for sainthood.”

Though he gripes, the words ‘I don’t like it,’ never leave Sakusa’s mouth, and he doesn’t detail Atsumu’s catastrophic motorised death or criticise his decision making skills. He’s still prickly about it, but Sakusa’s trust in him is obvious now and Atsumu can’t wipe the smile off his face as he speeds along the upper city streets.

The moment they get back to the apartment Atsumu locks the doors behind them, changes out of his restrictive riding suit into sweats and a t-shirt, and makes instant work of pushing the sofas aside.

“Do you ever stop?” Sakusa asks, returning from his shower to watch Atsumu tug a table from the living room out into one of the hallways. “What the fuck are you doing now?”

“Sparrin’ time,” Atsumu says. “Ya promised.”

“I need to stop overestimating you,” he sighs. “I’d thought you’d at least be able to wait until the morning.”

“Can’t. I’m all keyed up, Omi. Gotta get this energy out somehow or I won’t sleep and then I’ll be at a disadvantage.”

“I could always tranquilise you.”

Atsumu sends him a look, and Sakusa crosses his arms over his chest and leans so that his shoulder and head rest against the wall. He’s wearing his black t-shirt and sweats, and there’s a towel hanging loosely around his shoulders, skin beneath flushed slightly from the heat of the shower. Atsumu lets his gaze linger around the neckline for a moment before he asks, “You gonna stand there, or are ya gonna help?”

“I’m going to stand here.”

“Typical,” Atsumu scoffs. “Startin’ to think ya get off on watchin’ me do all the heavy liftin’.”

“It’s not the most terrible thing in the world,” he says, voice a little distant, and Atsumu’s gaze snaps up to find his eyes travelling pointedly downward.

His grip tightens around the table corner. “Lookin’ at me like that ain’t helpin’ either.”

Sakusa hums, but doesn’t stop. “Don’t worry. The second we start sparring you’ll lose your enthusiasm. Hopefully your will to live too.”

He leaves while Atsumu finishes rearranging the living room, and when he returns the towel is gone, his hair is dry, and he’s carrying a box of medication.

“What’s that for?” Atsumu asks him.

“You,” Sakusa says with a smile as he throws it to him. “Pre-emptive measure.”

Atsumu catches it and glances down at the box where Sakusa’s drawn little black-marker hearts around the words Effective Pain Relief.

“Unfortunately they don’t work on bruised egos. You’ll have to figure out how to patch that up on your own.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu smiles back, grip tightening around the cardboard until it starts to crumple. “You still got that leg brace of yours? I’m gonna put ya back in it. Fucker.”

Sakusa hums as he steps into the space Atsumu’s cleared. He stops a handful of inches away and places a finger beneath Atsumu’s chin to tip his head back. There’s a glint of amusement in Sakusa’s eyes when Atsumu meets them. A glimmer of excitement when he says, “You can certainly try.”

Desperate urges war inside Atsumu’s chest: the need to kiss him versus the need to wipe his smile against the carpet.  He tucks the medication box into his pocket and straightens his spine. “You gonna be able to take your eyes off me long enough to fight?”

“Multi-tasking may be far beyond your skillset,” he says. “But it’s not above mine.”

Atsumu glances pointedly down at Sakusa’s lips and leans in slightly. Sakusa’s finger is forced to move from Atsumu’s chin to trail down his throat the closer he gets, but the moment Atsumu feels the air shift as their lips brush, he throws a surprise punch towards his abdomen.

Sakusa catches it and smiles against his mouth. He turns Atsumu’s hand around and threads their fingers together. “If you wanted to hold hands all you had to do was ask,” he taunts, affecting his voice with the same lightness Atsumu had used on him that day in the waiting room.

Atsumu squeezes his hand. “Ya keep warnin’ me not to choke on my arrogance,” he says, “but you’re inchin’ your own foot down your throat right now, Omi.”

“My feet are firmly on the ground, Atsumu. Unlike yours.”

“Wh—”

Sakusa suddenly pulls him in by their connected hands. He lets go to lodge the same hand beneath Atsumu’s chin, and in one impossibly quick movement, he lodges his hip into place at the small of Atsumu’s back, then pushes into Atsumu’s throat to throw him over his knee to the ground.

For a moment Atsumu blinks up at the ceiling as breath eludes his lungs and his mind processes what the fuck just happened. He hasn’t been taken down with a move like that since he used to fight with Osamu. Since he was a teenager.

Sakusa nudges him with a foot. “I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he says. “You’d better get back up so I can do it again.”

Atsumu bats his foot away. “Nothin’ fuckin’ works on me twice,” he snaps, pushing himself back up to his feet.

He takes it seriously this time and settles into a stance that strengthens his foundations, bent at the knees to make it harder to get thrown. The way Sakusa’s standing leaves a billion openings; he’s got his hands tucked into his sweatpants pockets and his posture is as relaxed as the amused smile on his face.

Atsumu throws a hook towards Sakusa’s face knowing it’ll get blocked. He was hoping to use it as an opportunity to grab and pull him into his knee, but instead of blocking it with a forearm like Atsumu expects, Sakusa keeps his hands in his pockets and dips back slightly.

He also dips out of the way of Atsumu’s follow-up blow to his gut, and when Atsumu twists and attempts a roundhouse kick to his thigh, Sakusa finally moves a hand to grab Atsumu’s assaulting ankle. Sakusa’s grip is vice-like, and he wrenches Atsumu’s foot upward and kicks at his standing leg so that he loses his balance and falls back against the ground again.

Sakusa keeps a hold of his ankle and smooths a thumb along the sliver of skin between his sock and the hem of his sweatpants. “You look nice on your back,” he says.

“You’ll look prettier on yours,” Atsumu spits as he kicks at him with his free foot. Sakusa blocks it properly this time, shirking the hit off with his forearm. He takes a step back and waits for Atsumu to get to his feet.

The next bout he tries is a lot faster and lasts a lot longer. They trade hard blows with fists, elbows, knees, and feet, and Atsumu’s bones shake as he takes the brunt of the impact. He attempts holds, and sweeps, and moves that have always worked so easily on every opponent he’s fought until now, but Sakusa dodges, deflects, and blocks them all as though it’s effortless.

Atsumu is not a bad fighter. He’s one of the best. He could take on a whole unarmed room of men if he wanted to, could hold his own in a fighting ring. He grew up in the lower city where fighting was the only way to get by. He’d have anyone else on the floor by now with a hand at their throat and a laugh in his chest.

Against Sakusa, he feels like a stupid, blundering child.

You haven’t seen me fight, Miya.

Yeah, Atsumu thinks. No fuckin’ shit.

“When are we going to get serious?” Sakusa asks him.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh no,” he coos. “Don’t tell me you already are. That’s disappointing.”

Atsumu starts up another attack, but it starts to frustrate him after a while, starts to make his blood run hot in so many different ways his judgement clouds. No matter what he does he can’t seem to find the upper hand, can’t even get close enough to try an underhanded tactic like whispering filth in Sakusa’s ears.

He starts making reckless, clumsy moves. Starts fumbling his footing and missing opportunities as his vision tunnels. It helps none that Sakusa isn’t afraid to pull him in and use his own momentum against him either. His centre of gravity is so stable nothing ever seems to rattle him, and his body is so flexible he always seems to evade Atsumu’s attacks, even when it should be impossible.

“It’s a shame they don’t decide ranks based on actual skill, hm?” Sakusa murmurs as Atsumu struggles against Sakusa’s tight grip of his arms behind his back. “Or I’d be the one calling you rookie.”

When Atsumu gets knocked to his back for the fifth time, he realises three things in extremely quick succession:

One: He has severely underestimated Sakusa and bitten off far more of him than he’s capable of chewing.

Two: He is currently choking on aforementioned bite, and humiliation tastes like the blood of his cut lip.

Three: Sakusa was definitely an assassin before becoming a Hunter and the thought alone is making Atsumu’s mouth run a little dry.

“Where the fuck did ya learn this shit?” Atsumu groans, ribs throbbing, arms aching, heart pounding.

Sakusa crouches down next to him and tilts his head. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yeah?”

He swipes his thumb over Atsumu’s bloodied lip and wipes it clean on the white fabric of Atsumu’s shirt. “Too bad. Get up.”

His body moves of its own accord to follow Sakusa’s instruction, and he shakes out his wrists and rotates the ache from his shoulder as he prepares himself for another bout.

This time, he tries something new. He takes a breath and leans into the caution he’s picked up from Sakusa over the weeks they’ve spent with each other. He throws the first punch, but he waits for Sakusa’s counter before trying another.

They stand for a moment, Sakusa holding Atsumu’s fist in a stalemate, Atsumu refusing to send the next punch that’ll inevitably send him to the floor. Eventually Sakusa gets bored and makes a move and Atsumu’s suddenly on the defensive, blocking a flurry of blows.

He’s actually able to keep up this time, but he doesn’t realise he’s being driven backwards until his back is hitting a wall and Sakusa cages him against it.

“I could have killed you ten thousand different ways by now,” he says, pinning one of Atsumu’s wrists above his head.

Frustration and fight drains from Atsumu’s body embarrassingly fast beneath Sakusa’s hands, but he’s no less bothered. If anything, he’s feeling more riled up now than he was before they started sparring.

“It only takes one,” Atsumu says breathlessly. “What’s your method of choice?”

“For you, I’m torn between two.”

Atsumu finds Sakusa’s other hand and brings it to his chest. “Show me.”

Sakusa glances down at it then moves it around to the back of Atsumu’s head, fingers light like he hasn’t just used them to throw Atsumu to the floor over and over.

He presses a little harder on a patch of skin at the base of Atsumu’s skull. “A knife right here would shut you up instantly,” he says. “Sever your spinal cord and stop your stupid little brain from concocting anymore of its inane bullshit.”

Atsumu swallows and the fist that Sakusa’s keeping pinned curls until his nails bite his palms.

“Or,” Sakusa says, “I could be kind.” He moves his hand to Atsumu’s throat and squeezes, just enough to make Atsumu’s body twitch and his mouth fall open around a smile. “You beg for it often enough, but strangulation takes a lot of work, and I’m not sure how much energy I’m willing to expend on you.”

“We both know what the real answer is,” he says, voice taut. “Yer just as pathetic as I am.”

Sakusa tightens his hand again and Atsumu chokes out a breathless laugh as he bunches his free hand in Sakusa’s shirt.

“Not even a beating as relentless as that was able to make you any less aggravating. I’ll have to try harder next time.”

Atsumu yanks his shirt until Sakusa’s lips are an inch away. “How ‘bout ya focus on finishin’ what ya started here first?”

He covers Sakusa’s mouth with his own, and Sakusa immediately relinquishes his grip on both Atsumu’s throat and his wrist to cup either side of his jaw and kiss him back.

Atsumu lets Sakusa push him against the wall and opens his mouth easily to deepen the kiss. It’s predictably desperate; Atsumu feels as though he’s boiling as their bodies press against each other, as their mouths clash and breaths catch with obvious want.

Sakusa’s hands drop from his face to his sides and Atsumu uses that opportunity to subtly swap their positions and press Sakusa back. He buries one hand into his curls and pulls his face closer to lick into his mouth. It coaxes a small sound from Sakusa, one that sets Atsumu alight like a match to gasoline once he swallows it.

He wants to hear more, so he takes advantage of the fact that Sakusa’s finally forgone the mask that covers his neck to drop his mouth to it. He kisses from Sakusa’s jaw, to his throat, then finds a spot just below his ear that makes Sakusa shudder and clutch at Atsumu’s back to hold him close and keep him there. He hisses a curse when Atsumu’s teeth catch him, then he lets out another sweet sound when Atsumu runs his tongue over the reddening skin.

“Ya figured out how fuckin’ crazy stupid ya make me yet?” Atsumu says against his ear.

Sakusa tugs him away by his hair and finds his eye. He’s breathing heavily, looking a little dazed, but he manages a, “Yes,” as he purposefully presses a knee between Atsumu’s thighs.

Atsumu sucks in a breath. “That mean ya wanna do somethin’ about it?”

“We both know the answer to that.”

“Wanna hear ya say it, Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa reverses their positions again and looms over him. “Yes,” he snaps. “I want to do something about it.”

Atsumu snatches one of Sakusa’s wrists and moves it down to the front of his sweatpants. He curls his own hand around Sakusa’s until he’s helping him palm his rapidly growing interest through the fabric, then squeezes.

“Then fuckin’ do somethin’,” he says on a strangled exhale, because Atsumu’s starting to feel like he might die if he doesn’t.

Sakusa doesn’t hesitate. He captures Atsumu’s lips again and dips his hand below the waistband of his sweatpants. The kiss breaks on another of Atsumu’s shaky breaths as Sakusa wraps a hand around his dick and strokes it once experimentally.

“Ah shit,” Atsumu says, dropping his head back against the wall with a dull thump.

With his other hand, Sakusa tugs Atsumu’s sweatpants and boxers down and the tight elastic of the waistband stops them at his thighs.

“I haven’t even done anything,” Sakusa says, but he contradicts it by moving his hand and the drag tears a sound from Atsumu’s throat that he doesn’t bother to stifle.

“Crazy –ah— stupid, remember?” Atsumu says, pinching his eyes closed as Sakusa’s thumb lazily circles the tip.

Sakusa leans forwards and his mouth finds Atsumu’s neck with the exposed angle of him tilting it back. “Pitiful and pathetic more like,” he says between kisses against his skin.

Atsumu allows Sakusa a second, lets his mouth feel the vibrations of the breathy noises he earns alongside his slow, teasing strokes, then he pulls him off and glances down. “Equal partners or whatever,” he says. “I wanna hear you too.”

Sakusa doesn’t stop him when Atsumu tugs down his sweatpants, he doesn’t stop him when he trails a line along the underside of his length and initiates a kiss that’s less a kiss and more a connecting of their foreheads and open, panting mouths as they start slow rhythms.

He does stop Atsumu when he comes up with what is probably the best idea he’s had the whole time they’ve known each other.

Sakusa bats Atsumu’s hand away and presses closer, taking them both in one hand and squeezing.

“Fuck that feels good,” Atsumu moans, the heat of both Sakusa’s hand and dick against his own making his stomach tense and his gut burn.

“I know,” Sakusa breathes into his ear, and Atsumu might be biased, but he thinks that’s probably the hottest thing he’s ever heard.

From there, all Atsumu is capable of is holding the back of Sakusa’s head with two hands and keeping their faces close to continue their kiss as Sakusa works them both in tandem. It’s a little pained without anything to ease the glide, but Atsumu’s muscles are already screaming after all that time spent sparring, and he’d be lying if he said the friction wasn’t helping him climb faster.

The same must be true of Sakusa, because the rise and fall of his chest is just as erratic, his rhythm even more so as he increases and decreases it with heavy breaths.

“Do I need to take over, rookie?” Atsumu asks as Sakusa drops his forehead to rest on his shoulder.

A harsh tug and a relentless escalation of Sakusa’s pace is the answer, and Atsumu pulls him back up for another kiss that turns messy as Atsumu’s coil winds tighter.

When he feels Sakusa’s shoulders stiffen and his eyes pinch closed, Atsumu breaks the kiss and finds his ear. “You gettin’ close, Omi?” he asks, and the stuttering of Sakusa’s hand tells Atsumu everything he needs to know. “Want me to help ya there?”

“I want you to, ah, shut the fuck up, Atsumu,” Sakusa says, voice so taut around Atsumu’s name it’s impossible not to groan.

“I don’t think ya want that,” he says between breaths. “I think ya like it when I talk.”

“You think a lot of things. They’re always wrong.”

Atsumu hums. “Not this time. I learnt this trick pretty early on, remember?”

Sakusa’s grip tightens and they both make choked sounds.

“What was the line that got ya goin’ again, buttercup?”

“Shut up,” Sakusa says, but there’s so little conviction in his voice it’s easily ignored.

“Ah, I remember now.” Atsumu drops his voice and curls his hand around Sakusa’s to help him. “Why don’t’cha be a good boy and behave for Tsumu, Kiyoomi?”

Sakusa’s head drops onto Atsumu’s shoulder again as he reaches his orgasm. It pulls a ragged moan from his chest and the sweet sound brings Atsumu closer to the edge as he continues to pump them both and seek his own release.

Eventually Sakusa reaches overstimulation, and he hisses and snatches Atsumu’s hand from him. He pushes Atsumu back against the wall with a thud and starts working him again, pace varying as he pays attention to what makes Atsumu react the loudest, stealing sounds and broken ramblings as they leave his lips.

“Ah, shit, Omi,” he says, voice cracking, hand curling in Sakusa’s hair as a familiar pressure builds. “Keep doin’ that. I’m real fuckin’ close.”

Sakusa hums. “And you’re far too predictable,” he says. “All I need to do to tip you over is this.”

Another familiar pressure finds the sides of Atsumu’s throat and he lasts a few more seconds with Sakusa’s finger and thumb cutting his breaths short before everything turns a blinding white and the spring snaps. He tears through an orgasm of his own, spilling onto Sakusa’s hand with a loud moan that starts and ends with Kiyoomi.

Sakusa kisses him as he strokes him through it, then wipes his hand clean on Atsumu’s shirt. They stand for a moment, resting against each other’s foreheads, catching their breaths, reluctant to move or let go (Atsumu’s certain his legs might give out if he stops clutching Sakusa’s shoulder).

“Christ, that felt real fuckin’ good,” Atsumu says with a blissed smile. “We shoulda done that years ago. Woulda solved a whole buncha problems. Mighta achieved world peace or somethin' while we were at it.”

Sakusa moves his hand from Atsumu’s throat to his chest. He's sure Sakusa can feel his heart beating rapidly beneath his palm. “I didn’t even know you years ago.”

“You shoulda found me and done it anyway. You’re real hot, y’know. I woulda let ya in a heartbeat.”

Sakusa huffs a laugh. “You were a Hunter first. Maybe you should have found me.”

“Yeah. Shit.” Atsumu slumps back against the wall. He runs a hand through his hair and laughs too. “Maybe I should have.”

Sakusa looks the most ruffled Atsumu’s ever seen him – lips kiss-bitten, hair mussed, shirt rumpled and hanging incorrectly on his shoulders. His eyes are lidded, his neck is red where Atsumu has bitten it, and his chest is still having a hard time calming.

Atsumu can’t help himself; he pulls Sakusa in for another kiss, one that’s slow and warm and eases them both into lethargy. Stopping himself from grinning is an impossibility, and when he moves a hand below Sakusa’s shirt to smooth the bare skin of his side, he feels Sakusa’s lips tug into a small smile of his own.

Eventually, Sakusa pulls back enough to readjust his sweatpants. He tugs at his sticky shirt with a grimace. “I’m going to shower again.”

Atsumu reluctantly lets him go and rights himself too before sliding down the wall and sitting. Everything hurts, but he feels the best he’s felt in months, like one of Shirabu’s pain serums has lifted an ache he’s gotten far too used to coping with. “I’d make a joke about joinin’ ya, but I’m not gonna be able to move for the next fifty years.”

“And what of the city? The Director’s coup?”

“That shit can wait. I’ll send the Director a movie to watch or somethin’ to keep him busy. I’m stayin’ right here unless ya move me.”

“Just as well,” Sakusa says, “because I will never shower with you. I may have stopped harassing you over the state you leave the bathroom in, but that doesn’t mean it’s improved.”

Atsumu sends him a dismissive wave. “Ah, come on,” he groans. “Couldn’t ya wait a few more minutes before killin' the mood?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes and starts off for the hall, picking his way around the furniture Atsumu haphazardly set aside. “Thanks for playin’ with me, Omi-kun!” he calls after him. “I think I’ll sleep just fine now.”

“Finally,” Sakusa calls back over his shoulder. “Some peace and fucking quiet.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, hold on.” Atsumu stops abruptly and fishes a few coins out of his jacket pocket. “They have my favourite flavour chips.”

Sakusa stops a step ahead and turns. “What?”

“Pizza potato. See?” Atsumu taps the glass of the vending machine he’s brought them to. “The meltin’ cheese ones.”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Sure we do, Omi. We’ve got all night long.” He pokes the money into the machine slot, and with one loud beep makes his selection. “Unless you’ve got a specific reason for wantin’ to wrap this whole thing up quickly?”

When Sakusa doesn’t respond, Atsumu turns over his shoulder and grins. “There’s always an alleyway if ya can’t wait ‘til we’re back at the apartment to get your hands on me. I know all the best ones midcity. Coupla nasty ones too if that’s what yer into.”

“Do you—”

“Know the best one to hide my corpse in? ‘Course I do, silly. That one’s stayin’ a secret though.”

“Shame.”

Atsumu collects his bag of chips. “You want anythin’? I don’t mind breakin’ the bank for ya. Anythin’ under three coins. My treat, buttercup.”

“I couldn’t possibly set you back that much.”

“Sure? I mean, I get that ya gotta stay clear of the salty ones ‘cause ya might evaporate or somethin’ but there’s plenty of other options. Ya like the spicy kind?”

Sakusa grabs the back of his jacket and manhandles him into walking. “Just move, Miya. Before the sun rises and my body turns to ash.”

Atsumu gasps. “I knew it.”

His legs are longer than Atsumu’s, so it takes a second to catch up and match his pace. Atsumu does so with a laugh in his chest, then he throws a light, nudging elbow into Sakusa’s side. “You can use my given name outsida life-threatenin’ situations and sex y’know.”

Sakusa elbows him back harder so that he stumbles off the pavement and onto the road. He waits for Atsumu to hop back on, then turns to him and says with a nasty smile, “I know.”

“Wow. Guess bein’ a bastard’s a full-time job, huh? D’ya only get the one day of annual leave? Must be rough.”

“Yes, but it pays well.” He slides a glance over at Atsumu, and there’s that look in his eye, the one that makes Atsumu feel a little hot and bothered, like an ant beneath the scorching lens of magnifying glass. “The employee benefits aren’t terrible either,” he adds with a downward shift of his gaze, “once you finally hit the bonus quota.”

Atsumu chews his lip for a moment, then says, “Nearest alleyway is three streets away. In case you were wonderin’.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Right.”

The base they’re heading for is at the end of the road – a four-storey apartment building whose basement has been sequestered by a gang. They’ve recently stolen a shipment of crystal core from an energy company to gain favour with the Director, but the whispers surrounding their score couldn’t have been louder if they’d announced them through a megaphone.

And it’s not just here either. Since Saturday’s race, it seems as though the air has become polluted by the sound of distant sirens. Shops are being burgled, streets trashed, citizens assaulted; Atsumu dreads to think how bad it might have gotten had they not taken out the weapons dealers when they had.

Struggling under the increased workload, Sawamura’s been continuing to beg Kuroo and what remains of the guild to help out where they can too. It’s easy grunt work, way below their pay grades, but both Atsumu and Sakusa are still more than happy to get out of the apartment and stretch their legs between race preparations.

Sakusa does something to the lock when they arrive, and Atsumu follows him through the door and into the elevator with a hum upon his lips. He presses the button for the basement floor and tosses the bag of chips back and forth between his hands as he waits.

The doors open out into a room lit with fluorescent white lights. There isn’t much by way of furniture – a few camping tables and matching chairs. The majority of the space is overtaken with huge wooden crates packed full of crystal cores, the bright blue glow peeking through the slats as though the boxes are alive and thrumming with energy.

Six heads turn to meet their entry, bug-eyed and bewildered. The gang members scramble to their feet, pulling knives and blunt objects to put up a fight.

Sakusa engages them immediately, blaster holstered to minimise fatalities, but Atsumu wanders over to one of the crates, hops up onto it, and pops open his bag of chips.

Two unconscious bodies hit the floor before Sakusa notices. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, scowl evident in his masked voice.

Atsumu stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth. “What’cha mean?”

A man runs at Sakusa with his knife wielding fist raised. Sakusa grabs his wrist, twists his arm, and throws his shoulder out of its socket with a sickening sound. He falls to the ground in agony, and Sakusa kicks the side of his head to stop his whimpers. He whips back around to Atsumu. “Get up and fight you fucking moron.”

“Fight?” Atsumu asks, reclining against the wall with a smile. “But that’s such dangerous work for an incompetent rookie like me. I’m just gonna sit back and watch for now. Pick up some tips. You’d best protect me and my chips, Omi.”  

“You—”

Another man lunges at him, brandishing a crowbar. Without tearing his glare from Atsumu, Sakusa’s hand flicks out in a precisely aimed slice at the man’s throat. He chokes on his own windpipe and drops the crowbar with a metallic clang, then Sakusa grabs his hair and sends a hard knee to his face that knocks him out.

“Is this why you couldn’t stop smiling stupidly to yourself in the car? You were plotting the world’s pettiest answer to getting your ass handed to you?”

Atsumu fills his mouth with another handful of chips. “I dunno anythin’ about that,” he says. “If I was smilin’ it was probably ‘cause I was thinkin’ about how dang cute ya are.”

Sakusa picks up the crowbar and throws it at him. Atsumu doesn’t bother to dodge; it hits the wall beside his head and clatters to the floor. “Romance isn’t dead after all, huh?”

“It will be if you don’t stop acting like a child.”

Atsumu waves Sakusa off and nods to the two men hopping over crates to get to him. “Quick, pay attention and entertain me, Omi. You’ve got three more idiots to fight and I’ve got a whole bag of chips to get through.” He frowns down into the open packet. “Well, s’more like half actually. They don’t fill these things like they used to. It’s mostly air.”

Though the two men attack in something resembling synchronisation, it’s nothing for Sakusa to deal with. Atsumu watches with loud crunches of his chips as he effortlessly disarms and knocks one unconscious with three rapid, precise punches, then throws the other over his hip in the same way he’d done to Atsumu the night before.

When the third and final man shakily raises his blaster in Atsumu’s direction, Sakusa throws one of the confiscated knives at his hand with such impressive accuracy it makes Atsumu smile at the crowbar. The guy screams and drops the shitty blaster before a shot fires, and it falls apart as it hits the ground, the badly-set crystal core smashing and fading to a lifeless translucent white.

As Sakusa stalks over to the wailing man to silence him, Atsumu whistles and applauds one handed against his thigh. “That must be some kinda record Omi! Maybe we should wait ‘til they wake up and you can try again. I’ll time ya.”

“Or maybe you can join them,” he snaps.

“No thanks.” He shakes the bag. “Still gotta finish these.”

Sakusa picks his way across the room, stepping over unconscious bodies and discarded weapons. He stops in front of Atsumu to loom over him with a scowl, and when Atsumu winks he knocks the chips out of his hand so that they scatter across the floor.

“Oops,” he says with no inflection. “My hand slipped.”

“S’alright,” Atsumu returns. “Accidents happen all the time. Like this, see?”

When he stands, Sakusa doesn’t bother to step back and give him any room. They’re so close it’s easy for Atsumu to hook a finger into Sakusa’s mask and tug it down until it rests beneath his chin. “Ah,” he laments, “so clumsy.”

Sakusa’s lips twist, but he doesn’t say anything and he still doesn’t take a distancing step backward either.

“Oh no… and wouldja look at that.” Atsumu smiles as his hands drop and disappear beneath the bottom of Sakusa’s jacket. He rests them on the small of Sakusa’s back, fingers dipping slightly beneath the waistband of his joggers but going no further. “Butterfingers.” 

“Is this going to be a recurring thing?” Sakusa asks, his body inching forwards and pressing pleasantly against Atsumu’s despite the unimpressed tone of his voice.

“Which thing? The ‘clumsy’ thing?” Atsumu drops his gaze to Sakusa’s mouth. “Or the ‘wantin’ to kiss ya’ thing?”

“The ‘pretending you’re incapable of fighting’ thing.”

When Atsumu looks up there’s an annoyed pinch to Sakusa’s face that makes him grin. “Oh. Yeah. Absolutely. I’m gonna run the mileage on that one as high as I can. Not gonna lift a finger ‘til I bleed it totally dry.”

“I’d prefer a more definitive timeframe. So I can factor your unfathomable idiocy into my plans.”

“Hm, okay, sure. How about: ‘Til the day I pin ya durin’ a match, or the day yer beggin’ a useless scrub like me to help ya out.”

“So… never?”

Atsumu shrugs. “One of ‘em is gonna happen sooner or later. But ‘til then I’m gonna kiss ya to pass the time.”

Sakusa’s brow hitches upward. “And the city that’s starting to fall apart outside?”

“Gah, who cares?” Atsumu jokes as he dips his hands further beneath the waistband of his joggers. He closes the last of the distance and catches Sakusa’s lips. “Let it burn.”

Tuesday starts for them during the only morning hour in which the city actually seems to sleep. The sun is starting to rise and turn the clouds a dusty shade of purple, but Atsumu doesn’t get to see it peeking above the horizon until the crowded midcity high-rises give way to the levelness of the upper city. Traffic is light, so he takes his time driving, sticking below the speed limits and choosing the longer routes to allow himself some extra time for his coffee to kick in.

The practice stadium is quiet as they walk through its doors. Nobody greets them this time, so they show themselves in, following the familiar route through the series of empty hallways that lead out onto the tracks. The closer they get, the louder the distant roar of engines grows until the doors are sliding open and his helmet is the only buffer.

Despite being early, they’re the last of the top five to arrive. Mad Dog is already tearing his way around the track, but The Grand King, Living Dragon, and Eagle are crowding the dugout benches with their Sponsors, helmets tucked beneath their arms as they chat.

Atsumu makes a beeline for the only bench not claimed by the little pre-formed clique to sit and observe the new course. Sakusa joins him, his phone resting in his hands waiting to start timing Atsumu’s laps, but they barely get a glance in before The Grand King is waving them over with a musical “Yaho! Jackal-chans!”

“Don’t be strangers,” he calls. “You’re part of the family now. Come on over and say hello.”

Atsumu turns to Sakusa and watches him shrug, then gets up and joins the circle of racers. “Ooh,” he says. “Am I about to hear your declarations of war? I like those. You’ve got some standards to live up to. Qualifyin’ racers talk dirty. With their fists too.”

“That would require us to see you as a threat,” Mad Dog’s Sponsor says with a smile. He has a sweet looking face, the same sort of pretty boy handsome as The Grand King. The same tricky attitude too, apparently. “We don’t.”

“No? Then what do ya see me as, kiddo?”

“A nuisance, mostly,” Eagle’s Sponsor chimes in.

“A new race obstacle,” Living Dragon says.

The Grand King places a finger on his lip to think. “Eye candy?”

“So it’s true what they say about success breedin’ complacency. Everyone here knows what comes next though, right? The part about complacency banging ya raw and leavin’ ya with a fuck-ugly failure baby?”

Someone snorts and The Grand King snaps, “Don’t laugh at that, Iwa-chan. That was the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t even think that was supposed to be a joke,” Pretty Boy 2 says with a grimace.

The Grand King’s Sponsor shrugs and extends a hand across the circle. He’s not wearing his regular uniform of regal white fabric today. He looks more like a gym teacher than a Sponsor; an eyeful of bulky muscle clad in a black t-shirt and sweats. “Iwaizumi Hajime,” he says by way of greeting. “Guess you’ll be sticking around for a while.”

Atsumu goes to shake it, but The Grand King knocks Iwaizumi’s hand out of the way and replaces it with his own. “Oikawa Tooru,” he says. His grip is deceptively strong, and Atsumu has a feeling it’s a veiled attempt at a threat. Oikawa smiles brightly despite it. “What do we call you?”

Atsumu squeezes his hand back until his smile strains. “Jackal’s fine.”

The narrowing of Oikawa’s eyes suggests it’s not fine, but he doesn’t push it. “And what about your Sponsor?” He looks over at Sakusa. “Jackal Jr? Tall, Dark, and Handsome? Mr. Mystery?”

Not for the first time since they started donning helmets does Atsumu find himself dying to know what kind of face Sakusa’s pulling beneath his. He wonders if Oikawa’s brand of annoying is enough to earn a Sakusa Eye Roll, or if he’s firmly sporting his indifferent glare.

“You can call him whatever ya want,” Atsumu says with some amusement. “Don’t think he’s gonna answer ya though.”

Oikawa extracts his hand from Atsumu’s and moves it over to Sakusa. “Mystery-chan it is.” He waits for Sakusa to take it, and when he doesn’t, huffs and returns it to his own hip.

The rest of the circle make introductions Atsumu doesn’t really care about – Ushijima and Tendou of Team Eagle, Washio and Konoha of Living Dragon, and Kyoutani and Yahaba of Mad Dog.

The only thing Atsumu does care to learn, is that their candidness in handing over their full names means they are completely unaware of Atsumu and Sakusa’s statuses as Bounty Hunters. Sakamoto can’t have done much more than warn them off hurting him; they think he’s just another stuck-up racer with an unwarranted hand of favouritism at his back.

“What do you make of the track?” Washio asks him, and of all the racers he seems to be the only one eyeing Atsumu with anything resembling caution. Perhaps he felt the pressure Atsumu applied towards the end of the last race, or perhaps he’s a little more modest than the rest of them.

“Dunno,” Atsumu admits. “Haven’t had a chance to see it yet.”

“Do not waste your time,” Ushijima cuts in. He crosses his arms over the chest of his uniform, the gold-metal feathers on his shoulders rustling with light clacking sounds. “This track is meant for children.”

Atsumu turns around and it doesn’t take long for his brows to shoot up to his hairline; it’s a simple figure of eight, albeit a large one. The section that overlaps climbs into a short bridge and drops back down a sudden steep slope, but that’s the extent of its difficulty. The rest is plain asphalt. No tunnels. No obstacles. No jumps. No difficult turns.

There’s never been a track like it for a League One race. It’s almost identical to the course Atsumu would race around for cash years ago –a test of speed in its purest form.

“Is it?” Atsumu asks, watching Mad Dog hurtle around it like his namesake.

Without obstacles it’ll be possible to go faster than ever before. This race won’t be so much about besting the track as it will be about besting each other, and that’s a challenge that gets Atsumu’s blood pumping and hands itching for the handlebars.

He turns around and tilts his head at Ushijima. “When was the last time ya raced without all that shit in your way?”

The disinterested look Ushijima returns tells Atsumu everything he needs to know.

Sakusa pulls him aside before he makes a break for his bike. He takes Atsumu somewhere no ears find them and says, “They’re still underestimating you.”

“Dragon’s not. He knew I coulda taken him last race. He knows I’m gonna run circles ‘round him today.”

“Don’t.”

“Huh?”

“Not yet.”

Atsumu frowns and raps his knuckles against Sakusa’s helmet. “You okay in there, sweetheart? Is the heat gettin’ to ya? This is my only chance to figure shit out, remember?”

Sakusa grabs his wrist to stop him knocking, and though Atsumu tries to pull it away, Sakusa tightens his grip and keeps it suspended between them. “You don’t need to waste time learning the track, so save your best for Saturday. Spend today making it look as though you’re struggling to pass fourth, but watch ahead for the other racers.”

Atsumu stops resisting and lets his arm fall limp.

“Give them no reason to think they’re wrong in their assumptions. Let them believe you’re a steady fifth. They’ll leave today assuming they still have nothing to worry about and won’t factor you into their preparations.”

“You’re really gettin’ into this. Soundin’ more and more like a real Sponsor every day.”

Sakusa drops his wrist. “Maybe humbling people has become something of a hobby.”

“Well can ya do me a favour and pick a hobby that doesn’t make me wanna jump your bones in public places? Maybe crochet? No, wait, that’s no good I’ve kinda developed a thing for your hands. Pottery? Shit. No that’s definitely worse, I saw that movie where—”

“Your mind is begging you to find a track to pursue other than pathetic.”

“I’m a billion-percent sure it’s beggin’ for somethin’ else, but sure.” Atsumu turns and stands at Sakusa’s side to join him in watching the course.

The other racers have taken to it now, begrudgingly. They’re sitting at the start line, waiting for Mad Dog to finish his lap in order to start at the same time.

“Things are finally about to get interestin’,” he says as they tear away from the line with noisy revs of their engines. “Watch this.”

The first lap establishes the usual hierarchy: Oikawa, Ushijima, Kyoutani, Washio.

The second lap, expectedly, throws a wrench into the machine’s inner workings. Kyoutani pulls ahead of Ushijima easily during the climb up the ramp, and he makes good progress on catching up with Oikawa too during the descent.

From there it devolves into chaos. Though Oikawa stays in a firm first place, the others’ positions swap constantly – even Washio climbs from fourth to third on occasion, and Atsumu can see Oikawa’s frustration bleeding into the way he starts to push his bike harder than usual to maintain his lead.

“Obstacles make it hard to climb,” Atsumu says. “You’re too busy thinkin’ about what’s comin’ up ahead to worry about overtakin’ people. S’why The Grand King wins all the time. If ya start first, odds are ya finish first.”

“This is actual speedracing,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu smiles. “Precisely.”

Once they lap a fifth time, Atsumu finally lines his bike up and gets ready to throw himself into fray. It only takes thirty seconds for them to return; he kicks his bike into gear before they pass and tags himself on to the end to start performing.

It’s harder, Atsumu thinks, to pretend to suck than it is to attempt to win. He pushes Living Dragon a couple of times to keep up the pretence of trying, but lets him think he’s doing a good enough job of blocking as they complete the track over and over.

Watching the racers ahead is far more interesting. Ushijima and Kyoutani are at each other’s throats constantly, nudging each other’s bikes to claw their way ahead. Sometimes Ushijima will make a significant break and challenge Oikawa, but he always drops back on the incline, steering towards caution when he should be pushing past it to win. It makes Atsumu want to climb onto his bike with him and knock some damn sense into his helmet.

They break for lunch around midday, by which time Atsumu’s starting to feel the stiffness of prolonged racing wreaking havoc on his spine. The novelty of the challenge is wearing off too. It’s getting a little tedious to continue riding the same circles around the track with no real incentive, and he can tell the other racers are thinking the exact same thing. After the two-hundredth lap or so, all of their speeds dip significantly; Atsumu’s sure he could complete the track blindfolded if Sakamoto asked.

In order to eat, they skip invitations to the stadium café and return to the car for the allotted hour. Atsumu complains about his helmet hair and voices his opinions aloud around a shop-bought sandwich, and Sakusa listens and adds little bites of information from his time listening to the other Sponsors. It’s mostly gossip, Atsumu comes to realise. They forget Sakusa is there most of the time and talk as they please.

Some of them think Atsumu is the relative of a politician, having his way bought through the league as a favour from Sakamoto, but Tendou thinks he’s Sakamoto’s long-lost son seeking revenge for an absent childhood. That one makes Atsumu laugh harder than it should, considering how much of a loser his real father is and how little he and Osamu care about him.

When they return the mood is tense and it takes no longer than a second for Atsumu to figure out why. Four helmets are aimed up at an observatory box on the second floor. Atsumu follows their gazes and spots the two familiar faces even from the slight distance: Sakamoto and Kimura.

They’re standing near the glass window, Sakamoto’s suit a gaudy shade of blue that Kimura’s matched her own skirt and blazer with immaculately. She’s leaning in to speak into his ear, a tablet in her arms that she occasionally lifts to punctuate whatever she’s saying. Atsumu watches as Sakamoto runs a hand through his sleek dark hair, then throws his head back to laugh.

“I know your fangs are sharper than you’re letting on, Jackal-chan,” Oikawa says, draping an arm over Atsumu’s shoulders as they walk towards their bikes. “Are you finally going to sink them into Washio now that Dad’s watching?”

Atsumu tears his gaze from the observatory box, but the urge to look again plagues him like an insistent itch beneath his skin. He alleviates it by returning Oikawa’s gesture, resting a hand on the gold epaulette of his far shoulder and pulling him in.

“Why wouldja think that, pretty boy? I’m havin’ a real tough time keepin’ up with ya all y’know. You’re so damn fast.”

“You’re a filthy liar,” he sing-songs.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“I’m not a very nice boy.”

“Ooh, so The Grand King isn’t the charmin’ young socialite his adorin’ fans think he is? I wonder how much money Hajime-kun will pay me to keep that bombshell outta my League One tell-all.”

“The same amount of money I’ll pay you not to say his name ever again,” Oikawa says lightly. “I didn’t think it was possible for it to sound ugly. You’re multi-talented, Jackal-chan. Annoying and terminally unpleasant. How impressive.”

“You’ve never said your own boyfriend’s name out loud before? That’s messed up Tooru.”

Oikawa laughs and helps Atsumu to sit on his bike. He rests his hands on Atsumu’s shoulders and digs harsh thumbs into his muscles that Atsumu suggestively hums along to. “I am counting down the days until the ban on nerfing you is lifted, Golden Boy,” Oikawa says lowly, as though Sakamoto will somehow hear him. “I’d gladly sacrifice a week of being number one to hang back and put you in your place.”

“Grab a ticket and get in line,” Atsumu scoffs, because he’s pretty sure the list of people who’d like to do the exact same thing is longer than his arm. Both his arms, even.

When they start laps again it’s as though the six hours of uninterrupted racing that preceded their break never happened. Sakamoto’s presence invigorates everyone, but while the others wrestle Oikawa for first, Atsumu still doesn’t make any real attempts to grapple for third.

He pushes Sakamoto out of his mind and empties it to concentrate on maintaining his guise of mediocrity. After a while of looping around and around and around, he gets bored enough to close his eyes for brief spells in an attempt to make it a little more interesting. He challenges himself to see if he can keep the bike on a straight path or get the correct timings for the bends.

The stadium clock reads 3.p.m when Sakamoto finally disappears and everybody breathes a collective sigh of relief. Speeds drop and competition wanes and Atsumu endures another thirty minutes before he brings himself to a stop and pulls over.

“I’ve seen everythin’ I needed to see,” he tells Sakusa as he approaches the bench of Sponsors. “We can go.”

He can feel the eyes of the other Sponsors watching them as they make their exit, can feel the weight of their confused judgement at his back. It doesn’t matter if they think he’s arrogant, stupid, foolish, or naïve for walking out early, because Sakusa’s right. The less they think of him, the easier it’ll be to surprise them on Saturday once he finally lets the Jackal loose.

The rest of the week passes in a bruising blur. When Atsumu’s not desperately trying and failing to win a sparring bout, or losing his breath beneath Sakusa’s hands and mouth in varying stages of undress, he’s honouring his Pact of Pettiness by relaxing in a stolen camping chair and watching as Sakusa singlehandedly apprehends criminals for Sawamura.

He complains at first, but the glint in his eye betrays how relieved he is to be doing something other than waiting around in a stuffy helmet while Atsumu has all the fun racing.

And there’s no lack of jobs to be doing. Sakusa regains control of a steelwork factory from a rogue gang, clears out two hideouts of new drug rings, and stops a burglary of a midcity tech shop. By the end of the week every damn criminal across the three sectors – fighting for the New City or not – has taken advantage of the unrest to add to the chaos.

It never makes the news. Though Atsumu keeps up to date with it every afternoon, the very obvious fact that something is brewing simply isn’t a concern to the anchor or the people writing her cues. It isn’t much of a concern to the people milling about the city either. They continue their daily lives as though nothing is amiss, as though the upsurge of car chases and roadblocks and spike strips are nothing too far out of the ordinary, just an overdue crackdown from local law enforcement, a job well done.

Despite the weeks they’d spent dismantling the Director’s connections, Atsumu can still feel the weight of something approaching, something haunting the near distance that he can’t quite bring into focus. He knows Sakusa’s feeling it too. Atsumu often notices his gaze flickering to doors and the ends of open alleyways during jobs; every night he watches him meticulously triple check the apartment locks before sleeping, and his hand is never far from his blaster.

Atsumu knows he needs to push progress along somehow. Racing is good fun, but the game is slow and entirely reliant on Sakamoto’s interest. He could be purposefully stalling them, could be distracting them from something bigger, and there’s nothing they can do about it without destroying what they’ve spent almost three weeks building. But, if they don’t meet with Sakamoto and cut him off from the Director soon they’ll find themselves standing in the eye of a shit storm before they’ve had the chance to read the weather warnings. 

So on Saturday afternoon, instead of bothering Sakusa, Atsumu lies on the sofa and choreographs a show stopping race in his mind’s eye. The most shocking outcome he can think of while still following Sakamoto’s instruction and cinching third, the kind of race Atsumu would cheer for if he were watching it at home.

When they get to the stadium that evening the security surrounding it is ridiculously tight. It seems as though the entire upper city police force has been stationed outside, like a moat of cobalt-blue uniforms has carved itself around the circumference.

They’re not the last to arrive this time; the top four, Soul Reaper, Comet, and Phantom are relaxing in the waiting room with their Sponsors, spread out across sofas, playing games or watching last week’s race.

“Did you enjoy your week of slacking off, Jackal?” Konoha asks as Atsumu takes a seat on one of the sofas. There’s a pointed sharpness to both his gaze and tone, like he still hasn’t forgiven them for walking out early.

“Y’know, I really did! Thanks for askin’. Got to sit back and watch my favourite TV show. It’s the one about the super sexy crime fightin’ assassin, ya seen it?”

Sakusa disguises his sharp elbow as a readjusting shuffle and Atsumu pretends he doesn’t feel it.

“No,” Konoha says slowly. “I was too busy taking my job seriously.”

“That’s too bad,” Atsumu says with a shrug. “He’s got an even sexier partner that joins him in season two. Has really good hair and wears this sweet leather jacket. Bit of a scene stealer. Needs his own spin-off.” 

“I heard the director is looking to axe him from the show entirely,” Sakusa says drily, and Atsumu draws blood from his lip biting down his laughter.

It’s quiet as racers continue to filter in. The atmosphere is decidedly less charged this week, like a weighted blanket of boredom is subduing the mood. Oikawa is resting his head on Iwaizumi’s lap to watch something on his phone, Ushijima and Tendou are still reading the same volumes of manga from last week, and Kyoutani is busy eating while Yahaba points to things on a tablet.

Aside from Konoha’s jab nobody bothers to speak to them – not even Oikawa has any quips to level him with. The pairs keep to themselves and Atsumu doesn’t expend any effort attempting small talk either. He passes the time on his phone, texting Suna and Osamu and occasionally Sakusa despite sitting right next to him. He even convinces him to play a few rounds of online 8 Ball, but the moment Atsumu pots more than three consecutive balls he closes the game and pockets his phone.

When the steward comes to collect them, Atsumu almost forgets that he’s amongst the first portion of racers to leave; it’s Sakusa’s prompting hand at his back that reminds him.

“Ass grab for good luck?” Atsumu asks as he gets to his feet.

Sakusa chops the back of Atsumu’s knee so that his leg buckles and he knocks it on the table corner. Atsumu scoffs. “Bit higher next time, champ.”

Sakusa stands and follows him where no ears are at hand to listen, then leans in as close as his helmet will allow. “I know you’re planning something,” he says quietly. “Whatever it is, don’t mess it up.”

“You pay that much attention to me? Worked out my thinkin’ face? That’s cute.”

“When the unbearable noise that’s been plaguing you incessantly for two months suddenly ceases, you tend to notice.” He grabs Atsumu’s forearm. “If you’re going to crash,” he prompts, grip tight, fingers crushing.

“Yeah, yeah. Expensive bike. Don’t crash at all. Thought we were over thi—”

“Crash sexily.”

Atsumu stops and stares at the blank visor of Sakusa’s helmet. The smile that breaks out across his face is automatic; the sudden warmth that floods his chest feels alarmingly close to suffocating. He laughs to ease the building pressure and returns the grip of Sakusa’s arm just as tight. “I’m plannin’ on this bein’ the final lap.”

“Good,” Sakusa says. “The level of hatred I’m harbouring for this helmet is fast approaching leg brace territory.”

With one final squeeze of Sakusa’s arm, Atsumu joins the top four in the elevator. Oikawa yawns noisily on the way down, one arm stretching behind his head and purposefully knocking the back of Ushijima’s. Kyoutani’s tongue clicks at the display, but Atsumu bides his time and waits until they line up in the corridor to open his mouth.

“Hey Mad Dog,” he starts, leaning back against the wall. “Got any tips on how to deal with the press? Got a feelin’ I’m gonna need ‘em after the race.”

Kyoutani snaps around to face Atsumu, a scowl pressing deep lines into his forehead. “In your fucking dreams maybe.”

“In my dreams I’m wipin’ The Grand King’s helmet across the asphalt. Gonna have to settle for third in reality. Hope ya don’t mind. I know ya usually like to settle there.”

“No I don’t mind,” he snaps. “Because I’ll be winning. Do whatever the fuck you want with third.”

“That’s gonna be tough for ya, kid. Considerin’ Eagle’s gonna be crossin’ the line first tonight.”

“Oh is he?” Oikawa cuts in with a laugh. “Did you leave practice early for a psychic reading, Golden Boy? Or perhaps Sakamoto’s bought you a time machine as well as your place here?”

“S’just a hunch,” Atsumu shrugs. “Winnin’ streaks have gotta end sooner or later, right? What’cha think, Wakatoshi?”

He’s already told Suna to pay extra attention tonight. Atsumu might not be able to win him a trophy, but he’ll certainly make good on his other promise to make The Grand King and his fans cry.

Ushijima looks at him strangely. “I don’t like you,” he says.

Atsumu affects chest pain and clutches the heart of his own uniform. “Oof. Don’t meet your idols, huh? That one hurt.”

“Your loud taunts won’t make us any weaker, and you have yet to show me anything worthy of Sakamoto-san’s preferential treatment.”

“Then keep an eye out for your right shoulder tonight. I’ll come show ya myself.”

Ushijima turns away. “I don’t believe I’ll see you there.”

The corridor fills with noise as the next batch of racers arrive and line up. They all face forwards and fix their helmets in place to avoid further conversation, but Atsumu’s happy with the seeds he’s managed to sow.

The doors finally open ten minutes later, and though the stadium capacity is the same as last week, the crowd seems louder. The roar shakes the ground and Atsumu wonders what they’re thinking of the track, if they’re protesting its simplicity with their jeers, or if they’re as excited as he is to see how it’ll play out.

The bikes are lined up, slight indents between the positions marking the starting order. Atsumu’s is fifth, a step behind Washio’s and a step in front of Leviathan’s. He doesn’t bother to spare a glance back at anyone else as he limbers up and climbs on. There’s only one direction he needs to look tonight.

A commentator’s voice fills the stadium with the usual roll call. Atsumu grins as they call Jackal’s name and a roar to rival the top four’s rings out across the crowd, the loudest section of which has decked themselves out in supportive black and gold.

Sakamoto takes over once The Grand King’s cheers have died down. “Well?” he asks the crowd. “What do you make of my track?”

He waits for the response; a mixture of cheers and heckles that draws a laugh from him. “Some of you may be excited,” he says. “While others may be disappointed. Regardless of what you feel, I can guarantee you this race will be like no other you’ve seen before! Let the show commence!”

Atsumu tightens his grip on the handlebars and leans forwards as the lights above his head turn on.

The countdown begins.

Three.

Two.

One.

Atsumu punches away from the start line and amps the speed enough to stay ahead of Leviathan and maintain his familiar spot behind Living Dragon. Due to the shortened length of the track, the number of laps has increased from five to ten, so for the first three he sticks to what he knows, inching increments closer with each bend they round.

Up ahead Atsumu can see Mad Dog and Eagle battling like they had done during practice, only with decidedly more enthusiasm and a level of violence bordering dangerous. Each time one pulls ahead of the other the crowd goes wild, chanting the name of the bout victor with thundering smacks of noise sticks or thumps of their plastic chairs. It’s the loudest Atsumu’s ever heard it – in person or otherwise.

During the fourth lap Atsumu starts to make a move. He spent a long time watching Living Dragon’s movements on Tuesday. Like all of the racers, Washio always eases up and lets the bike roll down the steep slope so that it’s easier to take the upcoming bend. Atsumu’s always done the same too. Until now.

He’s thought about the technicalities of speeding up all morning; it shouldn’t be that difficult to try it for the first time right now. In theory.

As they cross the bridge, Atsumu starts to accelerate and move himself towards the outside of the track. Washio follows him to block the overtake until they reach the downslope, but then he retreats towards the middle to prepare himself for the drop.

Instead of following him like he should, Atsumu sticks to the outside and hunches down over his bike, keeping his body as close to the frame as he can manage.

Atsumu pushes the engine slightly through the drop. The wheels shake and the handlebars threaten to throw him out of control, but Atsumu keeps his grip tight and tenses his core to steady them as he tears past Washio with the extra momentum.

He’ll crash if he doesn’t start the turn earlier, so as he approaches the bottom of the ramp, he pulls his left leg up onto the seat to avoid ripping his knee apart, and lifts his elbow to balance out the weight shift.

The bike drifts around the wide arc of the bend, so close to the ground the side fairing catches the asphalt and sparks with noisy groans of metal. When the turn evens out, he hauls the bike upward and throws his leg around the frame again to steady the wobble, muscles protesting the pull and tearing a pained grunt from his chest.

Now that he’s in front of Washio he sticks to the inner corners to mark the quickest route around the track. Over the pounding of blood in his ears he can hear the crowd cheering, can hear the chants of Jackal! Jackal! Jackal! as he rides out the speed boost to catch up with Mad Dog and Eagle.

For the fifth lap Atsumu bides his time and maintains his fourth position, waiting for the moment that Kyoutani falls behind Ushijima enough to take advantage.

It doesn’t come until the seventh lap, when Ushijima breaks ahead on the incline of the slope with a boost that throws him into a jump once he reaches the peak. He lands a considerable stretch ahead, and Kyoutani revs the engine of his bike with a frustrated growl because the upcoming descent is forcing him to kill his speed to take it.

Atsumu pushes forwards and settles himself into the place at Kyoutani’s side where Ushijima had once been.

His shock that Atsumu’s pulled ahead of Washio is evident when the snarling mouth of his helmet double takes. Atsumu can feel how badly Mad Dog wants to nudge him, can see him thinking about it as his hands tighten around the handlebars. But no matter how tauntingly close Atsumu gets, Kyoutani keeps pulling away, careful not to let a single pointed piece of his bike come close to scraping Atsumu’s. It’s almost disappointing. He’d have enjoyed a proper fight. Maybe one day, once this is all over, he’ll come back and ask for one.

As they approach the edge, Atsumu prepares himself to try the same trick he used to pass Washio. Now that he’s completed it once, he knows the timings better. He extends a hand and gives Kyoutani’s back two obnoxious pats before he shoves his way past and drops.

The second time is easier than the first, but it’s no less risky. One of the side panels tears off completely and Atsumu can hear it crashing into the nearby wall over the angered grumble of Kyoutani’s bike attempting to catch up.

There’s a dull ache in Atsumu’s shoulder when he rights himself too, a strained muscle that makes him wince each time he adjusts the handlebars.

It’s fine, he tells himself. He only needs to maintain his third place position for the last few laps – easy, considering the gap he’s forged between himself and Mad Dog.

But Atsumu didn’t come here just to win third today. He wants to put on the show he’s been planning for Sakamoto, wants to grab his attention by the throat and force it to meet his eye.

He looks ahead to Ushijima and thinks of Sakusa’s analysis of him that day on the sofa.

Eagle: Waits to long to peak.

The same thing is happening now. Ushijima should be pushing Oikawa as they approach the line for the eighth lap. He should be gearing up and closing the distance for an overtake, but he’s not.

Atsumu’s going to change that.

He spends another lap catching up, hugging the inner corners until his bike is threatening to touch the back wheel of Ushijima’s, then he pulls out and rides along his right side, just as he’d promised.

No price would be too high to pay, Atsumu thinks, to know what sort of face Ushijima is pulling beneath his helmet. I don’t believe I’ll see you there, he’d said. Atsumu laughs until his shoulder complains.

Ushijima revs his engine threateningly and pulls ahead. Atsumu follows and does the same thing again, encouraging Ushijima into picking up the pace until they’re both inching towards Oikawa.

All three of them take the downslope ordinarily and burst around the corner in a tight cluster. Though he’s sure he could, Atsumu’s careful never to pull ahead of Ushijima, but he does ride close enough that Ushijima has no choice but to increase his speed or risk Atsumu crashing into the back of him.

The crowd no longer knows whose name to call. It’s a cacophony of warring sounds, of Eagles, Grand Kings, and Jackals, because for the first time this season Ushijima is toe-to-toe with Oikawa, and the outcome of the race is uncertain.

They all cross the line for the final lap with milliseconds separating their times, then Sakamoto’s voice rings out around the stadium.

“Our final lap commences!” he shouts. “Let’s see how well our racers know the track!”

As he finishes speaking the lights cut out and the stadium plunges into darkness. The only immediate light available comes from the warm gold glow of Atsumu’s bike frame and the sudden uptake of phone torches from the crowd.

Those hours Atsumu spent during practice closing his eyes feel crucial now, because he can hear the unmistakable sound of someone crashing behind him – a fan favourite who only got an hour’s practice with the track no doubt.

Every three seconds a bright white light floods the stadium like a striking crack of lightning. It allows the crowd to see what’s happening on the tracks in tiny snippets and the racers to catch glimpses of what lies ahead.

Neither Oikawa nor Ushijima are fazed – they continue their fight for first, and Atsumu no longer feels the need to push. It seems as though Ushijima has found a hunger of his own.

Atsumu hangs back to give them space. He pours all of his concentration into completing the rest of the track ordinarily with the sudden switch up, but the moment he hits the incline he hears the familiar roar of Mad Dog’s engine catching up with his own.

Kyoutani copies the move Ushijima displayed earlier and jumps, landing just enough ahead to steal third from beneath Atsumu’s wheels.

Tunnel vision, Sakusa’s voice says in his mind. Only cares about pulling ahead of who’s currently in front of him, no matter the position.

The light flashes; Kyoutani’s climbing further ahead by the second – Mad Dog never goes down without a fight.

Atsumu needs to end the performance with a spectacular flourish. The bend after the slope leads to the finish line and he’s currently sitting in an ambiguous fourth.

He shouldn’t. He definitely shouldn’t because the bike is already damaged and the lack of light makes it an even more reckless trick to attempt than before, but Atsumu had already planned this earlier in the afternoon, he can’t back out now.

A flash of lightning illuminates him as he pushes down the hill and passes Kyoutani. The turn is the fastest and hardest one yet, and without any light, Atsumu’s relying on pure instinct to time it. He counts down in his head, then sends a quick prayer to whoever’s listening and blindly pulls the turn.

He makes it, but it’s so close to the ground Atsumu’s vision fills with showers of hot sparks. His elbow and knee catch the asphalt too as he clumsily hauls the bike upward before he hits the far wall. It hurts like hell – without the tough fabric of his uniform he’d likely have scraped the skin down to the bone – but adrenaline allows him to ignore the pain and keep his grip on the handlebars tight.

Atsumu’s third again and there are people chanting his name. That’s all he cares to think about as he rides out the speed boost and returns to the sides of Ushijima and Oikawa.

They’re racing simultaneously now, each flash of light illuminating a different first place – Oikawa, to Ushijima, to Atsumu, to Oikawa again. He pulls back at the last second and the crowd goes wild as they cross the line, but Atsumu has no idea who’s won until the lights are turned back on after Comet finally finishes up.

The screens around the stadium flicker to life and the cameras are focussed on Eagle’s helmet. The crowd is chanting his name and fans of The Grand King are booing just as loudly as the fans of Eagle are cheering.

Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief as he reads the final board, because for the first time in league history, the top three are only separated by a few tenths of a second.

Eagle in first.

The Grand King second.

Jackal third.

Atsumu finds Sakusa in the usual spot inside, on the outskirts of the crowd of Sponsors. Oikawa and Ushijima are already there – Ushijima celebrating with Tendou, Oikawa loudly protesting Sakamoto’s surprise light gimmick and declaring his guaranteed win next race.

He tries not to let on how much his body aches as he joins Sakusa, but Omi the Ever Fucking Observant notices immediately and reaches for Atsumu’s elbow. “Is it broken?” he asks, gloved fingers stopping midway and curling into a fist.

“Nah.” Atsumu shakes it out to prove his point and tucks his hands into his pockets as though his muscles aren’t currently on fire. “I’m good.” He tilts his head and grins to himself. “I was good, right?”

Whatever Sakusa was about to respond with is cut short, because his hand darts out behind Atsumu to grab an incoming fist.

To Kyoutani’s credit, he doesn’t make a sound when Sakusa twists his arm inches away from pushing Atsumu’s side. He stumbles back a few steps, eyes alight with rage, lips curled into a snarl. “Try racing without Sakamoto’s protection,” he spits through his teeth. “See how good you are then. Fucking kiss ass.”

“I’d love to,” Atsumu says. “Maybe next time, kiddo. If Dad lets me.”

Kyoutani struggles to hit Atsumu again, but Sakusa does something to his wrist that makes him buckle. He turns to Yahaba whose face is blank with indifference. “Keep your mutt on a tighter leash,” he says, throwing Kyoutani’s hand aside. “Or I’ll put it down.”

“That won’t be a problem. Will it, Kentarou-kun?”

Everybody startles and turns to face the new voice. Even Oikawa and Ushijima stop their conversations to follow it.

Sakamoto stands in the entryway, Kimura at his side. They’re both wearing red tonight, garish shades of scarlet that they somehow both manage to pull off.

It’s the closest Atsumu’s gotten to Sakamoto since he was stood in his office all those years ago as a desperate teenager. He doesn’t look as though he’s aged a day – handsome face, dark hair, cleanly shaven jaw. His shoulders are still broad, his frame lean, and smile wide. The only new addition is an earring; a thin chain of gold that ends in a cut and set sphere of ruby.

“No, sir,” Yahaba says, and his indifference has faded to concern. He grabs Kyoutani’s arm and pulls him aside, bowing his head in an apology and forcing Kyoutani’s down too.

“Good boy,” Sakamoto says. He turns to the rest of the room. “The press are waiting for the top three. I came to make sure you didn’t run away this time, Jackal. You have a lot of fans at home waiting to see you on their screens.”

“Not sure that’s a good idea, bossman. Who knows what I might say? Who I might piss off.”

Sakamoto laughs, a hearty one that throws his head back. “Nonsense! Don’t be shy now! I’ll be right by your side, come along.”

With no other choice but to comply, they wait for Ushijima and Oikawa’s teams to leave first, then follow them out into the hallway. Sakamoto has lingered behind to chat, and as soon as they fall into step, he injects himself between Atsumu and Sakusa and places an arm around Atsumu’s waist. “What a fantastic race,” he says, tugging Atsumu along. “I don’t think there’s an expectation I can set that you aren’t capable of exceeding beyond even my wildest imaginings.”

“I aim to please,” Atsumu says.

Sakamoto hums and his voice takes on a lower register, more sultry than threatening, as his hand moves around to rest on the small of Atsumu’s back. “That you do, my precious wildcard.”

Atsumu stiffens at the familiar nickname; Sakamoto had called him the exact same thing years ago when trying to get him to sign his bulky contracts. That he’s using it again now can only mean one thing.

“Haven’t heard that in a while,” Atsumu says.

“That’ll happen when you stray as far from home as you have, yes? People don’t treat you correctly. But that’s for our talk later. You’re here now. Look ahead, Jackal, to what you’ve been missing.”

Oikawa and Ushijima and their Sponsors have already led the way into the door at the end of the hallway. It’s a huge room, abuzz with noise of clicking cameras and chatter. Large makeshift walls have been erected, sporting backdrops and logos for various news channels, and crews stand around them, rigged cameras poised at the interviewers as they wait for interviewees. Ushijima and Tendou are already engaged in conversation with one channel, helmets replaced and personas active.

Sakamoto keeps his arm around Atsumu’s waist as he steers him over to the crew waiting at one of the most recognisable of the channels: Speedracing One. There’s a pundit Atsumu recognises from the television who waves excitedly when he spots them.

“Thanks so much for agreeing to this!” He extends a hand to Atsumu that he winces through the pain of moving to reach out and shake. “Adriah Thomas,” he says by way of introduction. “We’ve been hoping to interview you since the qualifier!”

“A thousand apologies,” Sakamoto says. “My Jackal is a little camera shy. I’ll be joining him for today.”

“Even better! Ratings always skyrocket when you make an appearance, Sakamoto-san!”

Atsumu keeps his hands in his pockets and his mouth shut for the majority of the interview. Sakamoto speaks on his behalf, answering questions about his background, training, and influences with stories he seems to have fabricated in advance. His hand travels around Atsumu’s back as he does so, dipping dangerously low at times, or squeezing possessively.

When Atsumu does get asked something directly – about his bike, decisions, and thoughts on other racers - he disguises his voice and accent as best as he can and answers shortly. He absolutely does not think about how hard Suna will be laughing at him from the sofa of his living room. The bastard is probably recording the whole thing and sending it to Osamu as he speaks.

“Are you aiming for first place next race?” Adriah asks him with an earnest smile.

Atsumu can’t tell him them that there is no next race, that once he meets with Sakamoto and has that ‘later’ chat, he’ll be hanging up the speedracing gloves for good no matter how badly he wants a trophy.

Sakamoto’s hand rests on Atsumu’s side. “A jackal is always looking for its next meal,” he says. “I think you can all expect some great things from our resident hunter.”

Though he can’t see Sakusa’s face, Atsumu’s eyes dart over to him anyway. Sakusa’s arms have uncrossed from his chest to rest in his uniform pockets, and his weight has shifted onto his left foot – the one he favours when fighting. It softens the edge of Atsumu’s sudden mood shift slightly; knowing that Sakusa’s picked up on Sakamoto’s phrasing puts him at ease.

Adriah asks a few more questions, then wraps up the interview and thanks them for their time, showering Atsumu with compliments for his tricks and turns.

Sakamoto keeps his arm around Atsumu as he leads him back out into the hallway. It’s noisy with announcements over the speakers and the background noise from the interview room, but Atsumu still hears him clearly when he says, “We are both very busy people, it would seem. Me with my races, you with your messy game of high-stakes chess, hm?”

He extricates himself and dips a hand into his suit jacket pocket, then he takes Atsumu’s and forcibly opens his palm. “But we will make time for each other tonight, Jackal.” He places a small disc into Atsumu’s hand, thumb pressing tightly until Atsumu’s fingers close reflexively around it. “I will be waiting there for you.” He passes a glance at Sakusa. “Both of you.”

Sakamoto gives Atsumu’s hand one last pat before he turns on his heel to leave. They both watch him as he disappears down the hallway, humming a classical piece beneath his tongue and waving his hand around like a conductor.

Kimura materialises beside them and hands Atsumu a black paper bag from an expensive brand clothing store. “Wear these,” is all she says before she turns and follows after Sakamoto.

The hallway suddenly seems silent once the door closes after her. Atsumu reaches out for Sakusa’s elbow and starts to turn him towards the exit.

“We need to—” Atsumu starts at the same time Sakusa says, “Let’s go.”

“Yeah.”

They don’t speak again until they get to the car, hackles raised like wary cats as they wait for something to happen. It would be so easy too, Atsumu thinks. They’re without weapons and armour, inside an unfamiliar building in the only section of the city that Bounty Hunters face sanctions for acting in. On top of that Atsumu’s body is aching and protesting every step he takes. His elbow and knee are probably eight different shades of purple by now, and the muscles in his sides are seizing up so tightly breathing feels like a chore.

If Sakamoto was going to kill them – now would be the opportune time.

But he doesn’t.

They get to the car without as much as a breeze halting their path. Sakusa climbs wordlessly into the driver’s side and Atsumu doesn’t protest as he slips into the passenger seat. He tugs off his helmet and throws it into the back, then unzips his uniform enough to tug the keys out of the inner pocket and hand them over.

Sakusa fits them into the ignition, but he doesn’t start the car yet. After taking his own helmet off and placing it into the back, he retrieves his rucksack from the floor.

“Sakamoto’s recognised you,” Sakusa says, digging around in his bag. He pulls out a box of pain medication and a bottle of water and throws them into Atsumu’s lap.

“Oh yeah, absolutely. Probably since the qualifier,” Atsumu says. He stares down at them for a moment with the same suffocating feeling in his chest as earlier. “Got no fuckin’ idea why I’m not dead right now.”

Sakamoto might not have been able to kill him on the tracks during a race, but there have been plenty of other opportunities over the last few weeks; someone could easily have followed them to the car; someone could have separated them; someone could have cut them off at the practice stadium or ambushed them in any of the moments in between.

They’d presented themselves on a platter for the chance to speak to Sakamoto, but nobody bothered to take a bite. Atsumu can’t work out why. If Sakamoto knows, the Director should know too, and he’d be a fool not to capitalise on the advantage. Atsumu doesn’t think he’s a fool.

“The answer seems pretty obvious to me,” Sakusa scoffs.

Atsumu tugs off his gloves and opens the medication box, watching his own fingers work through the motions as though they belong to someone else. “Yeah? Share it with the class, buttercup.”

He can feel Sakusa watching him as he says, “He’s obsessed with you.”

Atsumu pops two pills into his mouth, leans back against the headrest and tips his head to the side to catch Sakusa’s eye after swallowing. “You’d know all about that, huh?” he asks with a smile. “Practically wrote the book.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything.

“What? Am I cloudin’ your good judgement, Kiyoomi? You get all riled up and jealous watchin’ Sakamoto put his hands on me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do I look that insecure?”

No, is the answer. Though his hair is a little unruly from its time spent in a helmet, Sakusa looks bored and totally unfazed. Atsumu’s mind shouldn’t be wandering where it’s wandering, not right now, but it is.

Atsumu blinks at him, then tips his head back. “Jesus. Ya always know exactly what to say to get my motor runnin’.”

“And you always know the fastest and most effective way to kill mine instantly and beyond salvation.” Sakusa nods at the bag between Atsumu’s feet. “What’s on the disc?”

Atsumu reaches down and plucks it from the top of the bag Kimura’s given them. It’s not a bounty disc – it’s smaller and thinner; an invitation. When Atsumu presses the button in its centre, a holoscreen flickers to life and fills the car with quiet music.

“Velocity,” he reads. “It’s Sakamoto’s fancy upper city club. Wants us there at midnight. He’s booked us a private booth.”

It’s impossible to gain entry without a personal invitation from Sakamoto. Not even Atsumu’s Bounty Hunting privileges can get him inside, and sneaking in is an impossibility when the club is suspended above the ground.

“And the clothes?” Sakusa asks, mouth twisted in disgust.

Atsumu pulls out a shirt of black silk and a custom-made mask in the image of a jackal. “Not quite a clown suit,” he says, holding the shirt up. When it catches the overhead car light the silk shimmers with an undertone of gold.

“No,” Sakusa agrees, and he finally starts the engine. “That would be a dead giveaway.”

“Fuck you.”

Sakusa pulls away from the curb. “Do you want to go back to the apartment to clean up first?”

Atsumu leans back and relaxes as the pain relief starts to kick in. The dashboard clock reads 10.p.m. They have two hours to kill before they’re due to meet Sakamoto. “Take me wherever ya want, Omi-kun.”

“The morgue, then.”

“To meet the rest of your coven? Sure. Hope they’re as nice and sweet as you are.”

“I’m certain they’d hate you just as much.”

"Yeah? Does hate mean the same thing to them as it does to you?"

Sakusa turns the radio up in response and Atsumu grins.

There’s nothing quite like seeing a job come together, he thinks as he watches the city roll by, even if the balance of it going to hell is a hair away from tipping unfavourably.

Chapter Text

Velocity is the largest club across all three sectors. It’s on the northernmost outskirts of the upper city, built and suspended over a manmade lake of artificially dyed-black water. Its walls are a white stone that change colour beneath artistic projections upon the surface, and the pillars holding it up are fitted with mirrors that give it the illusion of floating mid-air.

There’s only one way in and out – an escalator that extends from the ground to the entrance thirty-feet above it – and there are security guards stationed outside, checking the exclusive invitations before allowing entry. It’s a Bounty Hunter’s worst nightmare.

Sakamoto must have spoken to his guards in advance, however, because the moment Atsumu and Sakusa approach wearing their costumes and jackal masks, they’re escorted past both the queueing crowd and security without question.

It means that the blasters they’ve concealed beneath the flimsy silk layers of their shirts remain untouched and snug against their sides in holsters. It also means they’ve avoided losing the switchblade strapped to Atsumu’s waist and the knives hugging Sakusa’s forearms in skin-tight sheaths.

Atsumu’s not quite sure what to expect once he gets inside. He’d gotten so caught up and comfortable assuming the game was playing out in accordance to his rules, that Sakamoto’s confession threw him off kilter more than he cares to admit.

Osamu would probably tell him that means he needs to stop thinking he’s a hundred-percent right about everything two-hundred-percent of the time. Atsumu would probably tell him to shut the fuck up.

“Unclench, Miya. The stench of your overworked brain is nauseating.”

Atsumu tears his gaze from the declining skyline as the escalator carries them above it. Sakusa’s not even looking at him as he speaks. His jackal mask is pointed at the club doors waiting up ahead.

“Surprised you can smell it over Eau de Hypocrisy,” Atsumu scoffs, but he does relax the tension he’s been holding clenched in his jaw since Sakamoto called him ‘wildcard.’

It’s quiet for a while. There’s only the distant thump of music and the slow buzz of the escalator cutting through the silence. Then Sakusa’s voice finds him again. “It’s a bit late to be doubting the quality of your plan,” he says. “We’re going to have to lie in the bed you’ve made us. However messy.”

“Look at you makin’ sex jokes.”

“That wasn’t a sex joke. That’s what those of us with a maturity age higher than fifteen call an idiom.” He pauses, then lowers his voice to say, “I’m almost certain nothing will, but if something does happen, we’ll deal with it.”

It’s not often that Atsumu allows anxious voices of caution a platform in his mind, especially not centre stage, but a few have surfaced now to weigh his arm down with a phantom cast and warn him of poison-coated knives, screeching devices, and ambushes. They don’t linger for long, however. It’s a lot easier to ease himself back into the coat of overconfidence when Sakusa’s holding it open for him, when his presence at Atsumu’s side sounds like his relaxed drawl saying, So what? I’m here this time.

So what, Atsumu repeats for his own peace of mind. So what if Atsumu’s led them blindly into a trap? So what if the Director has had them performing False Sense of Security: The Musical this whole damn time? So what if ten, twenty, thirty men come at them with blasters or knives or weird pieces of tech? Let them come. Sakusa’s not going to let him die tonight, and Atsumu’s definitely not going to let Sakusa die either.

He laughs as he lets his shoulders relax. “You’d better hope nothin’ does. I didn’t bring any snacks.”

The escalator levels out and they step onto the path that leads up to the club. It feels quintessentially upper city – from the sculpted fountains of alabaster pumping out water in flashy displays, to the immaculately kept topiary in colours only the wealthy can genetically engineer.

There are more guards stationed outside, some dressed head-to-toe in white, some in black. One walks forwards to greet them as they near the doors, a blank, white mask covering their face and a tablet in their hand.

“Thank you for coming, Jackal,” they say. “Please follow me. I will show you to your booth.”

The doors slide open and the music that was being held back by thick glass barriers is let loose. A hard, thrumming vibration hits Atsumu’s chest as they enter, one that makes his bones shake. It’s not the wild, carefree music of midcity where partygoers are drunk and jumping along to erratic beats beneath flashing strobes – it’s the deep, sultry, dirty kind with low strums of bass, high whines of electric guitar, and breathy vocals.

It’s predictably flashy inside. Sakamoto’s designs are always gaudy and headache-inducing, but Atsumu would be lying if he said he didn’t love it. The walls are glass and fit with screens that display the city skyline, and the floor below interacts with their footsteps as though they’re wading through black lake water.

They follow the hallways towards the main club area, but the guard doesn’t lead them down the short set of steps to the dancefloor where the lights are low and the people are pressed against each other, grinding, moving, touching. They continue on past the couches of clients groping each other over colourful drinks, towards the spiral staircase beyond.

Atsumu takes in as much as he can as they trail behind, noting potential areas for cover and counting the current number of staff members haunting the corners or manning the bar. There are plenty of oddly shaped statues and displays to hide behind, but he stops counting guards at thirty-eight.

They ascend to the second level of the club, where the hard glass floors soften to carpet and the skyline decorating the walls brightens to a constant neon-red. It bathes the corridor an ominous hue, makes Atsumu feel as though he’s walking inside a chunk of red crystal core.

Their private booth is the third room along the corridor. The guard opens it with a disc and shows them inside, then hands it to Atsumu. “Sakamoto-san will send someone to collect you once he’s ready,” they say. “In the meantime he insists you enjoy yourselves. Would you prefer some company while you wait?”

Atsumu looks around, and there’s no mistaking what sort of company the guard means, because there’s also no mistaking what sort of room they’re standing in. It smells strongly of vanilla and rose, the lights are low and red, the sofas wide, the rugs plush. There’s a bar in one corner, with an array of drinks on shelves behind it, and a bed in another – four poster, surrounded by sheer curtains. If that didn’t spell it out, the array of restraints, toys, and bowls of condom and lube packets bump the letters to a bold upper case.

“Yeah, sure,” Atsumu says, “I’ll have a tall, dark, handsome—”

“No,” Sakusa interrupts.

The guard nods and dips out of the room, and the moment the door closes, the music is cut to a distant murmur. They stand for a moment in terse silence, then Atsumu tugs the jackal mask off and throws it aside along with the disc key.

“What are you doing?” Sakusa asks as Atsumu makes his way over to the bar.

“Tryin’ extremely hard not to make a sex joke.” Sakusa’s silence says a thousand unkind words, so Atsumu amends it with, “Sakamoto knows who we are. No need to stay anonymous anymore.”

Atsumu’s also pretty sure a room like this is totally devoid of both cameras and microphones. Unless Sakamoto’s favourite pastime is partaking in criminally offensive voyeurism lawsuits. He’s wealthy, but there are clients who frequent this club who are wealthier.

Sakusa throw his own mask aside to start his typical surveillance lap of the room, lifting cushions, opening cupboards, and checking corners, while Atsumu busies himself perusing the bar selection.

There are a lot of drinks Atsumu’s never seen before in his life, names that are foreign and bottles that are oddly shaped, but he finds a glass behind the counter and pours himself a drink he’s certain is actually red and not just a trick of the lighting.

Sakusa plucks it from his hand and empties it out onto the rug before he tastes it.

Atsumu frowns. He grabs another glass to try again, but Sakusa takes a seat at the bar and places a thumb over the mouth of the bottle to stop him.

“This is a specifically reserved room,” he says. “Don’t drink that.”

“Because it’s spiked with ten-thousand different poisons, right?”

His lips twitch into a grimace. “It only takes one.”

Atsumu huffs a laugh and sets the bottle down. The bar is high enough that he can rest his elbows on the counter and lean into Sakusa’s space. His bruises complain as he does so, even through the barrier of pain relief, but Atsumu ignores them and lets his eyes wander.

Sakusa looks good in the shirt Sakamoto picked out – its topmost button reaches just below his collarbones and the deep cut exposes more skin than Atsumu’s used to. The red lighting makes his eyes look darker too, makes Atsumu feel the weight of his stare upon him like a knife blade.

“You ever kill someone that way?” he asks. “Vial of poison in a martini glass like the movies?”

“No. It’s unreliable. Poisonings are survivable if the correct dosages aren’t ingested.” His gaze drops to the glass on the counter. “Unfortunately for everyone, you’re living proof.”

“Vial in a shot glass, then?”

“That could work. But there’s always the possibility that—”

“The wrong bastard might wind up drinkin’ it.”

Sakusa hums agreement. “A knife or a blaster makes it easier to be certain they’re dead.”

“And you like bein’ certain’.”

“I would have been a terrible assassin if I didn’t.”

Atsumu perks up. Sakusa never talks honestly about his past. Whenever Atsumu asks he either refuses, or his answers are vague and said with a smile that makes Atsumu doubt he’s telling the truth.

He’s got some theories as to why – Sakusa could have been a terrible assassin, he could have fucked something up, or he could just be a bastard. But his best guess, the one he’d be willing to stake his life on, is that Sakusa’s trying to hold onto the last, vital piece of the puzzle that stops Atsumu from knowing him completely.

Sakusa’s already fumbled the bag more than once, allowed Atsumu to pick up the pieces labelled No you don’t, and Not at the expense of you, and Don’t fucking crash at all. Atsumu’s stolen a few more through coin tosses on rooftops and kisses against the apartment walls, but there’s something missing. Something Sakusa’s keeping a tight grip on, and Atsumu knows he won’t let it go easily.

“How good were ya?”

“There was no ranking system, if you’re trying to place me on a leader board.”

“Sounds to me like yer bein’ real humble about sayin’ ‘the best,’” Atsumu grins.

“Sounds to me like you’re trying to make yourself feel better about losing.”

Atsumu straightens and holds his hands up in surrender. “You can see right through me, huh?”

“I used to think it was difficult,” Sakusa says, and the once over he sends Atsumu is long and lingering. “But you’ve become embarrassingly transparent.”

Atsumu lowers his hands and resumes his lean over the counter, closer than before. He can smell the strong kick of Sakusa’s cologne, can see the path of moles marking the column of his throat and the fading bruise his teeth left at the base of it a few nights ago. “Yeah? Then what am I thinkin’ right now?”

Fingers find Atsumu’s chin and forcibly tilt his attention upward. “Something wholly inappropriate for our current situation, most likely.”

“Wow, you weren’t kiddin’. Maybe I should call someone about installin’ some curtains.”

Sakusa’s laugh is barely a breath, but it tickles Atsumu’s cheekbone and he feels it in his chest like the kick of alcohol he’s been denied.

“It’s the club,” Atsumu tries. “All these aphrodisiacs are doin’ things to my brain.”

“What brain?”

“The huge one that I definitely have.”

“Convincing.” Sakusa tilts his chin so far that Atsumu has no choice but to straighten and take a step backward.  

Once he balances himself, he glances down at the drink he can’t have, then up at the kiss he can’t steal, and beyond to the glass wall opposite that affords him a view of the dancefloor he can’t use.

Atsumu’s never attended a club or a party for fun. It’s only ever been work, since the moment he learned what the word meant, what it could do for him and Osamu. His childhood was spent surviving without parents, fighting to keep the roof over their heads from caving in. His youth was spent proving himself, climbing ranks and clawing his way to the top, and now he’s fighting to keep it all – his city, his pedestal, his life.

He doesn’t mean to ask it aloud, but it slips out anyway. “You ever think about what mighta happened?”

Sakusa looks at him with a question lingering behind his eyes. “If what?”

He rolls with his original line of thinking instead of changing it to something else at the last second. Sakusa’s opinions are always interesting. Always blunt and without any cloying coatings of sugar.

“If we weren’t Hunters. If we were ordinary,” he says with a nod towards the club floor, “like them. Say I was a super sexy lawyer and you were a super sexy businessman and we bumped into each other at a bar like this one. D’ya think we’d still…y’know?”

The question fades to a sharp answer. “I wouldn’t give a fuck about you if you were ordinary.”

Atsumu swallows, counts to five in his mind, and unpacks the thousands of layers to that one, simple line.

He sings his own praises often enough, boasts his high rank and superior skills on a daily basis, but hearing Sakusa tell him that the person he’s spent his whole life building is worth something, is someone more than ordinary, knocks the air from his lungs.

He waits for a follow up, for a quip that’ll belittle it or contradict it, but Sakusa doesn’t twitch.

“Sakamoto doesn’t seem to be in a rush, so humour me,” Atsumu says thickly as he walks around to the other side of the bar to sit in the seat next to Sakusa’s. “Let’s play a game. See if an ordinary me can’t charm ya.”

After pulling his chair a little closer, until their thighs are a breath away from touching, he says, “I think if I’d seen ya sittin’ here, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loose, I woulda ditched the friends I’d come with to talk to you.”

Sakusa turns slightly to face him. “Hunter or not, I wouldn’t be at a bar.”

Atsumu ignores him. “I’d start by askin’ ya what you were drinkin’.”

“I’d tell you nothing.”

“I’d say play along ya fuckin’ square.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “I’d tell you—” he tilts the bottle on the counter to read the label and grimaces “—Devil’s Climax.”

“Lawyer-Atsumu would know what that tastes like. I’d say, ‘That’s a good fuckin’ choice,’ then I’d buy two more, one for me, another for you.”

“I’d ask you if you were trying to send me to the hospital,” Sakusa says, still frowning at the label. “It’s 88% alcohol.”

Atsumu laughs. He tugs the bottle from Sakusa and slides it away. “I’d take it back and ask if you’d had a rough week crunchin’ numbers or buyin’ stocks or whatever the fuck it is business people do.”

That earns a raised eyebrow. “Would you?”

“I’d be tryin’ to get on your good side. ‘Course I fuckin’ would.”

“Then it’s Game Over,” Sakusa scoffs. “I’ve lost interest.”

Atsumu frowns. “What? Why?”

“That brand of insufferable doesn’t appeal to me.”

“So…what? Ya want me to skip to the part where I ask ya to come back to my place and hypothetically fuck the hypothetical stress outta my brain?”

“Hypothetical brain.”

Before Atsumu can threaten him, Sakusa lifts a hand to trace circles around the rim of the nearby glass with a fingertip. “Sounds slightly more interesting than talking about my bland week of fake work that you don’t really care about.”

“Slightly?”

Sakusa’s mouth quirks into a small smile. “Marginally.”

“I’d call ya a lyin’ bastard.”

“Fitting. Considering in your hypothetical scenario you didn’t bother to ask me my name.”

Atsumu opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Shit,” he says. “Uh. Lemme try again. Round Two.” He extends a hand for shaking. “Miya Atsumu,” he says with a grin. “Very successful and sexy lawyer. Probably a prodigy.”

Sakusa looks at his proffered hand. “This is a waste of time,” he says. “It’s not real and never will be.”

Atsumu knows that. He also knows that Sakusa’s a realist, that he deals in absolutes, but that doesn’t stop him from wiggling his fingers in encouragement. He says, “Maybe I wanna know you’d be interested no matter what universe we ended up in.”

“Against all odds and my better judgement, I like you in this one,” he says as his hand slips into Atsumu’s. “Isn’t that enough?”

Atsumu stops and stares at their linked hands. Sakusa hasn’t taken it in an ordinary shake. He’s resting his elbow on the bar counter and he’s forced Atsumu to do the same so that their fingers overlap – like an arm wrestle, but without the challenge.

He can’t remember the last time he held someone’s hand like this. He’s not sure he ever has, aside from the almost-hold at the Pac-Man machine; it’s always been occupied by a blaster.

“Honesty hours are back open, huh? That’s the first time you’ve actually said that,” Atsumu murmurs as he watches Sakusa’s thumb trace a soft line along his own. “That ya like me.”

Sakusa’s watching his own hand move too, a slight pull to his brows as though he’s just as surprised he’s doing it as Atsumu is. His voice is quiet and a little distant when he says, “It’s the aphrodisiacs.”

“Toldja they were strong.”

He can’t kiss him right now - they’re already skirting the line of distraction – but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it. If he could, Atsumu would press him up against the bar to catch his lips and he’d kiss him with the force of a thousand murmured This is enough’s that he’d blame on nothing but the fire in his chest. He wouldn’t stop until they were both breathless, until Sakusa pushed back and they fell onto the bed behind them.

Sakusa’s grip tightens. “If Sakamoto touches you like he did earlier,” he says. “If he goes too far and does something you don’t—”

“I’m a big boy, Omi.”

“So is Sakamoto,” he says with a frown. “I’ve dealt with people like him before. People who think they own the city and everyone in it. Nobody’s ever told him he can’t have something; he won’t ask permission, and he won’t stop if you deny him.”

Atsumu’s dealt with people like that before too – the wealthy purchase bounties more than anyone else in the city. He’s lost count of the people he’s brought back to office suites and penthouse apartments for the upper 5%. It’s never pleasant; Atsumu’s the one hunting them, and he somehow possesses more empathy.

He’s also dealt with Sakamoto before. Maybe not in the same context, but he’d been just as handsy then as he is now.

“I can handle him.”

Sakusa lowers his hand but Atsumu keeps his wrapped around it so that it covers Sakusa’s flat against the counter. He’s not ready to pop the bubble yet, not ready to lift the spell of quiet truths that probably won’t leave this room, or even this conversation.

“Everyone has their limits, Atsumu. I’m telling you it’s okay to have them. Especially now.”

It’s not a taunt, not a dig, not a trap to get Atsumu to admit a weakness. Sakusa’s serious.

“You know what you’re doing,” he continues. “I won’t intervene unless you tell me to, but I will the second you ask. I don’t care who he is or what he owns.”

“Ya can’t kill him,” Atsumu scoffs.

It would be beyond stupid to kill a man as high profile as Sakamoto. There are lists of people who have paid for exemption from Bounty Hunters. Sakamoto is at the top of it, and no favour from Sawamura would be sizeable enough to get them out of the trouble they’d be in if they broke that agreement.

Still, Sakusa finds his eye and holds it to say, “I will if I have to.”

Atsumu looks at him for a long time, at the calm set to his shoulders contradicting the hard resolve in his eyes. Something’s shifted between them tonight, Atsumu’s certain of it. It’s something small, something infinitesimal, but it’s something nonetheless and Atsumu feels it like another one of those axis tilts.

The disc key lets out a shrill series of beeps to announce the door unlocking, and it mercifully wrenches Atsumu out of his thoughts before he does something stupid.

They both stand and turn in time to watch the door opening. Kimura hovers in the entryway, a small smile on her face as she looks between them without helmets for the first time.

She’s changed out of the red blazer from earlier – it’s black now, and the blouse beneath it is gold silk.

“Apologies for the delay. Sakamoto-san is ready to see you,” she says. “If you’d like to follow me.” She turns on her heel to wait in the hallway and Sakusa starts to lead the way to the door.

Atsumu follows, but he breaks half way when he passes the bowls of lube and condoms. He takes a large handful of each and starts pushing them into the back pockets of his jeans.

When Sakusa turns to find out why Atsumu’s stopped, his grimace is withering. “Really?”

“What? If ya ever talk to me like that again I might need ‘em.” Atsumu winks as he catches up. “Gotta be prepared.”

They hallway lights have run through a cycle of gradients since they left it – the walls are a deep fuchsia as Kimura leads them along the soft carpets, and the song has changed to something heavy and slow.

“I didn’t get the chance to congratulate you earlier,” Kimura says, raising her voice over the music. “It was a fantastic race. Public reactions have skyrocketed.” She turns over her shoulder and offers another smile. “I think I speak for a lot of fans when I say I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with next.”

Atsumu’s not sure how much Kimura knows, if anything. He sticks to a vague, “Yeah. Thanks.”

She doesn’t speak the rest of the way. Atsumu keeps his hand ready and waiting to grab his blaster as they walk, ears on high alert for any sounds that aren’t their own footsteps.

An elevator takes them up to the topmost floor, and it’s like stepping into another building entirely. It resembles an official upper city interior – marble floors, tall ceilings, crystal cores embedded in the chandeliers.

Kimura stops them outside a door of dark mahogany. With quick fingers and another hand obscuring them, she types a code into the nearby keypad and waits for the click that opens the lock.

She holds the door for them and gestures inside, but she doesn’t follow, and neither of them bother to thank her as they enter and leave her behind.

For a man as extravagant as Sakamoto, his office is minimal. It’s spacious and wide – larger than the dancefloor several floors below – the focal point being the statement wall of glass that overlooks the genuine upper city skyline as opposed to a digitally engineered one.

There’s no ambush waiting for them as far as Atsumu can tell, no army, no guards, no Director. Just Sakamoto sat behind a dark-wood desk. His feet are resting on the surface as he leans back in his chair, and there’s a crystalline tumbler of golden liquid hanging precariously from his fingertips.

Kimura wasn’t the only one to change clothes either – Sakamoto’s wearing a black suit too, with a gold shirt beneath that shimmers whenever he moves and an long gold earring to match.

“Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he says with a wide smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve been working non-stop since the race. So many potential investors begging for chances to work with Jackal already, yes?” He gestures to the seats in front of him. “Sit down. We can’t get to chatting if you insist on loitering in my doorway.”

Atsumu gives the room one last once over before he follows instruction and crosses the office to take a seat.

“Ah yes,” Sakamoto says as Atsumu slips into a chair. His eyes are bright as they roam Atsumu’s face. “There you are, my wildcard. Time’s been kind to both your skills and your looks it would seem. So handsome. It’s a shame racing requires helmets, hm? Maybe one day I’ll figure out a way around it.”

“Wish I could say the same ‘bout you,” Atsumu says with a smile. “Coulda sworn you were better lookin’.”

Sakusa settles in the chair next to his, but he tilts it slightly so that he can keep an eye on Sakamoto, Atsumu, and the door behind them.

“Your attitude remains unchanged. That’s good. I was worried during the interview that you’d lost some of your spark. You know I like you better feisty.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu raises a brow. “You like your criminal masterminds that way too, bossman?”

Sakamoto smiles and sits up to reach below his desk. He picks out another glass and pours a sizeable amount of whiskey from a decanter into it, then slides it across the surface towards Atsumu.

“There’s no one quite like you,” he says, raising his glass. “A toast, to an unforgettable race. Third place is no mean feat, but I’m certain you’d have won it all had I not burdened you with limitations.”

Atsumu echoes the toast to himself with a nod, but while Sakamoto ends his with a sip of the drink, Atsumu hands his off to Sakusa and watches him drop it against the marble floor with a loud smash.

Sakamoto clicks his tongue. “Awfully rude of you to keep turning down my generous offerings of hospitality, after I’ve gone to such great lengths to keep you both safe these last few weeks.”

Atsumu hums and tilts his head. Sakusa was right; he lets himself relax. “Sounds like a conflict of interests.”

“My sole interest is speedracing,” Sakamoto says. “I may be…testing the waters of other ventures, but this - my racers, my stadium, my sport - will always come first.” He looks down into his tumbler and swirls the whiskey around in contemplation. “Imagine my excitement when I discovered that my interest and my business gamble were beginning to converge.”

“The qualifier?” Atsumu confirms.

“Of course. The second you took off from the start line I had my suspicions. I didn’t want to believe it at first, didn’t want to raise my hopes too high that my wildcard had finally returned.” He looks up and catches Atsumu’s eye to take another long sip of his drink. “By the third lap I knew it could be nobody but you. Your style is very distinct. There’s a hunger to everything that you do, every corner you round, every jump you land. You demand attention, and I have a lot to give you, Jackal.”

“Too bad I don’t want it, huh?”

Sakamoto’s mouth twists. “No, you’re too busy playing silly games with that pathetic waste of time and coin.”

“I’d say I was sorry about the damages, but that would be a fuckin’ lie. We’re still not done collectin’ reparations for the holes your money helped put into us.”

“That should never have happened,” Sakamoto says tersely, and the smile that’s been on his face since Atsumu walked in finally drops to a glare. “Had I known you’d been running around as a Bounty Hunter all this time, I would have put a swift stop to it. You aren’t supposed to be decorating yourself with scars in filthy alleyways, Atsumu. You’re supposed to be on podiums, holding my trophies. You were born to race for me.”

Atsumu’s face twists. “I know what I was born for,” he snaps. “This ain’t it.”

Sakamoto’s frown relaxes as he lets out a placated hum. “Though it pains me to admit it, I will acknowledge that your skill is transferable to whatever you put your mind to. When I found out you were the one causing my…other investment all those teething pains I found myself growing excited, rather than mournful for my losses. I do love to bet on my racers, and you’ve always been the more thrilling choice.”

He stands from his seat and walks over to the window. Still nursing his glass of whiskey, he considers the skyline and says, “The man you call the Director came to me sometime last year. A desperate thing. Shunned, angry, a huge chip of humiliation on his shoulder. His story intrigued me. His plan even more so. The New City sounds fantastical, doesn’t it?”

Atsumu only knows of it what he heard from Hirugami, that it’s a criminal’s paradise. All he retained was that it’s a future in which the people he cares about aren’t safe. “No,” he says. “Not really.”

“You say that without having seen the blueprints, Atsumu. The lower city is in desperate need of attention, and midcity has grown stagnant. He wants to change that. He wants to make it all the more interesting. I like interesting. I had the spare money lying around; I was happy to humour him.

“And he delivered on his promises too, at first. He secured fantastic minds across the sectors to create weapons for his machinations, amassed an army of unruly gangs to do his bidding, and planted a mole in the highest division of the police force. It all happened impressively fast. For months his progress reports were glowing; then things started to go wrong when – mercifully – his minions failed to kill you.”

“Geez, I thought I could talk.” Atsumu fakes a yawn and it expands into a real one. He stretches his arms behind his head and pushes his chair out a little so he has enough room to kick his feet up onto Sakamoto’s desk. “I’m gettin’ real bored of all the yappin’, Masaaki. I’ve got good reason to get home before sunrise. Can we hurry this up?”

Something passes over Sakamoto’s face when Atsumu uses his given name. It’s not anger, like it should be at the blatant show of disrespect, but something that puts a dangerous glint in his eye.

“You want answers from me, Atsumu,” he says with amusement. “I am attempting to give them to you.”

“I want ones I don’t already have.”

“Then why don’t you try asking one?”

It’s their job to cut the last ties tethering the Director’s plan to the ground during this meeting. Sakamoto’s already seems frayed; if Atsumu can convince him that the Director is a lost cause, he’ll have little to nothing left to fight with, and desperate men always stumble.

“Fine,” Atsumu says. “You can start by tellin’ me why the fuck you’re still givin’ that idiot money to kill us.”

Sakamoto turns around and starts walking back towards his desk. “Would you be here if not for him?” he asks. “Would you have returned to your rightful place on the tracks had you not been attempting to seek me out for my involvement?”

“Fuck no.” Atsumu would have happily continued his life as a Hunter without sparing speedracing a second thought before this.

“Precisely. I am continuing to play along because it puts me in your circle. You are here because I want you to be, because I made it happen.” Sakamoto doesn’t return to his seat. He continues walking and perches himself on the edge of the desk, right next to Atsumu’s obnoxiously placed feet. “The Director has failed me and my expectations one too many times, and you have done nothing but exceed them.”

A hand finds Atsumu’s leg and trails up to his knee. “I have made arrangements so that he doesn’t know you’re the one behind the helmet. He doesn’t know you are here now. He doesn’t know what I am about to offer you.”

Atsumu watches carefully. “Unless it’s his precise coordinates, I’m not interested.”

Sakamoto squeezes his knee, and Atsumu bites down the pain that blossoms there as his fingers press unknowingly into the bruises beneath the black denim. “I can certainly arrange that information for you my precious wildcard. But you have to make it worth my while, yes? You have to give me something I consider more valuable than seeing the New City come to fruition.”

“If it involves me gettin’ on my back and screamin’ your ugly fuckin’ mouthful of a name, the tree you’re lookin’ to bark up is in a whole ‘nother park.”

“How tempting,” Sakamoto says, eyes darkening, hand inching higher.

Atsumu hears the distinct sound of Sakusa loosening a blade from his sheath, but he doesn’t make any moves to threaten him. There’s a part of Atsumu’s brain that wants to give him permission, to see what he might do, but he holds it back. Sakamoto seems agreeable enough for now.

“However, I was thinking something more long term,” Sakamoto continues. “Trade one utopia for another.”

His hand leaves Atsumu to reach behind him and retrieve a tablet, and Sakusa’s arm shifts to put the knife back. The device Sakamoto hands Atsumu is open on a digital document, a contract, he realises as he sits up to scan the words.

“This again,” Atsumu sighs with a rolling of his eyes. He hands the tablet off to Sakusa, and Sakusa drops it onto the floor alongside the smashed whiskey glass.

“Yes,” Sakamoto says, eyeing Sakusa with obvious disdain, “this again. Answer me something, Atsumu. Brief as it may have been, did you enjoy your time racing?”

Of course Atsumu had enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed it so much that he’d forgotten it was work, that he’d been in danger. Riling the other racers up was fun, feeling the excitement of the high speeds was exhilarating, the competition made his blood sing.

But it had only been fun because it wasn’t genuine, because his Sponsor was Sakusa. Real speedracing is stifling – there are too many limitations, too many exhausting expectations to meet. The racers had solidified that the moment Sakamoto walked in and they tucked their tails between their legs.

“Of course you did,” Sakamoto says before Atsumu can answer. “You know what makes it tick. Just look at what you achieved in one race! I thought Wakatoshi had lost his enthusiasm for the sport, but tonight I saw the real Eagle; Tooru pushed himself harder than he ever has; Tatsuki attempted to climb, and it’s all thanks to you. Your unpredictability draws out their full potential, Atsumu. You have to continue to race for me. I won’t take no for an answer this time.”

“Or what? You gonna pull an ‘if I can’t have ya no one can’?”

“I wouldn’t harm you.” Sakamoto stands again and places himself between Atsumu’s legs. His hand cups Atsumu’s cheek and his thumb traces the shiny burn scar on his cheekbone. “And I won’t repeat the same mistake as last time. This contract allows you complete freedom. No matter how much I despise it, you will still have your life of Hunting, but you will also have an open invitation to race whenever you please. You’ll be the ultimate obstacle, the wildcard no racer can prepare for. The crowd will crave you just as I do.”

It sounds pretty. Prettier than what he’d offered last time. Atsumu would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted. Whenever he wants the adrenaline kick he can rock up to the stadium and take it out on the tracks, he can taste speedracing without committing or feeling like he’s existing on a leash. Not to mention the prize of learning the Director’s whereabouts as a result.

“Kimura and I will take care of your Sponsor’s duties,” Sakamoto continues. “Branding, interviews, merchandise. All you will need to do is show up and race. I know that’s all you care about. That’s all I care about. A win-win for the both of us, no? You get your Director, and I finally get my speedracing utopia. My Jackal.”

Atsumu bats Sakamoto’s hand away and glances over at Sakusa. “Whatcha think, Omi?”

“I think it sounds like the perfect solution to all of our problems,” he says without inflection. There’s a slight hitch of intrigue to his brows, however, because they both know that the job’s as good as done if Sakamoto’s telling the truth.

A smile spreads across Atsumu’s face as he turns back to Sakamoto. “Too fuckin’ perfect, yeah?”

“You are right to be sceptical. I don’t blame you.” Sakamoto returns to his side of the desk and sits down. “How’s this?” he says as he pours himself another glass of whiskey. “I will be generous – you can have some time to think about it, and I will give you something to level the playing field and prove my sincerity.”

“Like what?”

“A precise date, perhaps? For the Director’s coup.”

Atsumu sits up. “That shit’s on a schedule?”

“A very particular one,” Sakamoto laughs. “These sorts of things require careful planning.” He leans back and resumes the position he was in when they walked into his office – feet up on the desk, glass hanging from his fingers. Only this time, the pointer finger of his free hand bounces back and forth like the ticking beat of a metronome. “Wednesday,” he says. “That’s how long you have until the dawning of the New City.”

Atsumu turns to Sakusa again and there’s a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth as he drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. It’s his thinking face, Atsumu’s learned. He’s probably come to the same realisation that Atsumu has: that there’s only one solution in the form of a dotted line and a signed name.

“I’ll have Kimura send over the details of the contract and a private number you can contact me on. Mull it over as you need, Jackal. I’ve waited long enough for you, what’s a day more?”

“And if I refuse?”

Sakamoto’s smile is all-knowing. “We both know that’s not going to happen.” He nods towards the door. “Go on. The sooner you reach the inevitability of your conclusion, the sooner you’ll come back to me, yes? Once you’ve finally come to your senses, the coordinates you asked for will be ready and waiting. Unless, of course, you’d like to stay and enjoy my club a little longer? By all means, make yourself comfortable. You’re safe here, Jackal. This is your home now.”

“Guess I’m keepin’ the uniform a little longer then, huh?” Atsumu says as the doors to the elevator close. “You still gonna cheer me on?”

He’s already worked out that refusing Sakamoto and attempting to prepare blindly for coup that’s happening in four days’ time would be a fool’s errand. They know next to nothing about how or where the coup will start; there’s no rule book or step-by-step guide on how to prevent disaster. They also can’t be in several places at once, and with such a narrow timeframe, the only way to take the Director out without incurring civilian casualties, is to accept the charity of Sakamoto’s promised coordinates.

Atsumu can’t find a fault in the terms either – Sakamoto must have mastered the art of compromise, just for him. He’ll have to comb the fine print – or send it to Aran or Akaashi and have them read it for him – but he’s certain he’s the one benefitting. He’ll get to race and Hunt. Suna will probably explode.

“Perhaps I will from the comfort of my Rank One pedestal,” Sakusa muses. “You’ll be so distracted racing that overtaking you will be child’s play.”

“You fuckin’ wish, amateur. I’m real good at multi-taskin’.”

“No you aren’t.”

“Yeah I am.”

“You really aren’t, Atsumu.”

The doors open and they step out into the red hallway of private booths again. “I really fuckin’ am, Omi. I could race circles round ya and still—Oh, Jesus.” Atsumu stops suddenly and holds a hand up to block Sakusa’s eyes from seeing what’s transpiring further down the hallway. “That’s goin’ in the tell-all too: The Grand King’s a filthy exhibitionist.”

Oikawa’s got Iwaizumi pressed against the wall, lips on his exposed neck, one hand resting on his open-shirt chest, the other working open the buttons of his jeans. He doesn’t bother to move his mouth from Iwaizumi when he hears Atsumu’s voice, but he does groan loudly enough that it’s audible over the distant club music.

Iwaizumi sends them a sheepish wave.

“You again,” Oikawa says, voice a little unsteady with inebriation. “You took my win away from me and now you’re going to stop me from—Oh.” He stills when he finally moves his gaze from Iwaizumi and settles it on Atsumu. “That’s frustrating. I was hoping your face would be as incurably ugly as your personality.” He rests his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Iwa-chan, my woes are never-ending!”

“Get used to it pretty boy. My next pity project is helpin’ Mad Dog to win, or maybe if I feel like a real challenge I’ll get Fury Falcon outta last place.”

Iwaizumi runs a hand through Oikawa’s hair and settles Atsumu with a look. “I watched the race back. You could have taken first today but you held off at the last second. Why?”

“Ah, that’s an easy one, Hajime-kun,” Atsumu says with a wink. “S’cause that woulda been borin’.”

“I’m going to hit him,” Oikawa says.

It’s subtle, but Atsumu notices the quick dart of Iwaizumi’s eyes in Sakusa’s direction. “No you’re not.”

“I am,” he insists. “I don’t care what Sakamoto says. Some people deserve to get hit, Iwa-chan. He’s one of them.”

“Hear, hear,” Sakusa mutters.

Atsumu laughs and moves to walk past them. “See ya when I see ya, scrubs,” he says, pulling a condom from his back pocket and tossing it Iwaizumi’s way. He pauses for a second, then adds, “Maybe stay inside this week, yeah? Heard the weather’s gonna be real bad.”

They walk back the way they came in – down the spiral staircase, through the bar, and past the dancefloor. The masked guards don’t pay them so much as a second glance, and the only thing that assaults them as they leave, is the burst of cold night air against their skin as they step out of the club untouched.

Atsumu climbs into the passenger seat again for the drive home. He calls Akaashi and finds that Kimura sent the contract information across to him whilst they were still talking with Sakamoto.

“It looks fine,” Akaashi tells him. “You are required to participate in a minimum of three races and one interview a month, but those are the only limitations he’s set you. You’re free to keep the Jackal moniker, your bike, and your Hunting licence. You are allowed to race in whichever league you desire, and you are not required to warn him of your participation in advance. Sakusa-kun is also permitted entry to the stadium and the Sponsor box if he so wishes.”

“That’s it? No hidden meanings? No loopholes? No secret clauses that’ll steal my soul or my firstborn child?”

“Not that I can see. I’ll re-read it a further ten times to be sure. I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

Atsumu lingers on the phone with Kuroo for a while longer, and he puts it on speaker so that Sakusa can join in as they recount their conversation with Sakamoto. Kuroo compliments them for their work, and enters Bounty Officer Dad Mode as he warns them upwards of twenty times not to do anything else tonight and to wait for the team to assemble tomorrow.

When they get back to the apartment Atsumu makes an instant beeline for the kitchen to fix himself a glass of water, and Sakusa leans against the table behind him instead of wandering off to his room.

“Guess we’re endin’ it this week, huh?” Atsumu asks over the sound of running water.

“One way or another,” Sakusa agrees. “You’re okay with the contract?”

Atsumu shrugs as he chugs half the glass. “Don’t really have a choice, but I guess it’s not so bad. Coulda been way worse. Sakamoto coulda had me on a real leash.” Sakusa frowns and opens his mouth to say something but Atsumu cuts him off. “S’fine. I’m a super sexy lawyer. I’ll find a way out of it if I get bored.”

“You mean Ojiro-san will find a way out for you.”

Atsumu grins over the rim. “Or maybe I’ll hire an assassin. Contracts don’t mean shit to dead men. You do discounts?”

“For you? No.”

“Tch. Stingy bastard.”

A content silence finds them both, and Atsumu’s smile doesn’t fade as he lets his head tip back to rest against a cabinet door, because for the first time since this whole thing started, it finally feels as though they’ve found some semblance of control. They know something the Director doesn’t, they’re holding their own hand of cards now instead of trying to peek at someone else’s.

An end feels tangible. A victory. The Director has nothing left, and even if Sakamoto’s deal falls through, Wednesday will see Atsumu’s city return to normal. Thursday, he’ll put on his jacket, walk into the Bounty Office, and Kuroo will be waiting to hand him an A-Grade. Maybe he’ll bump into Sakusa in the hallway. Maybe he’ll get pinned against it again and maybe this time Sakusa will kiss him while he steals the disc in his pocket.  

“What are you drinking?” Sakusa breaks the silence to ask.

Atsumu frowns at the odd, obvious question, but when he opens his eyes and catches a glimpse of the look Sakusa’s sending him, realisation washes over him quickly and settles low in his gut.

“Non-poisoned water,” he says, holding up the glass and drinking a little more.

“I hear that’s a good choice. Let me buy you another one.” Sakusa straightens out of his lean against the table and takes the half-finished glass from Atsumu’s hand. He empties it down the sink, finds his own glass from the cupboard beside Atsumu’s head, then fills them both.

Atsumu watches every move he makes, from the turning of the tap, to the gentle slide of the glass atop the kitchen counter. He also watches Sakusa’s throat shift as he swallows, watches the slight movement of his tongue as he collects the excess water off his lips.

“This is the part where ya ask me ‘bout my week.”

Sakusa puts his glass down. He steps closer, and Atsumu puts his down too before he drops it.

“Atsumu,” he says, voice low as he places a gentle hand at the back of Atsumu’s neck. His fingers are cold from holding the water, and a shiver rolls across Atsumu’s skin as Sakusa guides his face closer.

“Hm?”

“I don’t give a fuck about your week,” Sakusa says before he covers Atsumu’s mouth with his own.

Kissing Sakusa always seems to feel like a relief, like every moment they aren’t, Atsumu’s building tension and waiting for the chance to release it into a gratified sigh against his lips.

He’d wanted to kiss him so badly at the bar that it’s impossible to stop the dam from breaking now; Atsumu kisses him back like it’s the last time he ever will.

The desperation of it has him fisting his hands in the soft silk of Sakusa’s shirt, has him pushing until Sakusa takes the hint and starts stumbling backwards out of the kitchen.

Atsumu can allow himself this. Another stolen moment of time. This isn’t like earlier where he’d had to hold himself back because of the impending uncertainty of their situation. In the safety of the apartment with victory on the horizon Atsumu can be as selfish as he likes. The plan was a success and Kuroo’s put him under strict orders to take the night off. He intends to.

They stop against the nearest living room wall when Atsumu drives Sakusa into it so hard he hears the blaster holster thudding against the plaster. Sakusa curls a fist into Atsumu’s hair as he drops his mouth to the skin he’s been eyeing all night. He kisses the path of moles from Sakusa’s jaw to the junction of his throat and shoulder, then he finds his way back up to his ear to say, “It’s too bad that ya don’t care, y’know. I’ve had a really rough time at work.”

Sakusa’s breath hitches quietly when Atsumu’s teeth catch his skin. “Yeah?”

Atsumu hums affirmation against his jaw. “The worst. Bein’ a super sexy lawyer is exhaustin’.”

Their next kiss is open-mouthed– teeth and tongues and quickened breaths– and Atsumu doesn’t notice that Sakusa’s been unbuttoning his shirt until deft fingers loosen the last button and it falls open.

Another shiver wracks him as Sakusa reverses their positions and his hands ghost the skin of his side. He smooths over his ribs and chest, then Atsumu’s mouth falls open around a quiet sound as Sakusa’s thumb circles his nipple.

“Do you want to come back to my place so I can fuck the stress out of your brain?” he asks.

Atsumu laughs into another kiss, the question setting his nerves alight, increasing in intensity the lower it travels. He dips his hands into Sakusa’s back pockets to pull their bodies flush against one another. “I think if ya don’t do somethin’ I might lose my next case.”

“That would be really bad for your reputation,” Sakusa says as he presses a knee between Atsumu’s thighs. “And your client that definitely exists.”

“Real fuckin’ bad, Omi,” Atsumu says, knocking the back of his head against the wall as Sakusa presses harder. “Shit.”

Atsumu loses his shirt entirely as they stumble towards the hallway, but Sakusa doesn’t bother to unbuckle the holsters across Atsumu’s chest and waist; he tugs the switchblade and blaster from the pockets and lets them fall with dull thumps against the carpet before letting his hands roam.

Despite Sakusa offering his place, it’s Atsumu’s room that they end up falling into. The light flickers on when Atsumu hits it with a blind hand, and he tries not to think about how messy it is as the backs of his knees hit the bed and he falls onto the sheets.

“Do we need to stop and call a fumigator first?” Sakusa asks as he watches Atsumu scoot back to make room for him.

It’s not that bad - a few empty snack packets on the desk, a few shirts and socks strewn across the carpet. The sheets are clean. Probably. His old apartment was far worse. Atsumu doesn’t fucking care.

“Not unless you’re invitin’ ‘em to join in.”

Sakusa scoffs and climbs onto the bed. He hovers over Atsumu with one hand holding his weight up, and the other cupping Atsumu’s jaw to lead him into another kiss.

“Can’t say I’d like it though,” Atsumu murmurs on an exhale. He lifts his hands to Sakusa’s shirt and attempts to start undoing the row of buttons with clumsy fingers. “You know I’m not very good at sharin’.”

“No,” Sakusa agrees. He pushes himself up onto both hands to watch in amusement as Atsumu struggles. “God forbid you possess a positive personality trait.”

“You’re one to talk.” Atsumu scowls at his own uncooperative hands. “You’re watchin’ these buttons kick my ass and doin’ fuckin’ nothin’ to help. Heartless bastard.”

“Maybe I like watching you struggle.”

“You could watch me do a whole lot more if you hurry up and take yer fuckin’ clothes off, buttercup.”

Sakusa bats both of Atsumu’s hands away and makes quick work of unbuttoning it himself with just one. There’s a gripe about showboating lingering in the back of Atsumu’s throat but it dies there; he’s infinitely more preoccupied helping Sakusa shrug the shirt off and throw it away.

It’s not the first time he’s seen Sakusa shirtless – he’s achieved it before during their heated moments around the apartment – but Atsumu lets his gaze linger longer this time, on lithe muscles and broad shoulders, on the moles marking smooth skin and the puckered flesh of a blaster shot scar.

It’s a crime, Atsumu thinks, that Sakusa hides it all beneath ugly jackets. It makes him want to start up a new battle once the one with the Director is finished; he’ll vow to find every goddamn piece of neon nylon and destroy it before Sakusa can put it on.

For now, his eyes drop to the black fabric encasing Sakusa’s arms, the sheaths that stop a sliver short of his elbows.

Sakusa follows his gaze and moves to take them off, but Atsumu reaches out and stops him. “No,” he says. “Keep ‘em on.”

He looks up to find Sakusa’s eye, and finds a raised brow. “There are knives in them, Atsumu. Very sharp ones.”

“Yeah, I know,” Atsumu hums. “That’s kinda hot.”

“Accidentally stabbing you would be a slight mood killer. It would also be extremely difficult to explain to both Kuroo and Osamu.”

Atsumu grins. “So don’t accidentally stab me, scrub.”

Maybe he needs to address the part of himself that finds excitement in knowing Sakusa could kill him, the part that imagines Sakusa’s knife at his throat and finds the fabric of his jeans growing tighter. But he can’t find the time to care right now, not when Sakusa’s lips are on his again, moving with a new urgency that probably says a lot about how his brain works too.

Sakusa lifts Atsumu’s hips and pulls the condoms and lube out of his back pockets before they both shirk off their jeans and underwear.

The moment Sakusa resettles above him Atsumu reaches between his legs and wraps a hand around his hardened cock, stroking slowly a few times to hear the sweet noises escaping Sakusa’s lips. “Sounds like you’re findin’ this way more than just marginally interestin’.”

Sakusa hums, forehead resting against Atsumu’s, breaths hot against his cheek, hips twitching when Atsumu rubs his thumb over the tip. “I’d say you’ve raised it to a solid moderately fascinating.”

Atsumu reaches around the sheets with his free hand until he finds a lube packet, then flicks it at Sakusa’s cheek. “You do better.”

Sakusa does do better but Atsumu would be a fool to complain; the lube is warm when Sakusa presses a finger into him, courtesy of all that time sitting in Atsumu’s back pocket.

Sakusa nudges his knees further apart and adds another finger to his pumped rhythm, leaning down to kiss quiet the noises Atsumu can’t keep from tumbling past his lips.

“Shit,” he groans between breaths. He can’t see what Sakusa’s doing, but his whole body tenses and reacts to each twist and curl of his fingers, each wet sound and slow stroke of his free hand on Atsumu’s cock. “That’s good. What the fuck are your hands made of?”

“If I had to hazard a guess I’d say the intelligence you lack,” he says as he adds another finger.

“Y’know what? Fuck you. I’m sayin’ such nice things ‘bout ya Kiyoomi, and all you’ve got for me is—ah!” Atsumu jolts when Sakusa curls his fingers and an unexpected spike of pleasure wracks his body. It screws his eyes shut and tears a low moan from his chest as his hips stutter and his back arches to chase the feeling.

“I suppose your loud mouth is good for something,” Sakusa offers as he keeps the pressure there for a little while longer, cutting coherency from Atsumu’s vocabulary. “You make pretty noises when your brain isn’t responsible for them.”

“And you were a lot nicer when you were blamin’ yer feelin’s on the aphrodisiacs.”

Sakusa curls his fingers again and another strangled sound escapes him. One hand fists the sheets, and the other reaches up to tighten in Sakusa’s curls and bring his face close.

Sakusa stops just shy of meeting his lips and quickens the strokes of his hand. “This isn’t nice?”

Everything you do is nice, Atsumu thinks as his toes curl and his gut burns and his chest feels like it’s about to cave in beneath the weight of his own breath.

“Ah, fuck. Yeah. That is. That’s real fuckin’ nice. You’re not.”

“Do you want me to be?”

Atsumu thinks about it for a second, about a Sakusa that whispers sweet nothings and smiles like he’s living in a sonnet. It doesn’t fit. All Atsumu’s brain wants him to remember are the knives attached to his wrists and the low, sultry tone of his voice when he spouts the usual nasty shit that riles him up to no end.

And maybe he gets it now, that line Sakusa said earlier at the bar. Maybe he wouldn’t give a fuck about Sakusa either if he wasn’t the person he is right now. Maybe they only work because they found each other at their best, because they’re running at the same pace, because they get each other.

“No,” he says. “But I do want ya to hurry the fuck up.” He checks his wrist for the time upon a watch that doesn’t exist. “We only have ‘til Wednesday.”

Because he’s an asshole, Sakusa smiles against his mouth and says, “Hurry what up?”

“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

“Those are your words, remember that. I certainly will.”

Atsumu scoffs. “You need me to spell it out, rookie?”

“Yes.” Sakusa removes his fingers and Atsumu bites down a whine at the loss. “I want to hear you say it, Atsumu.”

Atsumu tips his head back and pinches his eyes closed. “Oh, fuck. You keep a record of everythin’ I say just so you can say it back hotter? You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me one of these days, Omi.”

Sakusa laughs at that, a real one that catches Atsumu a little off guard. “If only it was that simple,” he says, and Atsumu hears the rustling of a foil packet as Sakusa tears it open, and another as he slicks himself with more lube.

He moves Atsumu’s knees wider and lines himself up before he says, “I didn’t hear you say it.”

“What?” Atsumu hooks his legs around Sakusa’s waist and encourages him. “That I want you to fuck me? I already did. I said hurry the fuck up and stop torturi—Oh. Fuck. Shit. Okay,” Atsumu barely manages to groan, voice tight as Sakusa simultaneously pushes in and wrenches his wrists above his head to restrain them there.

Atsumu’s moan is more of a sigh, a contradictory wash of relief and building of new tension. Sakusa’s breaths are hot against his mouth as he leans in to kiss him and start up a slow cadence of thrusts. His hand is uncompromising on Atsumu’s wrists too, and Atsumu can feel the weight of the knives upon his skin, a threat that spikes arousal through him with a flinch.

Sakusa’s mouth takes him apart, and every time Atsumu thinks about asking him to go faster or harder or deeper, Sakusa knocks the breath out of him with pre-emptive compliance, quickening his pace or changing his angle or wrapping his hand around Atsumu’s cock to stroke in time with his hips.

He forgets about restraining Atsumu’s hands after a while. The pressure fades and Atsumu watches with rapt attention as Sakusa’s guise of indifference shatters, as his breaths come faster, as his neck flushes and they both climb. Atsumu grips the back of Sakusa’s neck to keep kissing him – messy and open-mouthed - because he’s certain he’ll never tire of his mouth or the taste of his tongue.

When he forgets how to do that, he rests his mouth near Sakusa’s ear and lets nonsense spill from his lips – praise, moans, and a thousand broken Kiyoomis that’ll never leave this room. There are no insults on Sakusa’s tongue as he grips Atsumu’s thighs, just the bruising strength of his fingers to add to the collection of bitten skin and racing injuries.

“Omi, fuck, I’m real close,” he chokes out.

“Yeah?”

Atsumu’s response is a strangled sound as Sakusa keeps his pace, hips snapping with slaps of skin, wrist working fast strokes until Atsumu feels his breaths coming shorter.

Then something cold touches his throat, and Atsumu’s breath hitches into a whine because Sakusa’s holding a knife to it.

“Transparent,” Sakusa says. He’s trying his best to sound unaffected, but Atsumu can hear the strain in his voice. There’s a glint in his eye too, and a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“Nah,” Atsumu says thickly. “I think you’re the only one that knows me like this.”

Sakusa holds his eye, something lingering behind his expression that Atsumu can’t name. He presses the knife a little closer, tight against Atsumu’s skin. Enough to feel the weight, but not enough to hurt or draw blood.

It would be so easy for him to press it deeper, Atsumu thinks, to make good on the endless threats. It would also be just as easy for him to slip up and hurt Atsumu accidentally, and yet Sakusa doesn’t let either of those eventualities happen. He knows the exact pressure to apply to keep Atsumu breathing and tip him over the edge.

The blade disappears as Atsumu’s head tips back and his back arches and the light behind his closed eyes grows to a blinding white. His orgasm hits him like a blaster shot to the gut, spilling over his own abdomen and Sakusa’s chest hovering over him. Its intensity rips a guttural sound from his throat and has him clutching at Sakusa’s back, digging hard nails into his skin.

Sakusa follows close behind, the familiar sound of his peak finding Atsumu’s ear as he rides out his own orgasm and strokes Atsumu through his.

Atsumu kisses him as he comes down, assured and steady and certain that whatever the fuck is happening between them - whatever they’re calling it – it’s the strongest Atsumu’s ever felt about anything in his life. The Earth has fallen of its axis entirely.

Sakusa falls down next to him after throwing the condom somewhere amongst the trash in Atsumu’s room. They lie there, staring at the ceiling, breaths uneven, faces flushed.

“Best sex I’ve ever had,” Atsumu says as he reaches out and ruffles Sakusa’s hair.  “Great job, buddy.”

Sakusa loosens a blade from its sheath and holds it out to Atsumu’s throat again, but the threat is weak. “Don’t you ever fucking call me that again.”

“I’ll leave ya a stellar review on Yelp, my good pal.”

“Atsumu,” he warns.

Atsumu tilts his head to the side to catch Sakusa’s glare and leans towards the knife. Immediately Sakusa retracts it, and Atsumu throws his head back to laugh. He closes his eyes and smiles, listening to Sakusa’s breaths as they even out alongside his own.

The next time he opens his eyes and turns, Sakusa’s watching him. There’s another one of those unreadable expressions on his face as his eyes search Atsumu for something. Atsumu’s not sure what it is, but he lets him look for a while without interrupting.

It’s only when Sakusa’s gaze falls to his lips that Atsumu quirks them into a knowing smile. Sakusa looks up, then he pushes himself up onto his elbow to lean in, cup Atsumu’s jaw, and pull him in for a kiss.

It’s gentle. Probably the gentlest they’ve ever been with each other. Maybe he’ll think about that later when he can think about anything at all.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” Sakusa mutters against his mouth.

Atsumu smiles. With certainty, he says, “Probably the same as what you’re doin’ to me.”

Sakusa huffs a laugh and kisses him once more before he pulls away and says, “I’m going to shower.”

Atsumu falls back against the bed and watches him get up. “You comin’ back?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

“I’ll be going to a room that isn’t actively lowering my life expectancy. You can continue to roll in your own filth here, or you can shower and come to mine.”

Atsumu perks up. “Thought ya said I wasn’t allowed to shower with ya.”

“You aren’t. You can wait your fucking turn.”

He does wait his turn, but only because he can’t find the strength to move himself from his bed.

The shower he does end up taking is a cold one, and it sobers him somewhat. It also sees the return of pain to his muscles as the adrenaline-mixed medication wears off in a sore reminder of the stunt he pulled during the race.

There’s already a glass and a new box waiting for him on the kitchen counter when he returns there to top himself up. He takes them and waits for the aches to start subsiding again, then he finds his phone and lets himself into Sakusa’s room.

Like Atsumu he’s clothed again, wearing a clean t-shirt and sweats as he lies back and scrolls through something on his phone. His hair is still damp and his skin is still flushed from the heat of the shower. He’s taken the knives out of their sheaths and placed them on the bedside table along with his blaster.

“Wait,” Atsumu says, looking around with a frown. “Where’s your coffin? Thought we were gonna squeeze in there together.”

Sakusa doesn’t bother to look up from his phone. “I’ll kick you out if you piss me off,” he says drily.

“Go ahead. I won’t notice,” Atsumu says. “I sleep like I’m dead.”

“Then maybe you should sleep somewhere else. The trial run might tempt me to make it permanent.”

“Sure,” Atsumu scoffs. He climbs in and throws himself down with an exaggerated sigh, stretching so that he knocks the phone out of Sakusa’s hand. “How’s your bed so much comfier?”

Sakusa kicks him. “Because it’s clean.”

“That can’t be it.”

“It is.”

“I think it’s ‘cause you’re in it, buttercup.”

His mouth twists. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“Why not? You tellin’ me you invited me into yer bed and we’re not gonna start cuddlin’?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. If you leave that side I’ll suffocate you.”

Atsumu hums acquiescence and makes himself comfortable, kicking his way beneath the covers and lying back against the extra pillows Sakusa must have stolen from one of the spare rooms.

“Oh?” Sakusa says with sarcastic surprise. “Have I finally found a threat that isn’t on your bingo card of masochistic kinks?”

“Nah. Pretty sure it’s you that’s the kink, Omi. If anyone else held a knife to my throat like that I’d put a bigger one in theirs.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel special?”

“Hope so.”

“Lucky me,” Sakusa says as he throws his phone onto the bedside table and flicks the light off.

Atsumu waits a few seconds, then says, “Y’know, I’m real scared of the dark, Omi.”

“Good.”

“You should hold my hand.”

“You should shut the fuck up.”

Atsumu snorts a laugh into the darkness. “What about the monsters under your bed? You need a big spoon to protect ya?”

“They prefer eviscerating the idiots on the left side. I’m fine.”

“That’s too bad.”

“So is the inevitability of whatever stupid thing you’re about to say next.”

“Wow,” Atsumu says around a yawn. “Was just gonna say g’night.”

There’s a silence. Then Sakusa shuffles a little closer so that Atsumu can feel the warmth of him nearby. A hand finds his face, a thumb smooths over his lip, and Sakusa’s mouth finds his in the darkness. It’s a short kiss by their standards, just a chaste, lingering meeting of lips.

When Sakusa pulls back, he says, “Goodnight,” and Atsumu lets out a pleased sound before closing his eyes and letting his exhaustion overwhelm him.

The shrill sound of Atsumu’s phone beeping next to his ear wakes him. Or maybe it’s Sakusa’s hand blindly shaking his shoulder as he grumbles, “Shut your phone up before I break it.”

The screen lights up again as a notification chirps in. The light blinds him for a moment, forcing his eyes into a pained squint. His sleep-addled brain vaguely processes the time: 5:45a.m.

Atsumu groans and pushes the phone beneath his pillow to ignore it. It’s probably a game notification from Suna or a message from Osamu about the meeting in the morning. They’re always up at odd hours – Atsumu usually is too.

He drops out of consciousness for a few seconds. Then his phone buzzes beneath the pillow and jolts him awake.

“Someone better be fuckin’ dead,” he says as he checks it again.

He blinks away his blurred vision for a few seconds, then he focuses on what the screen’s telling him: Four missed calls and ten messages from Kuroo.

The most recent one says check the news, so Atsumu frowns and opens the news app first before reading the rest.

It’s impossible not to immediately understand what Kuroo’s referring to. The story is the only thing dominating the front page. Atsumu’s stomach bottoms out as he reads the headline.

Sakamoto Masaaki found dead in Velocity Nightclub office. Police are currently searching for League One racer Jackal who they believe to be in direct connection with the crime.

“Uh, Omi,” he says as he sits up. “How’d ya say you liked your eggs in the mornin’? Totally fucked?”

Sakusa flicks the light on and his face is scrunched up in confusion. “What?”

Atsumu doesn’t explain. He hands over his phone and Sakusa blinks a few times, then frowns at the screen. His eyes snap into focus when he understands, and they dart up to meet Atsumu’s, wide with surprise.

The phone buzzes with an incoming call. Sakusa answers it and puts it on loudspeaker so Atsumu can ask, “What the fuck’s goin’ on?”

Kuroo’s voice comes in fast. “Sawamura called me as soon as it happened an hour ago. It must be the Director – media got a hold of it instantly. Sawamura says police are refusing to search for anyone but Jackal.”

“Looks like he found out about Sakamoto crossin’ him then, huh?” He runs an exasperated hand through his hair. “Shit. Fuck.”

He doesn’t want to think about how; the possibilities are endless.

But he does think about the very real fact that their information is lost. Their plan is fucked. Sakamoto’s dead.

He’d thought the Director might stumble having his sponsor cut, but this feels more like a trip down a flight of stairs into a vat of shit.

Nobody in their right mind would kill a man as high profile as Sakamoto Masaaki. But maybe the Director isn’t in any mind at all. Maybe he’s acting out. Maybe he’s going to stumble again.

At least they have until Wednesday to figure something out.

“That’s not all, Miya.”

Atsumu swallows and though he thinks he knows what Kuroo’s about to say, he still asks, “What?”

“The coup,” Kuroo says. “It’s started.”

Or not.
 

Chapter Text

They sit on stools at Kuroo’s bar while they wait for everybody to arrive. Atsumu calls Osamu to check that he and Aran are okay, then he calls Suna too and tells him to lock himself inside and bolt the doors shut.

Sakusa only calls one person. His cousin, Motoya, he explains after a clipped conversation consisting of “Are you safe?” several short hums, and a terse “I will.”

In the meantime, Atsumu scrolls the news, searching for updates on the carnage allegedly unfolding outside. No matter how many times he refreshes the feed, nothing changes. The only article to dominate the headlines is the one painting Jackal a murderer, and all Atsumu has managed to glean from that, is that Sakamoto was found shot dead in his office four hours after they left. There’s no evidence of Jackal’s involvement, no pictures to put him at the scene of the crime or eye witness accounts. Just the unwavering certainty that he’s to blame.

Bokuto and Kenma arrive first, windswept and clad in their stealth gear. They must have gone out to gather intel as soon as the news came in, but judging by their faces, they haven’t discovered much either.

“Guess the cat’s eaten the bag, huh?” Bokuto says with a small smile. He hasn’t had time to work through his usual hair routine; his trademark spikes are soft and breeze-tousled, falling into his eyes and forcing him to blink and shake strands away.

“That’s not how the saying goes,” Kenma mutters.

“Yeah. Think it’s safe to say the cat’s lost its fuckin’ marbles, Bokkun.”

Bokuto’s face twists into one of intense concentration. “How many marbles are we talking?”

Nobody can answer that. There could be a billion scattered across all three sectors of the city, or there could be one, expertly hidden like a needle in a haystack. Atsumu supposes it doesn’t really matter. However many there are, he’s going to find them and grind them down to a fine dust before the next sunrise.

It takes a further twenty minutes for everyone to assemble. Osamu and Aran show up, attached at the hip and in one piece as promised; Kuroo and Akaashi come bearing the gift of a billion laptops; Hoshiumi and Hirugami look bewildered, wearing knuckle dusters and dark hoodies; and Hinata and Kageyama wrestle their way inside and visibly deflate when they realise they weren’t the first.

Sawamura and his investigative partner Sugawara show up in their navy midcity uniforms too, hands busy with phones that don’t ever seem to stop buzzing with new alerts. Atsumu eyes them carefully as they join the outskirts of the crowd – Kuroo’s friends or not, police are police and Atsumu’s currently the most wanted man in the city.

The mood is tense and conversation is light as they wait for Aran and Akaashi to set up a row of laptops along the bar counter. They take some time analysing Aran’s surveillance cameras, flitting about each of the screens and watching different areas of the lower city as violence swarms its streets.

“From what I can tell, the coup is currently contained in the lower city,” Aran says eventually, nodding at the screen nearest him. “It hasn’t spread anywhere else yet.”

“That’ll be why nobody gives a fuck then,” Atsumu scoffs as he watches a mob smash the front windows of a shop.

No councils, officials, or presidents have cared about the goings on in the lower city since the plans to refurbish it were abandoned decades ago. It’s been left to fester and solve its own problems for as long as Atsumu can remember. They’re probably sitting in the safety of their fancy white-stone mansions thinking this’ll all blow over by the end of the week.

Aran shrugs agreeably. “If I had to guess, I’d say the Director is attemptin’ to gain back what people he lost by appealin’ to the lower city’s hatred of upper. The New City isn’t for them, but he’ll sell it to them in order to bulk up his numbers. It won’t be hard either. I know plenty of people who’d drop everythin’ for the chance to knock the upper city off its pedestal.”

Atsumu does too - the lower city’s inhabitants are far more likely to join the cause than sit back and cower. They know better than anyone that nobody is coming to help.

Kuroo taps his chin, then turns to Sawamura. “Does that match your information?”

There’s a lift of surprise to Sawamura’s brows as he nods at Aran and his laptops. “The gangs are using their trashing of the city to drum up sentiment. They’re planning to move the fight to midcity later today. However,” he sighs, running a hand over his face, “the part about reclaiming his numbers is inaccurate as of an hour ago. My Superior Officer – Hara-san – ordered the release of all the gang members and leaders I had in holding.”

Atsumu fights a groan. That was over twenty leaders and a further few dozen grunts. Violence is already bad – with them back on the streets it’ll worsen tenfold.

“What?” Hinata gawks. “The ones we caught for you? But that took us forever, Daichi-san!”

Sawamura shoots Hinata a sympathetic smile. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Director’s mole?” Kuroo asks.

“I’ve been suspicious of him for a while,” Sawamura confirms. “I’m pretty certain the Director bought him out at the start of this year. He’s been releasing prisoners and brushing crimes under the rug for months and nobody’s looked twice. The higher up you go, the less they care about that sort of thing.”

Atsumu had thought as much, and it checks out with what Sakamoto said. This all started with Daiju, the escaped death row convict stealing crystal cores. He wonders how many more are out there, and how many more have been released today alongside the gangs.

The clean-up after winning will be a ball-ache.

Sugawara sighs. “We’ve tried to apprehend gangs before – but every time we’d start investigating, Hara-san would threaten to fire us or saddle us with cases from other divisions as punishment. We had to pull in a favour from a neighbouring office to keep the recent detainments a secret, but I guess Hara-san found out somehow. Maybe we were being naïve. Maybe he knew all along.” He waves that thought off with a shake of his head. “Regardless, he used the Sakamoto case as a distraction and went behind our backs. There was nothing we could do.”

“Speakin’ of Sakamoto,” Atsumu says, straightening up and catching Sawamura’s eye. “You know anythin’ the media doesn’t?”

Sakusa straightens too and crosses his arms over his chest. They’re both eager to know just how much trouble they’re in, if they’ll be forced to hunt the Director with an army of uniformed officers weighing them down.

“Only a little,” Sawamura says with a shrug. “Calls usually come in through the main office, but that one went straight to Hara-san. As soon as he finished talking he told everyone that the case was already solved – that Jackal was to blame. We questioned him, of course, but he refused answers.

“He said that you and your Sponsor were hiding out in the upper city, and that the entire force should scour the streets for you in a show of competence and proficiency. It’s all bullshit though. They’re not actively searching for you. They don’t even have your real name or a visual description. They’re looking for a helmet that doesn’t exist – it’s just an excuse to keep everyone busy while the coup starts.”

Atsumu frowns and looks to Sakusa. He turns to meet Atsumu’s eye, and the tug of his brows says he’s just as confused; the Director knows both of their names and what they look like. Why wouldn’t he expose them and make their lives difficult?

“Cases like this usually remain undisclosed to the public until they’re dealt with, but he went straight to the media with it,” Sugawara tags on. “By the time the city wakes up, Jackal murdering Sakamoto is all they’re going to talk about. They won’t spare a thought for what’s going on lower city. Not with that story dominating the headlines.”

“Wow,” Osamu whistles. “Smear campaign of the century. Jackal’s fucked.”

Atsumu winces. That much is true. In blaming Jackal, the Director hasn’t just killed Sakamoto – he’s killed Sakamoto’s sport, his dream, and his wildcard in one fell swoop. Atsumu’s not sure he’ll be able to race again without someone recognising him and throwing cuffs around his wrists.

Maybe ruining Jackal isn’t a punishment intended for Atsumu. Maybe it’s the final nail in Sakamoto’s coffin.

“The more important question is how the Director found out about Sakamoto’s betrayal,” Kuroo interrupts.

“It must have come from inside,” Aran says. “There are no cameras in that club – I checked.” He turns to Atsumu. “Think back, did anyone see you unmasked?”

Atsumu glances at Sakusa again, and this time he looks away immediately, leaving Atsumu to deal with the fallout of their carelessness. He bites down the bastard lingering on his tongue and stops his elbow from searching for Sakusa’s side.

“Kimura, Sakamoto’s secretary,” he begins. “The Grand King and his Sponsor.” He clears his throat, rubs at the back of his neck, and says the next part with a grimace. “And, uh. The entire club and the outside security detail as we left? Potentially.”

Kuroo pinches the bridge of his nose and several people groan at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ, Miya.”

“What?” Atsumu says with a defensive scowl. “Sakamoto said the club was safe! He managed to keep me a secret that long, how was I supposed to know the Director was gonna find out now? I’m not fuckin’ psychic. I had enough to think about.”

Kuroo turns to Sakusa. “What’s your excuse? I hope it’s better than his.”

“It’s possible that nobody betrayed him at all,” Sakusa mutters through his mask. “Sakamoto didn’t strike me as the overly cautious type – it would have been child’s play to bug his office. The Director could have listened to the whole thing without setting foot inside the club, and we couldn’t scramble frequencies without fucking up the trackers you put on us.”

They hadn’t even thought about bugs or scrambling frequencies, but Atsumu still holds his hand out for a low-five and says, “Oh! Nice blame deflection, Watson!”

Sakusa returns it with a slap of palms.

“Gee. I’m so glad the fate of the city is in your hands,” Hoshiumi says, words dripping with so much sarcasm it’s a wonder he doesn’t choke on them. “The more you clowns talk, the safer I feel.”

“I have that effect on people,” Atsumu says. He crouches slightly to meet Hoshiumi’s eye, hands on his knees, smile sweet. “I know it’s way past your bed time, but wipe your tears and hold on tight to your pretty boyfriend’s hand, kiddo. It’ll be over soon.”

Hoshiumi’s eyes widen and dart to Hirugami, then his cheeks turn scarlet. “That’s it,” he says, turning on his heel to leave. “I’m swapping sides. Don’t try to stop me, Sachirou.”

Hirugami grabs Hoshiumi’s hood and pulls him back with a choked sound. “He’s kidding.”

I’m not, gets smothered and muffled by a hand.

“Let’s hope so,” Kuroo says. “Without any real aid from the police, we’re going to need all the help we can get.” He pulls out his phone and checks it, then sighs and tucks it back into his trouser pocket. “I’ve contacted a few guilds to ask for their support, but only one has responded and offered assistance so far.”

“I can get a few people together,” Sawamura says. “I know some officers ready to put their jobs on the line to purge the force of its corruption, but not many are willing to disobey Hara-san’s direct orders. We’ll be on our own for the most part.”

“What even is the plan?” Hoshiumi asks once his mouth is free. “Beat the fuck out of everyone until it’s quiet?”

That’s more than what Atsumu’s brain has currently cooked up. He’d gone to sleep with a fully formed schedule in his mind - starting with Sakamoto and ending with a blaster bolt between the Director’s eyes - and now it’s sitting smashed in a billion different pieces. He’s trying to pick up a few, to help them fit to the new situation, but beat the fuck out of everyone until it’s quiet is starting to sound more inviting by the second.

“I’d imagine that the Director’s goal is to take over the President’s building,” Akaashi says. “But it’s impossible to know that for certain, and it’s just as impossible to predict when, where, and how that will happen with what little information we currently have.”

“We’ll have our hands full defending midcity,” Aran agrees.

“So maybe it’s time we started Huntin’ the old fashioned way,” Atsumu says. “Kick down every door in the city ‘til we find the bastard. He’s gotta be behind one of ‘em.”

It may seem like the Director has the upper hand once again, but killing Sakamoto was a mistake and he knows it. The Director has cut off his own life support – if this gamble doesn’t pay out, he’ll have nothing left. There’ll be no more money to bribe people with, no more funding for his weapons or people willing to follow him.

He’s placed all of his chips on this one bet; sink or swim, he has to see this through to the end.

“Inspired,” Sakusa says drily. “That definitely won’t be a colossal waste of time.”

“You’re too fuckin’ kind to me, Omi the Optimist.”

“It’s better than nothing, right?” Hinata chirps up. He sends Atsumu a wide smile and a wink like he’s in on a secret. “I think it could work! We have two feet each, so that’s two doors per person and there are—” He stops himself, then turns to Kageyama. “How many houses are there midcity?”

“Probably a hundred,” Kageyama says with a shrug.

“Please stop it,” Akaashi sighs. “There are over 3.6 million households across all three sectors and the Director might not be in any of them.”

Hinata rubs a sheepish hand at the back of his neck. “I knew that. I was just trying to make Atsumu-san feel better about his bad idea.”

Sakusa snorts and Atsumu elbows him as he moves to cup a hand around his ear. “I’m not hearin’ anythin’ fuckin’ better,” he snaps. “We just gonna sit here until he knocks on our door instead?”

“No,” Kuroo says, “but we can figure something out if we put our brains together instead of letting our fists run wild in too many different—”

He’s cut short by the shrill ring of one of Akaashi’s many burner phones. He keeps several on him at any given time, to keep anonymous contact with various information brokers around the city; dealers, license forgers, assassins, and black market vendors. All in assistance of the guild. Akaashi had taken care of Atsumu’s sign up to the speedraces, had doctored his forms and forged his information to keep his identity hidden.

The whole room stops to turn and watch him answer it; Atsumu’s ears almost explode beneath the strength he sends them to eavesdrop.

“Hello,” Akaashi says, surprise in the eyes behind his glasses. He listens for a painfully long moment, then glances at Atsumu. “Yes, he’s here.”

He holds the phone out – an old, clunky model with a dim screen – and Atsumu eyes it warily before taking it and saying, “You’ve reached the ear of the sexiest man midcity, how may I help?”

A few more people groan, but Atsumu grins and ignores them.

“Miya Atsumu,” the voice comes through quickly, strangled with fear. “Jackal? Is that you?”

“Kimura,” Atsumu says, smile fading. Sakusa forcibly turns Atsumu to face him, and Atsumu does everyone a favour by putting the call on loudspeaker. “You’re still alive and your boss isn’t. There a reason for that?”

Kimura lets out a choked sob and Atsumu makes a face. He hates dealing with tears. “I heard the shots that killed him and I ran! I—I don’t know what to do! This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she cries.

“No shit.”

He waits for her sobs to calm, then she sucks in a sharp breath and starts speaking again, rushed and almost incomprehensible. “I went back to Sakamoto-san’s private home. There was a disc on his desk, I think it was meant for you. I—I can get it to you. You need it, right?”

Atsumu hums as he raises an eyebrow at Sakusa. Sakusa raises a sceptical one back.

“Last time somethin’ sounded too good to be true, darlin’, your boss got his head blown off. Think I’ll take my chances without the help this time. Nice talkin’ to ya. Good luck or whatever.”

“Wait!” Kimura cries, a strangled sound that’s bordering hysterical. “You have to believe me! You have to! You have to take it or—”

She cuts herself off so abruptly Atsumu wonders if she’s even still on the other end of the line. He waits a second, five, ten, and just as he’s about to give up, she starts talking again, calmer than before. “I’ll wait for you, Jackal. There’s a parking lot next to the midcity Crystal Corp building. Do you know it?”

Of course Atsumu knows it. It’s one of the largest parking lots across all three sectors, a playground for gangs to get lost in, to trade and negotiate out of car windows. Atsumu’s trailed bounties to and from there hundreds of times.

“Yeah,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna—”

“I’ll meet you there at seven-thirty. Row S.”

The call ends with three low beeps, and Atsumu tosses the phone back to Akaashi. “Wrong number,” he says with a smile.

Nobody laughs.

Kuroo leans back against a booth table and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “It’s a trap,” he says. “An obvious one.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Sawamura adds with a raised hand. “Sakamoto’s offices and homes are under tight security surveillance. If she’s telling the truth, then the only way Kimura could have gotten inside is if Hara-san gave her permission. She must have been the one who sold Sakamoto out to the Director.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Atsumu says. “We’re still goin’. Right, Omi?”

Sakusa shrugs. “Beats 3.6 million house calls.”

“Absolutely not.” Kuroo shakes his head. “What part of ‘it’s a trap’ do you not understand?”

“S’not a trap if we know it’s comin’.”

“No,” Kuroo agrees, “but if someone points one out and you walk into it purposefully, that doesn’t make you brave, Miya, it makes you an idiot. Shirabu can do a lot of things, but he can’t bring you back from the dead.”

Atsumu opens his mouth for another rebuttal (he has thousands lined up) but oddly enough, it’s Kenma who comes to his rescue.

“They should go,” he says quietly, and every head at the bar turns to stare at him in shock. Even Kuroo and Bokuto look surprised, and they speak fluent Kenma.

Any irritation that was marring Kuroo’s brow irons itself out. He softens to ask, “What are you thinking?”

Kenma withers beneath the scrutiny, avoiding the crowd of searching eyes by looking down at his blank phone screen. 

“Kimura sounds as though she actually has something she wants to give us,” he says. “If I’m wrong, and it’s an excuse to lure us into a trap with the Director, then we’ve skipped ten levels to the final boss.” He taps a slow rhythm into the back of his phone. “But if I’m right and she has the information, we’ve skipped five levels to a nearby checkpoint and we might be able to save her in the process. Either way, it’s something.”

Atsumu levels a smug grin Kuroo’s way. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“Kenma is right,” Akaashi agrees with a sage nod. “We need to take a proactive approach, and this will be far more productive than kicking blindly until someone’s foot finds the hornet’s nest. There isn’t any time to waste playing around. If the violence reaches midcity, civilians will die. We can’t let that happen. We have to start taking risks.”

They all turn to Kuroo. Atsumu can see his face moving as logic wars with caution in his mind - he drums his fingers on a nearby table and chews the inside of his cheek as he weighs the options and arrives at the same conclusion as Kenma. He may not like putting his friends in life-threatening situations, but he’s also not an idiot.

With a sigh, he turns to Atsumu and Sakusa. “You’ll take Hinata and Kageyama with you,” he says. “Aran will be watching the parking lot footage, and the rest of us will be on standby in case something goes wrong. You wrap yourselves head-to-fucking-toe in armour and you come back alive, got it?”

Atsumu holds back the complaint about babysitting in favour of an agreeable salute. “Sure thing, captain.”

They linger a while longer as Aran brings up the parking lot surveillance and locates row S on his cameras. There’s nothing of note to see yet – the row is mostly empty during the early hour - but Aran rewinds the footage to check for any potential trap setups and points out good positions for those standing by to hide in.

When the hour approaches seven, Atsumu and Sakusa excuse themselves to change out of their t-shirts and sweats and into the head-to-toe armour ensemble Kuroo’s insistent on.

“You remember where I put my campin’ chair, buttercup?” Atsumu asks as they approach the apartment doors. “Think I’m gonna need it.”

“If you bring that thing I’ll bury you with it.”

Atsumu gasps. “You’d dig a hole in the mud for me? Shit. This is gettin’ serious. Is there anythin’ else ya wanna get off yer chest? Should I expect a—”

“Hold up, Tsumu, Sakusa!”

Atsumu turns and Osamu’s catching up, hands tucked deeply into the front pockets of his hoodie, a strained smile pulling at his mouth. “Both of you come back to the shop once you’re done with Kimura, yeah? I made a few new pieces outta all that junk ya brought me a few weeks back. Might help durin’ whatever the fuck comes next.”

There’s a familiar weight to Osamu’s voice. A thickness Atsumu used to hear every day before leaving him behind to wreak havoc in the lower city alleyways for pieces of scrap. It’s less frequent nowadays, reserved for S-Grade missions and desperate coups.

“Cut that shit out. I’m not gonna die, Samu,” Atsumu tells him. “You’d never find me in that parkin’ lot. Place is a fuckin’ maze and yer internal compass sucks.”

Osamu scoffs, but the reassurance drops the tension in his shoulders. “I’d say Ma would kill me if she found out how many times I’ve watched ya leave without knowin’ if you were comin’ back, but—”

“She wouldn’t even know which one of us was leavin’ in the first place.”

They’ve already had the ‘death talk’. Years ago, when Atsumu first started accepting higher grade bounties. It hadn’t gone well. Atsumu didn’t – and still doesn’t – like being told what to do, but he’d accepted and vowed to ‘Die where I can find you’ on account of the fact that if the tables turned, if anything happened to Osamu, he’d tear the whole city apart brick by rotten brick.

“Hurry up and end this shit, Tsumu,” Osamu says, voice heavy with something different now. With trust. “So I can stop worryin’ about how big a casket needs to be to fit yer huge head in it, and go back to worryin’ about normal things, like replacin’ my arcade machine glass after yer ugly face has cracked it.”

“It’s my fist that’s crackin’ yer rigged garbage, not my face.”

“Hey, stop your frownin’ little scrub.” Osamu pulls a hand free from his pocket and uses it to slap Atsumu’s back sympathetically. “It’s okay to be ugly. Don’t fight it. One battle at a time, yeah? Maybe one day someone other than me and Aran will be able to look at ya without cryin’.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says slowly around the memory of Sakusa’s mouth on his own. “Maybe. You done bein’ a sap? Robin and I have gotta get to the Batmobile.”

Osamu gives his back one last hard thump before he tucks his hands back into his pockets. He turns to Sakusa. “I know I’m askin’ the impossible, but make sure he doesn’t do anythin’ stupid, yeah?”

“I’m not a miracle worker,” Sakusa drawls, and Atsumu leaves them both behind with a middle finger raised over his shoulder.

As per Kuroo’s instruction, Atsumu finds every last piece of armour he owns and fastens it tightly to his body. Over the knife-proof fabric of his undershirt, he wears his vambraces, shin guards, and chest plate. The belts around his waist and across his chest are packed full of grenades and throwing knives, his hip is home to his blaster, and his visor is back in place over his eyes ready to mitigate surprises or see through smoke.

He finishes up by shrugging on his red jacket and Sakusa’s already waiting for him by the apartment door when he leaves his room, hands tucked into his pockets, weight leaning against the wall.

Whatever he’s armed himself with is hidden beneath the garish fabric of his new yellow-green gradient jacket. The only piece Atsumu can see is his blaster in the holster at his hip, but he imagines his knives are at his wrists again, and the tranq blaster is somewhere around his waist.

Sakusa cocks his head at Atsumu as he approaches, a question in his eyes but not in the unflinching way he says, “You haven’t told Osamu.”

“Told him what? That we’re bonin’? Fuck no. I’d never know peace.”

“Don’t call it that,” Sakusa says with a grimace.

Atsumu raises an eyebrow as he steps a little closer. “Hm? Then what d’ya want me to call it, Kiyoomi? We boyfriends? Sweethearts? Should I snag one of yer curls and wear it in a locket whenever I go huntin’?”

Sakusa’s grimace deepens the more suggestions Atsumu throws out, but he doesn’t offer anything of his own. Atsumu’s not sure it’s possible, because he’s not entirely sure what to call them either. No word seems to bear the same weight as the feeling that settles in his chest whenever he thinks of Sakusa.

What do you call someone who feels as instinctive as breathing?

“Samu’s smarts go to tech,” he says when the silence stretches a little too long. “S’not my fault he’s too oblivious to notice.”

It’ll be a cold day in hell before Atsumu voluntarily offers the information up himself. If Osamu finds out, his laughter will follow Atsumu to the grave and beyond. He’ll dig up each and every text Atsumu’s ever sent to him complaining about Sakusa’s attitude and buy out billboards to broadcast his hypocrisy to the city.

“Your brother’s strengths are obvious, but where do your smarts go? I can’t seem to work it out.”

“I’m an expert at whatever I put my mind to,” he says with a grin. “S’just gotta be interestin’ enough for me to put it there in the first place.” He hooks a finger into Sakusa’s mask and starts to tug it down. “Your mouth’s doin’ the trick for me these days.”

Sakusa’s eyes flicker down to Atsumu’s smile for a moment, but then he blinks and bats his hand away. “The city is actually burning this time, Atsumu.”

“It can wait five minutes.”

Sakusa reaches out to the side and opens the door. Atsumu can hear conversation humming quietly beyond the hallway as Sakusa says, “No it can’t.”

“Two? I’ll set a timer.”

“Move.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Atsumu starts to lead the way back through to the bar. “I ever tell ya yer real fuckin’ borin’?” he asks over his shoulder.

“About as often as you tell me my jackets are ugly or allude to my vampirism. You only know a handful of songs. It’s exhausting.”

“I know more, Omi. I choose to sing the same ones to piss ya off.”

“It’s okay to be incurably annoying,” Sakusa drawls. “Don’t fight it. One battle at a time, etcetera etcetera.”

Atsumu kicks a foot out behind him, but Sakusa catches it with his own foot so that Atsumu’s the one left fumbling for purchase against the wall. “Whoops,” he says as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t I tell you not to fight it, sweetheart?”

Atsumu rights himself and carries on as though nothing happened. “Once this shit is over with, I’m gonna go to assassin school just to learn how to kick your fuckin’ ass.”

“They don’t allow babies to enrol.”

“I’ll sneak in.”

“Stealth isn’t in your vocabulary. You wouldn’t last a day.”

“Only ‘cause I’d graduate in less than an hour.”

The short laugh Sakusa responds with says a thousand words. All of which Atsumu elects to ignore.

The crowd has thinned by the time they return. Hoshiumi, Hirugami, Bokuto, and Kenma have gone to assume positions near the parking lot, and Osamu and Aran have left for the workshop where the bulk of Aran’s technology now lives.

Kuroo keeps them behind a little while longer to fit them with new earpieces. One tap will allow Atsumu to reach a group communication line along with everybody that’s synched up to Akaashi’s network. It’s not a piece of tech Atsumu’s ever had a need for before – the weight feels odd inside his ear and the voices that flood it when he tests the connection make him want to tear it out for some room to think.

“Turn them on once you get there,” Kuroo says as they leave. “And remember to turn them back off once you’re done.” His mouth stretches into a sly smile. “Or at the very least keep your conversations safe enough for the open channel, hm?”

“In yer fuckin’ dreams, Tetsu-kun. Nobody’s gettin’ a free show.” He turns to Hinata and Kageyama. “You kids got your snacks ready for the drive?”

“I thought you said we weren’t allowed to do anything in your car other than breathe,” Kageyama says with a frown.

“I did. I was gonna confiscate ‘em. Let’s go.”

Though he would prefer to work it alone with Sakusa, having Hinata and Kageyama around is a reassurance. They’re ranks Three and Four but Atsumu’s never sure which title belongs to which idiot. It changes on a daily basis - they care more about besting each other than they do about the jobs they take on. Atsumu’s caught them elbowing their way into the Bounty Office waving completed S-Grade discs in their hands as though they bear no more importance than a C-Grade.

“Are you sure it’s okay for you to do this, Sakusa-san?” Hinata asks as they step into the elevator.

He stands on Sakusa’s opposite side, and Atsumu bites back a laugh at their contrast. Sakusa’s face is darkened with a scowl, but his jacket is bright enough to blind the entire elevator room; Hinata’s face is alight with a smile, but he’s dressed head-to-toe in black with only slight accents of neon orange lining the arms and pockets. It’s like their heads are attached to the wrong bodies.

Sakusa narrows his eyes at Hinata through the elevator mirror. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Hinata’s eyes widen and Atsumu catches him swallowing visibly. He expects him to comment on Sakusa’s injury from a few months back or his rookie status, but what he says instead is, “You know… because it’s… because the…” His attention flickers to Atsumu for a second, then returns to Sakusa. “It’s… um. It’s light outside, and Atsumu-san once said you were…um—”

“Allergic to the sun,” Kageyama finishes.

Sakusa stares at them both for a painfully silent few seconds, then his hand starts inching towards the blaster at his hip.

“He’s got sunscreen on,” Atsumu chokes out weakly. “He’ll be fine.”

Kageyama nods, then turns to Atsumu. “Is Hatsumu-san somewhere safe?”

“Oh fuck. You two are tryin’ to kill me.” Atsumu turns and holds on to the nearby wall for support. He can’t keep looking at Kageyama. The seriousness of his expression is knocking years off Atsumu’s life expectancy. “Yeah, Tobio-kun. I got him out of the city last night.”

“Is he not on good terms with Osamu-san? I asked him the same thing earlier and he said he wished he was an only child.”

Mercifully, the elevator doors open and Kageyama’s interest in the answer evaporates to race Hinata to the car.

They follow behind at a slower pace. Atsumu digs around in his pockets for his keys to let the kids in from afar, and swings them around his finger with a hum as he ignores Sakusa’s pointed stare.

It takes until they walk halfway across the underground parking lot for Sakusa’s curiosity to get the better of him. “Atsumu,” he says.

“Hm?”

“Who the fuck is Hatsumu?”

Atsumu waits until they reach the car to lean over the top and ask, “You wanna try guessin’?”

“I would rather die.”

Atsumu snorts, then lifts a hand to his mouth to speak behind it in a loud whisper. “To Kageyama, he’s my triplet. To you,” he says with a wink, “he’s me with a cap on.”

Sakusa looks at him for a moment, stare withering, then he pulls open the car door and says, “Maybe we should let the city burn.”

The drive to the Crystal Corp building is bustling with chatter. Hinata asks a dozen questions about the workshops, and the fights, and the speedracing, and Atsumu’s happy to oblige him with exaggerated retellings that earn excited sounds.

Atsumu also keeps waiting for something to happen as the city passes them by – for something to explode, or for an angry mob to swarm the streets rolling by either side of him – but nothing does. Aran was right about the coup being contained in the lower city. As mid starts to wake and its citizens traverse traffic to get to their jobs, it feels as though nothing is amiss at all.

They’re five minutes early when Atsumu pulls into a space along row S and kills the engine. It’s one of the emptier rows towards the back of the lot. Only two other cars are parked there, both empty of drivers, and Atsumu can’t see Kimura standing around anywhere nearby waiting for them as of yet.

To pass the time, he frees his blaster from its holster and uses the hem of his shirt to clean the barrel of dust. It’s been a while since he’s had to use it. A part of him wants to fire a shot just to check it still works, but the rest of him knows that Osamu’s blasters will work no matter what.

“You know, when Kuroo-san said that you two were leading the job I thought for sure we were all going to explode and die within the month,” Hinata says. “I’m glad you’re friends now.”

“We’re not friends,” they both say at the same time and Atsumu grins down at his blaster as he works his clothed nail into a groove.

“Yeah,” Hinata says slowly. “Okay. Um, well, I’m glad you haven’t killed each other then. A lot of Hunters left the city because they were certain you would.”

Atsumu stops. “What?”

“Yeah! Didn’t you know? Kuroo-san offered extra Bounty Points to try and get people to stay, but when they heard that you and Sakusa-san were in charge they took the first flights out. Tsukki said he didn’t want to wait around to die.”

“What the fuck d’ya mean he didn’t want to—”

He cuts himself off when his eye catches an incoming car from the back window. It’s a rental – a standard silver model – and the insults die in his throat as he watches it pull into the spot three spaces over to his right. The windows are tinted, so Atsumu doesn’t get to see who is inside until the engine cuts out a few seconds later and the door opens.

Kimura’s still wearing the black and gold suit from last night, but she looks nowhere near as put together. Even from the slight distance Atsumu can see that her hair is falling out of its bun and her cheeks are stained with dark, makeup-streaked tears.

Cold morning air hits the moment Atsumu opens the car door. It’s the quiet kind; a still breeze that carries with it the sound of muted traffic and a fresh waft of burning crystal core engines. The sun is up, cutting through the gaps in tall high rises, but the nearby lampposts have yet to flicker out. It’s a sight usually reserved for Atsumu’s drives back to his apartment after long nights of hunting – seeing it now fills him with the urge to yawn.

“No other cars have entered,” Kuroo’s voice comes in as soon as Atsumu taps the piece in his ear. “Kou and Kenma have completed a sweep of all windows facing your direction from the Crystal Corp building. The coast seems clear, but proceed with caution.”

They meet in the middle after the three hefty slams of his car doors are through making him grimace. Atsumu keeps his blaster in his hand and his attention sharp as Sakusa takes up a position next to him. Hinata and Kageyama follow closely behind, standing at their backs, watching for ambush.

There’s a wobble to Kimura’s step as she approaches. When she looks up her eyes are bloodshot and her lips are bitten raw. She glances around furtively, first up at the Crystal Corp building, then around at the sea of cars, and Atsumu wonders whose threat she’s looking for – theirs, or the Director’s.

Before anything else Kimura holds out a disc. It lingers between them for a moment, shaking in her unsteady grip. The moment Atsumu takes it, she shuffles back a few steps, heels scraping the concrete in her haste.

“This thing gonna explode?” he asks as he turns it over in his hands. It’s identical to an S-Grade bounty disc in size, shape, colour, and design. It can’t have come from Sakamoto. These sorts of discs are exclusive to guilds. Atsumu tries not to think about that and keeps his mind present.

Kimura shakes her head. “It’s safe,” she says, voice hoarse. “I think. He said a death that simple would be a mercy for you.”

That’s good enough for Atsumu. He shrugs and tucks it into his pocket. “So you’re the one who sold the sorry bastard out, huh?”

She bites her lip as it wobbles, and fresh tears spill over her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to get him killed,” she whispers. Her hand flies to her mouth to stifle the sound she makes. She takes a little while to get her breaths under control, then she continues, “I-I called him and told him you were at the club. I thought the Director would help him see sense. I thought we could play his betrayal off as an elaborate way to trap you, but—but Sakamoto-san refused.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes at her. “At least someone kept their word.”

She drops her gaze to the floor. “He told the Director he was going to stop funding him, and that he was pulling out of the New City because he’d gotten something better from you. He said that if any of us attempted to hurt you, he’d find a way to stop it.”

Atsumu’s hand tightens around the disc in his pocket. He rubs a thumb over the smooth surface and the mystery that lies beneath the cold metal. “Bossman didn’t like that.”

“He shot him,” she says, and when she looks up, her eyes are wide like she’s miles away in the Velocity office reliving the moment. “He called him a useless pig and he shot him like some common criminal in an alleyway. I-I never imagined he would—that he—this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

No, Atsumu imagines it wasn’t. In Kimura’s eyes, Sakamoto should have agreed with the Director and used today’s meeting for a real ambush. The coup should have gone ahead as scheduled and neither Atsumu nor Sakusa should have been alive to stop it.

He pulls the disc out of his pocket. “What’s on this?”

Kimura hugs her arms as she looks up at the disc. “I don’t know,” she says. “All he told me was that I had no choice but to get it to you. I knew Sakamoto-san was trying to feed you information. It was a gamble that paid off.” She hugs herself tighter as a breeze rolls by and tousles her unruly hair. “I should never have told him! I should have trusted Sakamoto-san! He’s been so kind to me all these years and I—I was just trying to keep him on the Director’s good side, but I got him killed!”

“I mean, yeah. Your shitty decision might get a whole buncha innocent civilians killed too,” Atsumu scoffs, and Hinata elbows him harshly in the back.

“Fuck me,” Kuroo says into his ear. “Remind me never to hire you idiots to deal with any potential hostage situations.”

“What? Am I wrong? We coulda put an end to this shit today. Instead, lower city’s on fuckin’ fire and mid’s about to get trashed.”

After another quick glance around the parking lot, Kimura’s eyes find Atsumu’s and there’s determination in them now, rather than fear. She’s not as delicate as everyone’s making her out to be. Atsumu’s reality check might have been what she needed.

She straightens and walks forwards a few steps, only stopping when Sakusa holds out his blaster in a warning. Her arms fly up in surrender and she drops her voice to a whisper. “He’s still holding a few techs captive,” she says quickly. “Hackers and computer geeks. They’re in a basement below Sakamoto-san’s second mansion. He’s forcing them to work on the next stage of the coup. You might still get to them in time before they start the—”

The shot comes from seemingly nowhere. It’s so fast Atsumu’s visor doesn’t pick it up until it’s colliding with Kimura’s head and she’s dropping lifelessly to the concrete.

“Shit.” Atsumu raises his blaster and looks around for the source of the shot, breaths tight in his chest, eyes straining to see beyond what they’re capable of. Hinata and Kageyama do the same, backs pressed tightly against Atsumu’s and Sakusa’s to minimise risk, but there’s nothing.

“Kou, did you see where that came from?”

“No!” Bokuto calls back loud enough to make Atsumu flinch. “It wasn’t from the building or any surrounding ones. It could be even further! Extreme long range. Get out of there!”

Sakusa’s hand thumps into Atsumu’s chest plate and pushes him back into Hinata as a second shot fires, though it likely would have missed anyway. Whoever fired it aimed it at the ground an inch from Atsumu’s feet – a warning or a threat, rather than to kill.

“Get in the car,” Sakusa says. “Now.”

They spread out, heads dipped low, movements fast and erratic. No more shots attempt to find them, but Atsumu keeps his head down until his hands find the ignition and light it.

“Sakusa-kun,” Aran’s voice cuts in over the blood pumping in Atsumu’s ears. “Find Atsumu’s phone and use the scramblin’ software I installed to erase any potential trackin’ frequencies on the disc.”

Atsumu lifts his arms slightly as Sakusa reaches over and dips his hands into his jacket pockets. He finds the disc in one side, and Atsumu’s phone in the other, then returns to his seat as Atsumu slams the accelerator.

He doesn’t bother asking Atsumu for his passcode, and Atsumu doesn’t bother asking an ex-assassin how he found it out.

“Done,” Sakusa says.

“Good. There’s still a possibility that they’ve got somethin’ stronger on there that I can’t mess with from afar, but it’ll do for now. Drop Hinata and Kageyama off somewhere near the Bounty Office, and you two come back to Samu’s.”

“And keep the communication line on for now,” Kuroo insists. “Until you’re safe.”

Atsumu drives around for a while first, through busy traffic and down narrow streets to lose any potential tails or sightlines. The car is silent as he does so. Kimura’s death thickens the air and the thought of the Director finally being close enough to shoot at them has Atsumu’s mind whirring.

There’s more noise coming through the earpieces – Kuroo’s long-distance conversation with Bokuto and Sawamura as they work on recovering Kimura’s body, and the incessant tapping of laptop keys as Aran and Akaashi search for the location of the mansion.

Hinata and Kageyama get out a few streets away from the Bounty Office. Atsumu watches them take off into sprints, blasters ready and attention spread evenly like a cohesive unit rather than their usual elbow-in-side rivalry.

The moment they disappear around the corner Atsumu takes off again, looping around streets and ending up as close to Osamu’s arcade as he can manage.

The city feels dead as they get out of the car. The air is distinctly void of the sirens Atsumu’s grown accustomed to over the recent weeks, and the early hour in the nightlife district makes it seem as though Atsumu and Sakusa are the only two awake.

They keep close as they cross the streets, and Atsumu lets Aran know when they’re taking the stairs down to the workshop so that he can open the door for them.

The workshop is in an even worse state than before – aside from Osamu’s usual mess of scrap and tools, there are now monitors and towers covering all available surfaces, and endless lengths of cable snaking and looping around the table legs. The huge crates of crystal cores that Atsumu confiscated from the Director’s workshops are strewn about, some toppled over and empty, some stacked high against the walls, and there are two futons in the corner pushed close enough together to make one bed. Atsumu supposes that’s the answer to the recent question of how Aran’s managed to get Osamu to sleep.

“You both okay?” Aran asks with a searching eye and a strong hand on Atsumu’s shoulder.

The question echoes inside his ear as Aran asks it, and Atsumu taps the communication line off before saying, “Yeah. You find that mansion Kimura was talkin’ about?”

“It’s deep upper city. You’re not goin’ anywhere fuckin’ near that place,” Osamu calls over his shoulder from where he’s rummaging around in a cabinet drawer. “Gettin’ you out of an upper city holdin’ cell would be harder than raisin’ you from the dead.”

Aran squeezes his shoulder. “Focus on the Director and leave this one to the rest of the guild. You got the disc?”

Sakusa takes it out of his pocket and flips it Aran’s way. He only looks at it for a moment before his face crumples in confusion. “How did they get this? It’s a bounty disc. An older series. Discontinued.”

A quick glance in the parking lot revealed it was an S-Grade by the red colouring alone, but the discs only ever leave Atsumu’s pockets for short intervals as he checks information – he’s never paid that much attention to them before. Not enough to notice deviations in the designs or upgrades to the tech within. “How old?”

Aran turns it around in his hands, holding it up to the fluorescent workshop lights. “Five or six years back, maybe? The holo projection lens is an outdated model. I might be able to open it up and check its history. Find out who it was last issued to.”

He presses a thumb to the scanner, and when nothing happens, he holds it out to Atsumu instead.

The moment Atsumu’s thumb touches the surface it hums to life. A screen emerges – a pale, flickering white rectangle that displays nothing more than a password box and a few pixelated words.

I heard you two like playing games!

Level One: Crack the code!

“Or not,” Aran says with a wince. “Looks as though they’ve wiped the software clean and replaced it with somethin’ else.” He types a random string of numbers and an obnoxiously loud error noise rings out across the workshop. “It’s eight digits. Make yourselves comfortable. This’ll take a little while.”

“We don’t have a while,” Atsumu says because whenever he blinks, Kimura’s lifeless face flashes behind his eyes. He doesn't have time for games - the longer this goes on, the higher the odds become of that happening to someone he cares about.

Aran walks over to one of his computers and places the disc down onto a reader. “The others are workin’ on gettin’ the IT techs, and the coup is still contained for now.” He gestures to the screen that’s already starting up a code cracking algorithm. “This is all ya have, Tsumu. You’re gonna have to wait as long as it takes.”

Osamu slams a box down onto a workbench surface. “Sit yer fuckin’ ass down over here and let Aran work,” he says. “This shit’ll keep ya busy.”

Sakusa moves first. He shoulders his way past Atsumu with a muttered, “Listen to your brother, Bozo,” and Atsumu has no choice but to catch up and kick Sakusa’s stool from beneath him before he gets the chance to sit on it.

“Got some new stuff,” Osamu says once they’re both seated. “Was inspired by all the junk ya destroyed to invent some better shit of my own.”

He starts with a belt of small throwing knives. “These act like grenades,” he explains, picking one out of the row and holding it up. “I fitted the insides of the blades with crystal core, and rigged ‘em with miniature versions of the crystal bustin’ devices. You press this”—Osamu clicks something in the handle—“and ya got three seconds to throw it before it automatically blows.”

He throws the knife across the room and it lodges itself in the wood of an empty crate. There’s a short beep, then it screams, explodes, and takes the crate with it in a shower of splintered wood.

Atsumu’s eyes widen and he picks up one of the knives to study it. “Samu that’s so fuckin’—”

“Cool? Yeah,” he grins. “I know. Don’t use ‘em too fast though. These are the only ones I have right now.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. There are over six belts full of ammunition that must have taken forever to make. He’d said he had ‘a few new pieces’ not genius-level inventions that’ll revolutionise Atsumu’s Hunting life beyond the coup.

“I’ve tested these a bunch around the workshop, but I’m not sure how well they’ll work in the field.” Osamu places two bulky metal wrist cuffs on the table, then picks one up. “That wire was tricky to replicate, but I think I managed it. Hold yer hand up.”

Atsumu does, but Osamu doesn’t put the cuff on him. He slides it onto his own hand and flicks his wrist so that a length of wiry metal rope unfurls from it and wraps around Atsumu’s raised arm. It tightens unexpectedly, and Osamu yanks it so that Atsumu yelps and doubles over the table with a hard smack of his elbow against the surface.

With a curse and a scowl he attempts to pull his arm back, pouring all of his strength into tugging the wire. Then, just as suddenly as it had tightened, the rope slackens and retracts into the cuff, leaving Atsumu at the mercy of his own backwards momentum.

A subtle palm at his lower back saves him before he falls off the stool. Sakusa pushes Atsumu forwards again until his hands find purchase on the table edge and he’s able to steady himself.

“There’s a dozen fuckin’ crates ya coulda tried that on,” he snaps.

Osamu grins. “Yeah, but crates don’t whine like tiny stupid babies.”

He takes off the cuff and throws it Atsumu’s way, and while he’s busy playing with it, Osamu unloads a range of new tranq dart ammunition for Sakusa.

“These rounds act like taser bites,” he says, pointing to a section. “These are really fuckin’ lethal poison. These are the sleep ones but with a higher dose, and these are explosives.”

Sakusa eyes them. “Are the tasers lethal?”

“Nah. They’re safe to use on Tsumu, if that’s what yer wonderin’.”

“Fuck you.”

“They’ll shock nerves, make ‘em drop whatever they’re holdin’. Maybe lose their footin’.”

Sakusa pulls his tranq blaster free from its holster beneath his jacket and pops open the barrel. It’s already loaded with regular sleep darts, so he tugs those out and replaces them with several rounds of explosives.

“Ya definitely can’t use those on him,” Osamu laughs. “I filled em’ with the same shit Saeko uses. You’ll send his head to space.”

Sakusa hums and spins the barrel as he sends Atsumu a look. “A shame.”

“Oh yeah,” Osamu says with casual indifference as he gets up out of his seat. “I’ve got these things too. They’re not that great but ya might find a use for ‘em.”

“Impact in three,” Aran calls over his shoulder. “Two. One.”

Osamu places two long boxes on the table, and before Atsumu can ask, he lifts the lid of one and reveals—

Atsumu blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“Miya Osamu,” he says slowly.

“Yeah?”

“I take back every bastard and motherfucker I’ve ever called ya.”

“Mhm.” He cups a hand around his ear. “And?”

“And you’re the twin that was born first with all the smarts, looks, and personality.”

“That’s a start. I’ll take the rest in weekly instalments.”

“I’ll make it daily if you accept ‘em over text.” He tears his gaze from the box and looks up at his fucking genius of a brother. “You were makin’ this the whole fuckin’ time, huh?”

Osamu’s grin is so wide Atsumu can’t help but to match it. “You fuckin’ bet,” he says. “Since the first time ya asked.”

“Can I touch it?”

“I think if ya don’t he’s gonna explode, Tsumu,” Aran calls.

When Atsumu lifts the sword from the box it’s lighter than he expects. The blade is curved slightly, modelled after a katana, except the edge has been fortified with a sharpened strip of crystal core.

He stands up to hold it properly, hands wrapped around the metal handle as he gives it an experimental swing.

“Press the button to—”

Atsumu’s thumb finds the switch in the hilt before Osamu finishes. The crystal core hums to life and searing heat emanates from the neon-red light. It’s the same kind of lethal as his switchblade, and the same kind of sexy he’s been dreaming of for months.

“Do you even know how to use a sword?” Sakusa asks. There’s an obvious taunt in his voice, but his eyes are focussed intensely on the blade in Atsumu’s hands. He’s just as excited as Atsumu is about the possibilities.

“No,” Atsumu admits as he slices through the air with a burning hum of energy. “But how hard can it be? It’s a death sword. I don’t think scrubs are gonna be all that busy critquin’ my technique when I’m laser cuttin’ their dicks off.”

“You’ll cut your own off first if you keep waving it about like that.”

Atsumu stops and holds the handle low with two hands. “Hm? Then why don’tcha come over here and teach me how to wield it right, Sakusa Sensei? Wrap your hands ‘round my—ack!”

Osamu throws a spare part at his face. “Quit bein’ a jerk,” he says. “Thought two months together woulda helped ya pull your head outta your ass by now.”

A mean-spirited smile tugs at the corners of Sakusa’s eyes as he stands and picks up his own sword. “Such a pity it’s stuck there.”

“Ya helped remove it just fine last night, buttercup,” Atsumu returns with a smile of his own. “You forget already?”

Osamu makes a disgusted sound. “I’ll help pay for yer therapy once this is all over with, Sakusa-kun. Promise.”

“I don’t think it’ll help.” Sakusa’s eye finds Atsumu’s as he says, a little more seriously, “The damage he’s inflicted is irreversible.”

Something clenches tightly in Atsumu’s chest as he continues to hold his gaze, but Sakusa cuts off the staring match by dropping his attention to his sword.

It lights up the same radioactive shade of green as the bottom half of his jacket when his thumb slides the switch, and he swings it with a little more finesse and intention than Atsumu, showboats by making the hilt dance over the back of his hand in a circular arc.

“Lemme guess,” Atsumu says as he watches Sakusa’s fluid motions. “Sword fightin’ was your Monday mornin’ at assassin school?”

“No. Mondays were reserved for brooding in dark corners. This is my first time touching one.” His head slides into a condescending tilt. “How hard can it be?”

They turn the energy off to spar for a while in the open space Osamu clears, but they spend more time allowing each other to test attacks and movement than they do trying to beat each other – it’s not as though anyone else in the city has a sword to challenge them with.

It takes a little getting used to, but they share the tips they learn along the way, and Osamu points out strengths and weaknesses in their forms until they both feel comfortable enough to avoid severing their own limbs whilst fighting.

Osamu also fits them with holsters that keep the swords tight against their backs when they aren’t using them, and hands off all the left over ammunition he has lying around the workshop.

“It’s done!” Aran calls over as Atsumu’s stuffing his pockets with more grenades. “I’ve cracked it.”

“Shit, really?”

They meet in the middle of the workshop – Aran holds out the disc and its holoscreen that displays a lot less than before.

Congratulations!

Level Two: Make it out alive!

“The fuck does that mean? Make it out of wh—”

An explosion cuts Atsumu short. The workshop door blows off its hinges and takes with it half of the grey-brick wall and a few of Osamu’s machines. The impact is dulled on their end, but the force and the flying debris have him seeking cover behind the crook of his elbow.

There’s no time to ask questions. The moment the dust settles, footsteps thunder down the arcade steps accompanied by loud shouts and the pre-emptive shots of blasters.

“Flip a table and get behind it,” Atsumu shouts, pushing Osamu into Aran and towards the back of the workshop. “Don’t come out ‘til I say.”

He pulls his sword from his back and a few explosive knives from his belt and Sakusa mirrors him. “Most dicks chopped off wins,” he says before flicking the switch and bolting forwards to meet the guests arriving through the door.

Whoever they are, they aren’t expecting a death sword, or the explosive knives Atsumu throws out into the first three men. The shrieks sound and their chests cave in beneath the sudden outpouring of crystal core energy.

The blocked doorway gives them a few seconds to take up positions as a dozen more men clamber over the bodies. Atsumu takes the right side of the room, Sakusa takes the left, and the idiots that run in break off into small groups to take them on.

They’re wary of attacking – they keep distances with blasters but Atsumu doesn’t let them maintain it. He surges forwards, dipping beneath wayward shots and letting others bounce off the blasterproof metal of his chest plate or the vambrace he holds over his face.

It’s almost sickening how quickly the sword cuts through the first guy. As Atsumu brings the burning hot blade down against his neck, severing his head from it feels no more difficult than slicing through paper.

He kicks the body out of the way and moves on to the next, gripping the handle with two hands to thrust it through his next attacker’s chest. Over the dead guy’s shoulder, Atsumu counts the number of oncoming enemies. There are seven on his side of the room, weapons raised, looking for an opening to shoot or swing their blunt hammers, and eight on Sakusa’s.

He switches to one hand as he pulls the sword free, dipping the other into the topmost pocket of his joggers for a grenade.

“Eyes in three, Omi!”

He pulls the pin with his teeth and throws it high in the air, then pulls out his blaster from its holster and waits for the opportunity.

The visor he’s wearing mitigates the flash for him, but Sakusa’s forced to close his eyes. In the split second he does Atsumu downs the two men nearest Sakusa with blaster shots, then turns his attention back to the mob on his own side.

The grunts stumble around, momentarily blinded, hands covering their eyes with clueless shouts. It allows both of them to start cutting paths through men – Atsumu’s blade carves red lines through the dusty workshop air, and Sakusa’s green blaster bolts light up his left side periphery.

The more men that fall, the quieter the remaining enemies will to fight becomes. Atsumu finishes off his side with a few well-aimed blaster shots and a final strike of his sword into an oncoming gut.

“Samu, Aran-kun! Grab whatever the fuck ya need on the way out and let’s go!”  

As soon as he hears them jumping over their makeshift table cover, Atsumu leads the way up the steps with Sakusa, fighting the last few men lingering at the top.

They sweep the arcade floor, blasters raised, looking for any stragglers. The explosion has killed most of the lights and Atsumu’s blood buzzes beneath his skin as he turns machine corners and kicks chairs by the light of his visor and sword.

“Don’t stop!” Aran shouts as he catches up. “A countdown just started up on the disc, we have fifteen seconds!”

“Before what?”

“Fuck if we know!” Osamu shouts. “Just fuckin’ go!”

Atsumu abandons his search and sprints for the door.

The moment they step outside they’re shrouded in a red light that Atsumu’s visor can’t clear. Every lamppost, billboard and building has been overridden with a code that drowns the city crimson.

He tries not to think about it as they run through the streets towards his car. The only thought he allows is run and the only sounds he can hear over the adrenaline in his ears are the thuds of shoes against concrete and erratic breaths.

It’s as they reach the end of the street that the countdown ends.

An explosion to rival the one Atsumu let off in the city’s tunnels explodes from the arcade’s doors and windows. Bricks fly and crash into the shops opposite and flames follow close behind, tearing out of the hole that was once the front face of the building.

Atsumu slows to a stop, lowers his blaster and drops his shoulders as he turns back to watch smoke billow high into the red sky.

He’s spent almost five years of his life in that arcade and now it’s in a billion scorched pieces.

“Ah shit,” Osamu says breathlessly. “I dunno if the insurance covers coups.”

Atsumu swallows. “D’ya think the machines saved my scores?”

“It’s better for you that they don’t,” Sakusa says.

The disc makes another noise in Aran’s hand. They all turn to him and he opens his curled fist to share the screen.

Congratulations!

Level Three: Hope you like minesweeper!

The screen turns into a map of midcity, and over a dozen pins pop up to mark locations across it. Another timer starts to blink in the lower left-hand corner, counting down from two hours and fifty-nine minutes.

Do you think you can get to them all in time?

Chapter Text

The holoscreen flickers steadily in Aran’s outstretched palm. There are thirteen markers dotted across the midcity map once Atsumu’s through counting them all, the closest of which is ten miles from their current location - in a newly opened dessert restaurant.

A little under three hours will be more than enough time to check them all, especially with Atsumu driving.

“Minesweeper,” he says as he watches a few seconds tick by. “You any good at that one, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa switches off the light of his blade and slots it into place upon his back. “It’s largely a game of chance,” he says.

Atsumu hums. “So that’s a hard no.”

“Not if you consider the very likely probability that the game is rigged.”

Atsumu doesn’t think that really matters, not with Sakusa’s terrible luck.

“So you think all of ‘em are gonna explode?” Osamu asks, eyes stuck on the burning arcade. His face twists into a tighter wince with each brick that falls from the broken structure, with each breeze that blows the stench of burning their way.

A lot of the games in there were vintage and hard to find; it was supposed to be a meaningless front for the workshop, but he’s spent years amassing his collection. He’s poured as much of his heart into that place as Atsumu has into his car, and Atsumu’s not going to rest until he’s put a bullet into the Director’s face on behalf of each and every lost machine.

Sakusa shrugs. “Probably.”

“Or it could all be a distraction,” Aran says, reaching out to take Osamu’s hand and intertwine their fingers. Atsumu watches Osamu’s shoulders drop their tension as Aran’s thumb smooths circles over the back of his hand, watches the frown pulling at his lips twitch into a small, unfamiliar smile. “It could just be a way to keep us busy while the coup gains momentum.”

“So…what? We just ignore it and hope nothin’ blows?” Atsumu scoffs. 

He knows the answer before he even finishes asking the question; they have no choice but to play the Director’s game, no matter how stupid the rules.

“If even half of those things explode, midcity will be rubble by noon,” Osamu says.

“Lookin’ at the placements,” Aran adds, “a quarter would do the job.”

A lot of the markers are central – in busy, built up areas with high foot traffic. The area surrounding Osamu’s arcade is silent and empty, but Atsumu wagers a single one of those central markers exploding would be catastrophic.

Osamu pulls his eyes from the carnage and turns to Atsumu. “Then let’s fuckin’ move.”

Atsumu doesn’t move. He takes the disc from Aran and studies the map. “Not before I find someplace safe to take ya.”

His mind is as cruel as it is terrifying; it wracks his chest with aches and it conjures images of his family caught in fiery blasts or lying lifelessly on the concrete like Kimura. There’s no way in hell he’s letting them tag along. Not if there’s even the slightest, minutest, most infinitesimal chance of them getting hurt.

There’s just the small problem of where to take them. He doesn’t want them near any of the markers, and Aran’s apartment is just that – an apartment. Even with his level of security it’d be easy to blow a hole in the wall and neither of them are experienced fighters. There’s nobody at the Bounty Office, and Atsumu doesn’t want to leave them alone on the off chance the Director has access to the guild’s location and door codes along with its old bounty discs. Maybe they can—

“There’s no time,” Osamu snaps. He pushes Atsumu’s shoulder in a prompt to walk. “Just go to the first site.”

Atsumu shrugs him off. “I’m not doin’ anythin’ until I’ve locked ya both somewhere no motherfucker can get their hands on ya,” he cuts back. “This city’s not worth a damn to me if you two aren’t in it.”

He doesn’t care how selfish that makes him. He’s a Bounty Hunter, not a superhero.

Aran levels him with a sympathetic smile that Atsumu should hate, but can’t find the strength to because it’s Aran. “We’re stretched too thin, Tsumu,” he says. “The rest of the guild are looking for the techs and Sawamura’s squad are busy in the lower city. Ya may not like it, but we need the extra hands. Samu and I can—”

“No. Neither of you are doin’ shit except workin’ computers. Omi and I can deal with the bombs just fine.”

“There’re thirteen, Tsumu. If ya mess up people could die. I have backup blasters in a locker nearby, and Aran can drive—”

“I said we’ll do it, Samu. Don’t make me knock ya both out, ‘cause I fuckin’ will.”

He holds Osamu’s eye and dares him to test that. Sakusa’s got a whole belt full of double strength tranq darts, and Atsumu will use them in a heartbeat if it means his brother will live long enough to call him the bastard he is once he wakes up.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa starts.

He whips around with a scowl. “What? You gonna try and stop me too? S’not gonna fuckin’ work, Sakusa.”

Sakusa raises a brow. “Okay, Miya. If you’ve finished with your little outburst,” he says drily, “I was going to suggest taking them to my cousin. He has a safe room.”

“The fuck’s yer cousin do to need a safe room?” Osamu asks.

“He’s not dangerous,” Sakusa shrugs. “He’s just… not as subtle a hacker as Ojiro-san.”

Atsumu turns to him. “How safe is safe?”

“He’s on four different wanted lists and he’s still alive. I wouldn’t let him stay there if it didn’t meet my standards.”

It only takes a split second to make the decision; if Sakusa trusts it, so does Atsumu. He holds up the disc and offers up the map. “Where is it?”

Sakusa points to a nondescript street a fifteen minute drive away. It’s an apartment block conveniently lodged between two markers – the moment they drop Osamu and Aran off, they’ll be able to wipe out two potential threats immediately.

“Okay,” Atsumu says, grabbing the back of Osamu’s hoodie and pulling him along. “Now we go.”

They run to the end of the crimson-lit street where Atsumu’s parked his car. He throws his sword Sakusa’s way before digging around in his pockets for his keys, and doesn’t spare a glance back as he pulls them out onto the road.

Aran wastes no time in relaying events to Kuroo, but Atsumu doesn’t bother to tap into the communication line. He only hears Aran’s end of the conversation – his retelling of the disc, the attack, the explosion, and the impending game of minesweeper.

He zones out as they chat, keeps his attention on the road and the city as it flies by the windows – red billboards, red buildings, clueless people staring up at them, taking photographs, calling loved ones. He can see smoke rising from the skyline above the lower city, can hear fire sirens growing louder with each corner he turns.

He doesn’t realise that the conversation has drawn to a halt until he glances into the rear view mirror and catches Osamu and Aran watching him expectantly, waiting for his input on something he hasn’t been paying attention to.

“Uh,” he says. “Yeah? Or no.”

Over the swords between his knees, Sakusa reaches out for Atsumu’s ear. After a few attempts of dipping, dodging, and swearing at him to leave it, Sakusa’s hand tightens in his hair to keep him still and forcibly synch him into the channel he’s been avoiding.

Voices erupt in his ear immediately. Atsumu winces at the volume.

“—the point in putting those things in if the bastard refuses to turn it on!”

“I can hear ya now, Tetsu-kun. Keep yer fuckin’ profanities to a minimum, yeah? There’re kids listenin’ in.”

“The kids think you’re a bastard too, Miya. You’ve found a safe place to take Osamu and Ojiro?”

“Yeah. Omi’s cousin Motoya’s got a place”—he glances at Sakusa—“and a buncha computers, right?”

Sakusa nods. “He may or may not have found his way into Ojiro-san’s surveillance software. You’ll have access to everything there. He’s something of a fan. He’ll be excited to work with you.”

Aran blinks. “He what?”

“Wait!” Hinata’s voice cuts in. “Motoya? Komori Motoya? He’s your cousin, Omi-san? I’ve had a bounty disc with his name on it in my pocket for two years! Every time I try to look for him I end up almost dying somehow! Some guy held me at knifepoint once.”

“Yes,” Sakusa says coolly. “I know.”

“Jesus,” Kuroo says. “I’ll consider the implications of that once this is all over.”

“I’m currently contacting the owners of the buildings that the markers are placed over,” Akaashi adds. “We’ll try to evacuate the areas as best as we can, but not many people are going to listen to us considering we don’t have any real authority.”

“And be careful removing the explosives, both of you,” Kuroo says. “I don’t want to find either of your heads landing with us here in the upper city.”

“Don’t worry,” Atsumu says. “I know a bomb disposal expert.”

“Not Saeko,” Aran says with a groan. “She’s the antithesis of a bomb disposal expert, Tsumu. She’s a pyromaniac.”

“Nobody knows explosives like Saeko. It’ll be fine. Probably.” Even if she is extremely difficult and most likely responsible for nine out of ten midcity fires.

Kuroo allows them out of the channel for the rest of the drive but makes them promise to turn them back on as soon as they start taking out the bombs. Atsumu agrees with crossed fingers and relaxes into the newfound peace as he presses down on the accelerator and carves his way through the city.

The fifteen minute drive ends in seven. Atsumu takes what shortcuts he knows that are still currently operational with all the malfunctioning traffic lights, and keeps his speed above sixty where possible.

When they park and jump out, Komori’s street is a busy one. There are people milling about, phones pressed to their ears, conversations hurried and hushed.

Sakusa leads the way into the apartment building and stops at an elevator. He steps inside to press a long series of buttons, then steps back out and says, “Motoya’s already waiting for you at the bottom. He’ll show you the rest of the way.”

“Be good, kids,” Atsumu says with a grin. “Don’t cause any trouble for—”

Osamu cuts him off with a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of him.

They don’t do hugs, never have. They’ve always shown love in their own unique ways – Osamu with weapons, Atsumu with protection, both with quips and layered words. It’s all they’ve ever known. Not even their mother would hug them as kids and she said goodbye too many times for Atsumu to count. Osamu must be really worried this time.

“This is outta character for both of us, Samu,” he squeezes out as he rests an awkward hand on Osamu’s back and pats it.

“I’ve never wanted to be an only child.” His voice is distant over Atsumu’s shoulder, just as strangled, and Atsumu’s suddenly glad they aren’t having this conversation face-to-face. Something would probably break. “I dunno how the fuck to live without ya, Tsumu. I don’t think I could ever learn how.”

A feeling lodges itself in Atsumu’s throat, something that hollows his gut and makes his face twitch.

“You’ll never have to,” he says thickly as his hand stops to curl a fist in the fabric of Osamu’s hoodie. He pulls Osamu tighter against him. “You’re dyin’ first when we’re a hundred-and-fifty, and I’m gonna get the last laugh on our deathbeds, remember?”

The longest they’ll ever be without each other – truly without each other - is a few minutes if Atsumu has anything to say about it. And maybe the universe does too. It’s kept them both alive this long, against all odds.

“Yeah,” Osamu says, then he lets out a long, measured breath. “I remember.”

He takes a step back and Atsumu doesn’t comment on the wetness around his eyes or the way he clears his throat.

Aran pulls him into a hug next. “He’s tryin’ to say he loves ya, Tsumu. We both do. Remember that when you’re out there, savin’ the goddamn city.”

For someone who has an answer for just about everything, Atsumu doesn’t quite know what to say. The words get stuck in his throat around a million others he’s never found the strength to say aloud in all the years they’ve known each other. Instead of choking on them, he coughs them all up into a hug of equal force until Aran huffs out a laugh and says, “Okay buddy. Leave me a few ribs.”

When Atsumu loosens his grip, Aran pulls back a little and sends Sakusa a look and a smile that makes Atsumu wonder if maybe he’s worked their thing out. “Let's go out for some drinks once this is all over, yeah?”

Sakusa nods once, clipped and awkward, then Atsumu watches his family disappear behind the elevator doors. He hears the humming whir of it taking them down to safety and feels his anxiety ebbing away as the blinking number above the doorframe gradually counts down and falls further and further below zero.

“Window of opportunity’s about to close if ya wanna hug somethin’ out too, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa scoffs and turns on his heel to leave. Atsumu follows after him, weapons rattling as he stuffs his hands into his pockets and wraps his hand around the switchblade inside.

Unexpected warmth finds the back of his neck somewhere between the elevator and the exit. Sakusa’s gloved hand tightens there, a weight that pushes Atsumu’s feet into the ground and tethers his mind to the present before it gets a chance to wander.

“Whoever downs more by the time the Director’s dead wins,” Sakusa says as his fingers tighten encouragingly. “Keep your own score.”

Atsumu stares at him. Despite their lack of sleep Sakusa’s eyes are alert, dark, and searching. Though his mask’s pulled up there’s a hint of a smile beneath it, the smug one that begs a challenge, the one he wears to spar, the one Atsumu’s a little hooked on.

Atsumu breaks out into a smile of his own. “What’s the prize?” he asks.

“Winner decides.”

“Sure, Count. I know exactly what I want this time.”

“That’s funny,” Sakusa says. “So do I.”

The first location is a convenience store. A small one nestled amongst a few beauty boutiques and cafes. It takes Atsumu four minutes to drive there, and Sakusa forces him to tap back into the communication line along the way.

It sounds as though the rest of the guild are beginning their approach of the area surrounding Sakamoto’s secondary mansion. Atsumu hears them counting officers and armed guards, hears Kuroo strategizing with Kenma. He also hears Bokuto, Hoshiumi, Kageyama, and Hinata playing a game of group Rock, Paper, Scissors and wishes he could tear his own ears off.

“We’re goin’ to defuse a fuckin’ bomb now,” Atsumu tells them all as they approach the doors. “So shut the fuck up, yeah?”

The store is empty of customers – the only person inside is the confused-looking cashier stood behind the counter, straining his neck to see what’s happening outside of the store windows. The moment the door chimes and signals their entry, he blanches and ducks beneath it, hands over his head and a scream stuck in his throat.

“You’re gonna wanna get as far away from here as possible,” Atsumu tells him as he starts to peruse the aisles to look for something bomb shaped. “Just in case it does go boom.”

The cashier’s voice is panicked when he lifts his head slightly and calls back over the counter, “But my boss—”

“Is a piece of shit for makin’ ya stay here when my colleague called ahead with the warnin’. Get out and go to the upper city border if yer smart.”

It’s the only place Atsumu can think of that’s free of both the markers and the unrest in the lower city. He’s not entirely sure it’s safe, or that the guy will even listen to him, but it’s the best he has to offer.

The cashier’s gaze flickers from the blaster at Atsumu’s hip, to the sword peeking out at his back. “Are you going to kill me if I try to run?” he asks.

“Depends. D’ya know what the New City is?” Atsumu returns.

With wide eyes and a gaping mouth, the cashier watches on helplessly as Atsumu starts to pull bags of chips and snacks from the shelves and throws them to the ground. He shakes his head frantically.

“Then no.” Atsumu nods at the door. “Go on. Fuck off before I change my mind.”

“Yikes,” Hirugami says as the cashier vaults over the counter and makes a break for it. “That was sort of painful to listen to.”

“Almost as painful as hearin’ you all breathe in my ears,” Atsumu mutters. “One of you sounds like a serial killer.”

“Bokuto-san,” several voices say at once.

“I’m not gonna apologise for breathing! It’s not my fault I have big lungs.”

“Why don’t you shout a little louder?” Kenma drawls. “That way Atsumu will be able to hear you from midcity without the earpieces.”

“Nice idea,” Atsumu says. “I’ll just go ahead and turn mine—”

“No,” Kuroo warns. “Don’t even try it.”

Within minutes they upend the entire store. The floors are covered in packaged foods, the shelves are empty, and Atsumu’s checked every nook and cranny for anything even remotely suspicious-looking.

“Nothin’,” he says as he climbs up onto a freezer to glance over the tops of the shelves. “That mean it’s a safe square?”

“Not necessarily!” comes a voice Atsumu doesn’t recognise. “Hold on. Don’t go yet! Kiyo, check your phone!”

“Woah! Kiyo?” Atsumu asks with an incredulous smile. “That’s real cute, Omi, ya little nickname magnet.”

Sakusa closes his eyes with a long-suffering sigh and pulls his phone free of his pocket as instructed.

“The problematic Miya!”

“Komori the Cum Therapist,” Atsumu chimes back.

“Nice to finally sort of meet you! Looking at your twin I can see why you’ve caused Kiyoomi so many problems. And you’re a loudmouthed blond? Ha! I almost feel sorry for him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Osamu asks.

“Oh. Oops. Nothing. Don’t think too hard on that one.”

Atsumu watches Sakusa’s ears turn red and leans against a shelf to grin at him. Yeah, Kiyoomi, he says in the tilt of his head and the lift of his eyebrows, what’s that supposed to mean?

Sakusa looks away. “Is there a reason for this, Motoya?” he asks through his teeth.

“Yeah! So Ojiro-san and I have cooked up a little something super quick. Because we’re both geniuses. I already hacked your phone remotely and put it on there.”

Atsumu peers over at Sakusa’s phone. It’s open on an app – a blank black screen for the most part, save for the periodic pulsing of green light.

“What is it?” Atsumu asks.

“A bomb detector! Or if you want to get technical, a compilation of all currently acknowledged sonars and radars. It picks up frequencies – high ones, low ones, the absence of ones. If there’s something strange, it’ll find it.”

“It was mostly Komori,” Aran says, and Atsumu recognises a hint of bewilderment in his voice. “I’ve never seen so many illegal things in one place before and I’ve seen a whole damn city’s worth of crime.”

“Ha! Hahaha! Hello police friends! He’s joking. Tell them you’re joking, Ojiro-san.”

“I’m not jo—”

“They’re not on the line,” Sakusa says.

“Oh, phew! Thank god. Okay. Well, try it out. Just tap to start, wave it around a little, and it’ll tell you if there’s something and how close it is. The range is pretty wide and the error margin is extremely small because I made it.”

The moment Sakusa taps the screen his phone emits a shrill sound. The green light ebbs and flows but a small concentration of light pings in the upper right corner. Atsumu follows the direction with his gaze and it leads to the staff door behind the counter.

“It’s picked something up,” Komori says. “Follow the light. It’ll go crazy once you’re on top of it.”

They step over the mess and climb over the counter. Sakusa hands off his phone while he unjams the lock, then takes it again to lead the way through to the back room.

Atsumu doesn’t destroy the place this time – he lets Sakusa sweep the break room with the radar, and when the noise grows louder towards the emergency door that leads outside, he follows him out into the cold.

The back of the store is just a grimy alleyway meant for shipment vans and garbage trucks. It stinks of piss, mildew, and stagnant water – like any other alleyway – and it’s littered with empty crates, dumpsters, and soaked cardboard boxes.

The app’s sound grows louder and shriller with each step they take, until it reaches a peak as Sakusa holds it out over the top of a large dumpster.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Atsumu groans.

A billion flies and the eye-watering stench of rot greet him when he flips the lid. Whatever’s making the radar scream is hidden beneath the mounds of dirty garbage bags and wet rubbish.

Atsumu covers his nose with the crook of his elbow and turns to face Sakusa with a grimace.

He takes a step back. “Don’t fucking look at me. I’m not touching any of that.”

“You’re the one with gloves on,” Atsumu says, voice muffled behind the leather of his jacket.

“Not anymore.”

The gloves hit Atsumu’s arm and fall to the ground. He stares at them for a moment, then resigns himself to his fate and picks them up.

“The nasty, useless, fuckin’ rotten apple of my eye,” he seethes as he tugs them on. “Thanks a fuckin’ bunch, Kiyo.”

“It looks and smells exactly like your room, Tsumu,” Sakusa returns, unperturbed. “I don’t understand why this is such an issue for you.”

Atsumu looks down into the abyss of garbage. He’s pretty sure some of it has been stewing in there for weeks, and he’s also pretty sure he can hear something live rustling around towards the bottom. “Come a little closer, I’ll show ya why it’s an issue, pretty boy.”

Sakusa doesn’t move. Atsumu pulls up his mask and makes a start unloading the bags, holding them out at arm’s length towards the radar.

Halfway through, just as his stomach starts to turn and his back starts to ache, he finds what he’s looking for without the aid of the phone. The glow of a digital countdown peeks out from between two bags, and once he moves the surrounding junk aside he lets out the breath he’s been holding to avoid the smell.

It’s a box, contained in the same black plastic as one of Saeko’s bombs, but that’s where their similarities end. It’s triple the size, with a large timer strapped to the front displaying the slow, methodical depletion of two hours and thirty-five minutes.

Atsumu places it gently down on the floor a little ways away from the rubbish and crouches down next to Sakusa to take a look.

“You’re disarmin’ it,” he tells him with a nudge. “You’ve got sexier hands.”

“You mean steadier?” Osamu asks.

“Nope.”

“What—”

“Sh. I’ve gotta make a very important phone call.”

Saeko’s number is one Atsumu tries not to call very often on account of the fact that for some inexplicable reason, she curses the air he breathes. She doesn’t even pick up the first three times Atsumu tries. It’s only after Atsumu calls using Sakusa’s phone that she bothers to answer.

“Saeko! My favourite arsonist! Thanks for pickin’ up so fast. You got a second?”

“Miya Atsumu,” she says slowly, voice edging disapproval. There’s a heavy beat of rock music playing in the background despite the early hour, and the hum of several machines. “Mr. Pain-in-my-ass. You’ve got some nerve calling me after what you did, kiddo.”

“Yeah? What’d I do this time?”

“Heard from my darling baby brother that you scammed him out of a perfectly good laser pen.”

Ah. Tanaka from the fighting ring. The city’s a big place with a lot of people in it, and Tanaka’s a pretty common surname. Of course they’d be related, and of course Saeko would recognise the description of the man who swindled her swindler brother.

“Perfectly good?”

“Somewhat satisfactory and definitely legitimate.”

“Garbage,” Atsumu corrects. The bulb blew after a few days of using it to piss Sakusa off during their time stuck healing in the apartment.

“Whatever you’re calling for, you’re edging closer to not getting it with that attitude.”

“I’m callin’ ‘cause midcity’s riddled with bombs and I need an expert’s help disarmin’ ‘em. You gonna help or not?”

Saeko makes a vague, disinterested sound. “I might be amenable. Considering I sort-of like midcity the way it is. But it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“We’ll talk numbers if you live long enough. My rates are high, though. You know that. And I’ll be charging extra, of course, aside from the usual Atsumu Tax, as compensation for my brother’s emotional distress.”

Atsumu watches as the time continues to deplete and bites back his attempts to haggle. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Whatever. Just tell me how to stop a bomb from blowin’.”

She lets out a loud yawn and Atsumu hears something thud and something else crash noisily to the floor. “Well that’ll depend,” she says.

“On what?”

“On what sort of bomb it is, idiot. Crystal or powder?”

“There much of a difference?”

“You mean aside from the size of the explosions?” she says with a laugh. “Sure, one’s real easy to shut down, the other’s a pain in the ass. Remove the casing and look.”

Atsumu glances at the bomb. It doesn’t look ‘removable’. There’s no lid, or clip, or lock. “How’d ya do that?”

“It plastic like one of mine?”

“Yup.”

“Then jam a knife in the seam and twist ‘til it pops open.”

Atsumu relays the instructions and Sakusa loosens a knife from his wrist. He lifts the box slightly to locate the seam, then presses the tip of the blade into the faint line running around the perimeter of the outside.

It comes apart easily. Sakusa sets the top half with the countdown aside and Atsumu holds his breath again when he catches a glimpse of the inside.

It’s packed full of glowing crystal core. At least a dozen thick cylinders of it are stacked against each other, lighting the dingy alleyway a pale blue.

“It’s crystal,” Atsumu tells Saeko. “A fuck-ton of it.”

“Yikes. Three cylinders is enough to take out a building. Eight could down a skyscraper. More than that could blow away an entire street. Who the fuck are you messing with, kid?”

Midcity will be rubble by noon, Osamu had said. Looking around at the proximity of the buildings, Atsumu’s now certain that if all the markers are packed with as much power as this one, there won’t be a midcity at all. Just the upper city, and the destroyed remnants of both mid and lower.

“Hell if I know,” he says tightly. “How do we stop it?”

“Oh that’s easy. You lucked out there. Just stomp on it.”

Atsumu stares at the bomb beneath Sakusa’s fingers and his mouth runs dry. The force of the blast from his one-crystal blaster was enough to throw him across his room and break several of his ribs. “That a joke? I’m not gonna fuckin’ put my foot through that thing. What if it explodes?”

Kuroo said he didn’t want to find their heads landing in the upper city, but by the sounds of it, Atsumu’s sure his head would reach the moon first.

“As badly as I’d like to blow you to pieces, Miya, it won’t explode. Trust me. Just break it. Or shoot it if you’re scared. Throw it at a wall, bash it with a bat. Your choice. So long as you smash it to bits.”

“Saeko’s right,” Osamu cuts in. “Crystal core only explodes if it’s charged with somethin’ external. If you smash the container, it’ll die. Worst that’ll happen to ya is some glass’ll get stuck in yer shoe.”

Before Atsumu can think on it, Sakusa stands out of his crouch and puts his boot through the bomb with a sickening crunch. Atsumu flinches as he does it – a tiny part of him, for a brief second, wondering if his last words before he explodes, will be what if it explodes?

“Fu—Warn a guy, Omi! Shit.”

Sakusa shrugs. “What’s the process if it’s powder?” he asks loud enough to reach the phone.

“Ooh, hello, Mr. Sexy Voice. Who’s your friend, Miya? Does he have a—”

Atsumu makes a face, ends the call and hands the phone back to Sakusa. “Oh no,” he says as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts for the car. “Signal cut out. Guess Samu’ll have to look the answer up to that one.”

The next location is an empty restaurant a further five minutes away. Akaashi’s call must have worked there, because the entire street is deserted and the door is locked when Atsumu rattles the handle.

Though it’s empty, there’s still food on the tables and a song playing over the radio speakers; coats and bags and purses are strewn about in people’s haste to leave.

The radar shrieks the moment Sakusa taps the screen, with the same piercing urgency as the convenience store.

“Two for two,” Atsumu notes. “We pullin’ from your luck or mine?”

Sakusa frowns at the phone screen. “Hopefully yours.”

They sweep the main restaurant floor, following the radar’s direction. It grows in frequency the closer they walk to the back of the restaurant and Atsumu’s bad feeling solidifies into a groan when it leads them outside and to another dumpster.

Objectively, it’s worse than the last one. Filled with mouldy leftover food from the restaurant - sweaty, and warm with its proximity to a nearby power generator. Atsumu makes quicker work of it, throwing the bags around for Sakusa to scan and keeping his eyes peeled for the glow inside the bin.

He finds it at the very bottom, sitting in a pool of rancid juice. Sakusa refuses to touch it this time, opting instead to tuck his hands into his pockets and lean against the alleyway wall to watch Atsumu struggle and complain against his own gag reflex.

His switchblade isn’t as sharp or precise as Sakusa’s knife, but it does the job with enough force. The top pops off and reveals another interior packed full of crystal core cylinders that Atsumu puts his foot through without flinching.

The third marker takes them around to the back of a nightclub. The alleyway is wet with fluids of all descriptions, and the floors are littered with people so drunk they’re barely conscious.

Some are coherent enough to talk though, and when they see Atsumu pulling bags from the dumpster, they start to join in and help like it’s a fun game. They even cheer and sing when Sakusa smashes the bomb, and add their own feet to the equation, shattering the already broken glass to a fine dust and spitting on the remains.

They reach the next location in under three minutes – a new personal best, because Atsumu’s definitely keeping track. It’s a small district of upmarket apartment complexes, on the fancier end of midcity establishments. The moment Atsumu kills the engine nearby however, the disc vibrates inside his pocket and forces him to a halt.

He holds it out for Sakusa to press a thumb to, but it doesn’t recognise his print. Only when Atsumu tugs off a glove and presses his own thumb to it does the holoscreen flicker to life again.

Too easy?

Let’s increase the difficulty.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s exactly what I was thinkin’,” Atsumu mutters. He can still smell the past three dumpsters lingering in the crevices of his jacket and something wet is soaking through the material of his joggers. All those quips he’s made about burning Sakusa’s jackets and he’ll be the one incinerating his own once he gets the chance.

The screen fades to the map again, and Atsumu checks the countdown is still ticking steadily away, then shuts it off and buries it back inside his pocket.

“Shit,” Aran’s voice comes in, sharp and sudden. “We have a problem.”

There’s no time to waste sitting around waiting for answers – Atsumu gets out of the car and continues following the sound of the radar even as he asks, “What kinda problem?”

“The coup’s moved suddenly. Sawamura’s squad has had to pull back. Gangs are swarmin’ the midcity streets.”

They follow the beeps through a gap between the apartments and into a large square of concrete. Atsumu doesn’t bother to check he’s going the right way – he heads straight for the dumpsters against the wall.

“How bad is it?” Sakusa asks as Atsumu starts unloading bags.

“Extremely. They’ve got more than a few blasters left over, and the midcity police that aren’t part of Sawamura’s squad have all fallen back to start protectin’ the upper city border. They’re trashin’ whatever they—Shit! Blasters out! You’ve got company!”

As he says it, a group of men flood into the square through the same gap they walked through. Their warning shots go wild, bouncing from the metal fire escape stairwells and crashing through glass windows.

“Carry on searching,” Sakusa says, pulling his blade free from his back. “I’ll deal with this.”

“So you can get ahead in the numbers game?” Atsumu throws down the bag he’s holding and does the same. “I think the fuck not.”

“So we can save time and stop the city from collapsing. But go ahead. Be petty.”

Atsumu shoots him a wink. “Thanks, babe. I will.”     

He throws out the cuff lasso to start, pulling the man that Sakusa’s about to engage out of his reach and bringing the hilt of his blade down hard against the back of his head.

“One,” he sing-songs.

Sakusa doesn’t remove his narrowed gaze from Atsumu when another man lunges for him with a nail-infused bat. His hand shoots out and grabs the man’s oncoming wrist before the weapon makes contact, then he flicks on the light of his blade with the other and runs him through.

“One,” he returns.

Atsumu spins the blade around the back of his hand the same way Sakusa had done earlier. “Hey Samu,” he says as he darts forwards and engages a man in a fight.

“What, asshole?”

He blocks an oncoming fist and twists until the man buckles with a shout. “Keep an eye on my good pal Omi over there. Make sure he doesn’t cheat.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Sakusa mutters.

“Yeah, but ya never did tell me what I should call ya, buddy.”

Sakusa stops fighting to scowl, and Atsumu does the same to laugh.

“Can you both pay attention please?” Aran cuts in. “Watchin’ you is shavin’ years off my life.”

“Ah, stop frettin’, Aran-kun. This is child’s play.”

With Osamu’s new tech it takes a little under two minutes for them to down the rest of the mob. The lasso-cuff becomes a quick favourite, not only because it allows Atsumu to cause problems in multiple places at once, but because it also helps him steal numbers from Sakusa.

He trips men up and uses them as cover, wraps the rope around arms, legs, and necks and yanks until he hears things break. He slices through their shitty armour easily with the heated blade of his sword, and retracts the rope with sharp snaps before throwing it out again.

Sakusa sticks exclusively to the blade and the knife strapped to his opposite wrist, moving effortlessly around the space, dipping and stepping out of the pathways of bullets. He’s conserving the ammo Osamu provided him with; he hasn’t touched a single knife bomb around his waist, or any tranq dart rounds.

“Nine,” Atsumu finishes up with.

“Seven,” Sakusa says with a sigh.

The sword also proves useful when Atsumu uses it to carve the front face off of the dumpster. Rubbish spills out into the square and Atsumu kicks it around until he finds the bomb nestled between two bags.

“Shoulda done that way earlier,” he says as he jams his switchblade into the seam.

It’s crystal again – the same stomach-swooping collection of twelve cylinders as the previous three. Maybe Sakusa is right, he thinks as he crushes the crystals. Maybe the game is rigged. Maybe every single marker holds a bomb and the game isn’t really a game at all - it’s a race.

They’ve only been away for a maximum of five minutes, but the street has changed by the time they step back out through the gap.

“Shit,” Atsumu says thickly. “You weren’t jokin’ huh?”

“No, Tsumu. I wasn’t.”

The billboards are flickering, and the streetlights have cut out. Through the thick fog of smoke grenade gas, gangs are smashing windows and sending blaster shots flying in all sorts of wayward directions. They’re fighting civilians, tearing their way through shop doors, and pulverising the cars parked along the streets with bats and pipes.

It takes Atsumu a while to mentally reroute the path to the next marker in his mind. Komori found a way to secretly move the rest of the guild to a private channel while they start the mansion’s infiltration, so it’s just Aran’s voice that guides him away from upcoming fires and manmade blockades of toppled lampposts and crashed cars.

The longer Atsumu looks at the mess unfolding around him, the hotter frustration burns in his gut. He wants to pull over and stop the thugs from brutalising his city, wants to fall back to Plan A and tear down doors until he finds the Director and makes him choke on his stupid disc and even stupider games.

But he can’t. Not with every minute he spends dawdling eating away at the countdown.

The only consolation is that he can see the same frustration tightening in Sakusa’s shoulders. His grip is firm on the swords between his knees, and every time Atsumu glances left, Sakusa’s gaze is flickering from the mess outside to the dashboard clock.

Atsumu settles for pushing the engine as fast as his mind can handle.

The fifth to ninth markers take much longer than the previous four. Aside from the increased journey to get to them, they’re protected staunchly by the Director’s men. Large groups stand by the doors, guarding the pathways to the dumpsters Atsumu inevitably has to search through, armed with unstable blasters that crackle and spark as they fly by his face.

It feels like old times, like the days they spent hitting the workshops, fighting in tandem. Only now, Atsumu no longer finds the time to smile or laugh. There’s no breath left in his lungs to waste on taunts or quips. He’s too busy pushing his body and mind beyond their limits, to keep up with the hordes of men that want them dead and never seem to end.

Atsumu’s nine soars to a substantial thirty-five by the time they’ve dissolved the bombs and they’re leaving the broken pieces behind, while Sakusa huffs out an equally as breathless, “Thirty-four.”

The disc buzzes in Atsumu’s pocket again as they’re rounding the corner towards the car. He tugs off a glove to open it.

The screen shows the countdown first, in big, bold numbers: 59:47

A little under an hour. That’s plenty for the last four markers.

Then the screen changes to another stupid little message. The pixelated letters spell:

Still too easy?

I hope you like to run.

“Why the fuck would we run?” Atsumu scoffs, shoving the disc back into his pocket. “Got a perfectly functional c—”

The unmistakable stench of burning hits him first – scorched metal and charred leather – then the overwhelmingly artificial smell of an exploded crystal engine drowns it all out.

He still remembers the day he drove his car home from Shimizu’s dealership, can still conjure up the feeling of pride in his chest after handing over the money in exchange for the keys. He remembers Osamu running out of his arcade and grinning like a maniac as he settled into the passenger seat to gush about it with him.

It was the first big purchase he ever made, his first glance into a life he never thought he’d get to experience after growing up in the lower city and hearing the words People here never amount to anything repeated like it was a motto to live by.

It was more than just a car, more than just a symbol of his success – like Osamu’s arcade and Aran’s penthouse, it was proof that abandoned kids born with nothing could be something.

Now there are dents and scrapes punched into the sides and flames climbing out of the smashed windows. The roof has collapsed and the tires have been slashed and the metal is groaning as it gives out beneath the intensity of the flames.

Atsumu’s remaining tech was inside it too – his shotgun, sniper, GPS system, and laptop. His spare grenades, knives, rope and grappling hooks, even the ugly fucking fox plush that Sakusa placed there after knocking him out – all of it is gone.

He feels it like a hollowing punch to the gut.

“Shit, Tsumu,” he hears Osamu say distantly.

Yeah, he thinks as his stomach bottoms out. Shit.

Atsumu stands for a moment and commits the scene to his memory, fist closing around the disc in his pocket so tightly it hurts. Once he’s looked his fill he locks the feeling away in the box at the back of his mind labelled ‘Reasons to Make the Director’s Death a Painful One’ alongside the scars on both his and Sakusa’s bodies, and the remains of Osamu’s arcade.

He turns on his heel to leave, chest taut, mind blank, but Sakusa pulls him back with a solid hand around his arm. “Anger breeds mistakes,” he says. “Take a breath.”

“I’m fine.” Or he will be, once he ends this chase and has a moment to think. “Can’t waste time cryin’ over a dumb car,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

Osamu moved on fast; Atsumu will move on faster.

Sakusa glances over his shoulder, then meets Atsumu’s eye with a furrowed brow as though he’s thinking arduously about what to say next. There’s no need to, Atsumu realises. Sakusa doesn’t need to say anything. A look alone is enough to reorganise the chaos, to guide him in the right direction again.

“That meant a lot to you,” he eventually pushes out, and Atsumu’s not sure what Sakusa wants him to do about that. He’s not sure Sakusa knows either, and neither of them are going to start holding hands about it.

“The new one will mean more when I use it to run over the bastard’s grave.” He grabs Sakusa’s shoulder and drives him forwards, the bitter taste of another loss in his mouth far more acrid than the stifling stench of fire. “Let’s go.”

Sakusa doesn’t push it. He follows closely as Atsumu slots his sword into place at his back and starts running.

The car might have reduced the travel times by half, but Atsumu still knows midcity better than anyone. After a glance at the next marker he works out which backstreets and alleyways will get them there fastest, and now, they don’t have to worry about avoiding roadblocks or taking detours.

There isn’t much to say - their energy goes to running and fighting their way through the city. Even his earpiece is silent as they climb chain-link fences and weave their ways through cluttered alleys.

The upper city might be after Jackal and his Sponsor, but midcity and its relentless barrage of bootleg blasters want Atsumu and Sakusa dead.

Some corners lead them down abandoned streets, others walk them into rounds of searing hot bolts. More than a few scuff the sides of Atsumu’s jacket and singe holes in the leather, and a few more thump into the walls near his head after narrow dodges.

When they arrive at the tenth marker, panting and breathless, it’s not where it should be. The dumpster has been pushed into the middle of a road, the bomb placed on top and guarded by upwards of fifteen men. Atsumu groans at the sight as he skids to a stop opposite and steps back into the shadow of the alleyway.

Atsumu’s not sure what’s worse – rummaging around in garbage bags, or this shit.

Sakusa surveys the street for a silent moment, then pulls his visor from his pocket and slides it on. “Use the smoke. Focus on the bomb and run as soon as you pick it up. We can’t keep wasting time fighting.”

Atsumu loosens two smoke grenades from the pockets of his joggers. Using them outdoors isn’t ideal, not with how strong the current breeze is, but it’ll have to do. Sakusa’s right – the more time they spend fighting is less time spent running to the next marker. They’re fast, but they have their limits and adrenaline can only work for so long before it bleeds into exhaustion.

“We’ve probably got a minute of real cover,” he says. “Then your fuckin’ jacket beacon will give us away.”

“A minute is more than enough.”

Atsumu pulls the pins and throws them into the fray, as close to the dumpster as he can manage. The moment the smoke bursts out of the grenades and envelopes the street with thick grey fog, they run straight for the dumpster in the centre.

With his visor guiding a path through the dense wall of smoke and Sakusa providing blaster cover, Atsumu engages and downs the two men brave enough to stay guarding the bomb, then snatches it and tucks it under his arm.

“Take the alley between the two restaurants and go left,” he chokes out through his mask.

It’s an alley with a crossroads and their best chance at losing the pursuing men once they break out of the fog.

Sakusa enters it first. Atsumu throws him the bomb as he runs on ahead, but hangs back long enough to set down a smoke grenade, flash grenade, and a knife bolt that’s rigged to explode three seconds later.

The smashing of crystal greets him as he catches up with Sakusa and leaves the sound of a small explosion and startled shouts behind.

“Go up!” he calls, nodding towards the far wall and the rusted ladder that leads up to the rooftops.

This buildings in this area of the city are roughly the same height for a few square miles. They’ll be able to avoid fighting for as long as the buildings extend in a favourable direction.

Atsumu’s legs are burning by the time he reaches the top, his thigh too, where a blaster bolt coasted a little too close to his joggers and seared the surface of his skin beneath. He pulls his blade free and severs the ladder from the wall once he’s clear, then watches it crash down onto the men that caught up below.

It’s colder on the rooftops. Quieter, too. Always is without any buildings to break the wind. Atsumu joins Sakusa in standing at the edge of it and follows his gaze to the city below that’s falling apart.

It’s mostly smoke and fire. Jammed traffic as people attempt to flee, and the distant sound of blaster fire.

He’s no architectural expert, but the New City looks like shit.

“How far has it reached, Aran-kun?”

He waits a second, two, three, but nobody responds.

“Aran-kun?”

He taps the piece in his ear to check he hasn’t unknowingly turned it off, but still nothing happens.

“Samu,” he says louder, something cold unfurling in his stomach and something desperate seizing his throat. “Fuckin’ answer me, scrub.”

He doesn’t.

“Motoya,” Sakusa says sharply.

Nothing.

Atsumu pulls his phone free from his pocket with fumbling hands and finds Osamu’s number.

He answers after one ring.

“Jesus. Why the fuck didn’t you answer me, asshole?”

“Sorry. Power’s cut,” he returns, and Atsumu’s not sure whether to stay worried or let out his relief upon hearing his brother’s voice again. “Most of midcity’s gone out. We’ve lost all the computers. Guess Kuroo has too.”

“I have a backup generator!” Komori calls out. “I’m trying to get everything back online but it’s going to take a while. Don’t die, please!”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “You neither.”

“They’re okay?” Sakusa asks.

Atsumu ends the call and tucks the phone back into his pocket. “They’re fine. Power’s fucked. We’re on our own for now.”

As he says it, he sees the city cutting out below him. The red lights that once drowned it slowly dim until the streets look drained and barren, like lifeless cylinders of crushed crystal core.

“It’s moving too fast,” Sakusa says quietly. “At this rate, they’ll reach the upper border by sunset.”

He can’t see the upper city from here - it’s blocked by distant high rises – but pillars of smoke extend above the skyline, dangerously close to where Atsumu knows it starts.

Sakusa’s right. As usual.

Atsumu passes a glance over at him and the smile that overcomes him is reflexive. There’s a smudge of smoke dust marking the side of his nose beneath the visor grip and his hair is wind-tousled – but Atsumu would never say he’d just run a lap of midcity and taken down forty-one men whilst doing it.

He’d also never thought he’d say he’s glad he’s not alone, that Sakusa’s the one standing here with him. Even without the games, the sparring, the kisses, or the feeling lodged somewhere between his ribs and throat, he knows it could have been nobody else.

Kuroo and the rest of the guild are fuck knows where, Osamu and Aran are trapped underground, his car is fucked and the city’s almost lost, but Sakusa’s still scowling somewhere to his left.

“Where’d Omi the Optimist go?” he asks the skyline. “He woulda liked our odds.”

“He’s a fictitious character born of your bad jokes and sarcasm,” Sakusa reminds him. “Omi the Ominous says we’re running out of time.”

“Then I guess break time’s over, buttercup.” Atsumu nudges him with an elbow before he turns and heads off for the opposite ledge. “Let’s go.”

They’ve come full circle; the dessert restaurant they should have started at falls into view after ten minutes of darting across rooftops and a further five spent running.

It’s eerily quiet when they enter. It’s been ransacked; the whole place is trashed. Tables are upturned, chairs are broken, and desserts are strewn messily across the floors. The walls are darkened by the heat and impact of blaster shots, and bits of broken glass from the smashed windows and cabinets crunch beneath their feet as they take a few cautious steps inside.

Atsumu waits, looks around and moves things with the muzzle of his blaster, but nothing and nobody jumps out to greet them. There are no gang members waiting to ambush them, no blasters pointed their way.

He’d feel better if there were.

There’s no need for Sakusa to pull his phone out or start up the app – not because Atsumu knows it’ll be in a dumpster, but because it’s not. The bomb is sitting in plain sight on the dessert counter, ticking down their remaining thirty-three minutes.

Sakusa takes care of this one, and Atsumu turns to aim his blaster at the door to keep it covered.

He hears his knife loosening from its sheath, hears it jamming into the plastic seam, but he doesn’t hear the smashing sound of crystal he’s grown accustomed to.

The rustling of neon nylon stops.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sakusa says. “It’s empty.”

“Empty?” Atsumu turns to look for himself. “Huh. ‘Bout fuckin’ time we found a safe tile. Worst game of minesweeper I’ve ever played.”

Sakusa’s set the top aside, but Atsumu’s not met by the ominous glow of crystal like he has been ten times previous. There’s no powder either, or an explosive of any description – there’s a single silver coin sitting inside.

As the one wearing gloves, Atsumu plucks it out of the box. He holds it up to the light filtering in through the broken window and studies it.

“S’just an ordinary coin,” he observes, the city’s sigil on one side, an embossed ‘1’ on the other.

Before Sakusa can offer a response, the disc vibrates in Atsumu’s pocket again. Two loud buzzes that knock against the backing of his phone and make it sound louder than it is.

“The fuck is it this time?” he snaps. “S’not much of a fuckin’ game if the rules keep changin’ every five minutes.”

Though he says it with a sharp bite of anger, he pulls the disc out warily this time; he’s not sure what’s left for the Director to destroy. The bastard’s already ruined his car, Osamu’s arcade, and two sectors of the city - he’s not enthusiastic about finding out if it’s Sakusa’s turn to taste loss.

The screen lights up the room with the map. It’s changed since Atsumu last saw it. All of the markers have disappeared save for the two they have left to check – one two miles north, the other two miles west from their current location.

Sakusa points at the bottom corner. “The countdown’s stopped.”

Atsumu’s eyes fly to where the numbers should be depleting but are stuck at thirty one minutes. The timer on the fake bomb has stopped too. He hands the disc over to Sakusa and picks the lid up, turning it around for a malfunction and holding it up to his ear for any ominous sounds.

When he hits the side of it, the number drops to ten.

“Shit.” He drops it and holds his hands up. “That wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do that.”

“I know,” Sakusa scoffs. “It happened here too.”

The countdown has moved to the centre of the screen, bigger and bolder than before. Ten minutes to reach two markers.

“Uh, there’s no way we can make it to both, Omi. Not unless you’re about to reveal you really have been a vampire this whole time and have some kinda super speed.”

Each will take around eight minutes to run to utilising Atsumu’s shortcuts. They would have made it easily within thirty minutes, but ten will be impossible.

“We have to split,” Sakusa says, voice clipped like he’s still trying to work out his calculations. “We’re out of options.”

They have nobody else to turn to. The lines are dead, the cameras are down, and Atsumu’s car is a pile of metal and ash somewhere between an apartment complex and a nondescript back alley. It would take them too long to hotwire another one, and they’d need two to reach both.

Atsumu can’t help but feel like a mouse who’s just walked right into the cat’s trap.

The screen changes to a blank white. Atsumu drops his gaze from Sakusa’s thought-fraught face to the words that appear in a bright red font.

Time’s running out, Hunters. Time to test your luck.

One location contains nothing. The other, a surprise.

Flip the coin to start the timer.

Atsumu curls his hand tightly around the coin in his palm, then he unfurls it between them. “Guess we’d better flip this, huh? Shame I don’t get to kiss ya afterwards.”

The rolling of eyes never comes. Neither does the scoff, or the routine muttering of Atsumu’s inappropriate timings.

When he looks up, Sakusa’s already staring at him, an intense, unreadable expression on his face when he pulls his mask down.

There’s a moment in which they do nothing but look at each other. Atsumu lets his attention travel over the curls he’s tugged and ruffled, the brows that furrow and lift at his jokes, and the mouth that curses and kisses him.

He thinks of the times he used to wish the door would hit Sakusa on the way out of the Bounty Office, of the nights he’d loudly proclaim his wishes for Sakusa’s bounties to go awry, and the days he wouldn’t spare him a passing thought.

Now, Atsumu meets his kiss in the middle.

It’s long enough to appreciate, but chaste enough for him to wish he was back at the apartment, caught in the safety of last night, rather than in this desolate dessert restaurant, struggling to keep his head above the water.

Atsumu doesn’t think about why Sakusa’s kissing him, about what the insistent press of his lips or the desperate curl of his fist in the front of his shirt mean. He doesn’t think about why he’s holding on so tightly to Sakusa either, or why he’s closing his eyes and committing as many pieces of him to memory as possible.

Neither of them need to say it out loud.

Neither of them do when they part.

“Said a lot of goodbyes today,” Atsumu murmurs between their rested foreheads. “This ain’t one of ‘em.”

“No,” Sakusa agrees as he watches his own hand loosen its grip on Atsumu’s shirt. “It isn’t.”

Atsumu tugs off a glove and presses it into Sakusa’s palm in case they both need to dive in another dumpster. “Take the disc too. I know my way ‘round. Meet back here when you’re done. ”

Sakusa nods and slides the glove on, then they both walk to the exit and step out onto the street.

It’s just as quiet outside as it was in the restaurant. There’s an eeriness to it – the sirens have stopped and the perpetual sound of fighting has ceased. If Aran was still in his ear he’d probably be telling Atsumu that means the gangs are on their way to the upper city. Atsumu thinks they might be running from potential explosions.

On a calm exhale, he balances the coin on the end of his thumb. “Heads you go north, tails you go west. I’ll take the other. Ready?”

Sakusa nods again.

Atsumu flips the coin.

He catches it on the back of his bare hand. The metal is cool against his skin and he uses his gloved hand to shield the result.

It turns up heads.

“Tails,” he tells Sakusa with a gesture west.

As soon as he does the countdown begins, and as soon as the seconds start to tick away they bolt.

“Kiyoomi!” Atsumu calls over his shoulder as the distance between them steadily grows. “This city don’t mean shit to me without you in it either! So put yourself above it, no matter what, yeah?”

Please, claws its desperate way back down into the depth of Atsumu’s chest.

“Those sound like dying words, Atsumu,” he calls back. “Keep them to yourself.”

For the first time in months Atsumu is alone as he runs. He thought the feeling would be relieving – he’s always preferred working without others to drag him down – but there’s a ghost haunting his left that’s impossible to ignore. He keeps expecting the flash of neon in his periphery, to look over his shoulder and find Sakusa with him. All he finds are broken windows and the algae-slick bricks of dark alleyway walls.

Each step hits the ground hard, makes Atsumu’s bones shake, wrenches more cold breath from his lungs, and stokes the flames tearing through his muscles a little hotter.

No grunts attack him. No blaster bolts give chase. Atsumu’s not sure if that’s because they’re running from a potential explosion, or if they’ve moved on to start their attack of the upper city, but the streets are just as unnervingly quiet as the restaurant, and they remain that way until Atsumu’s approaching the doors of the apartment complex with three of his ten minutes remaining.

Something loud screeches as he pulls them open – the familiar shriek of the bomb detector that should be with Sakusa. Atsumu had assumed it was his own phone, but when he pulls it out, it’s Sakusa’s. He’s not sure when he switched them, but he has a pretty solid idea as to why.

Atsumu’s fingers squeeze around the device so hard his glove creaks. “Stupid bastard,” he pushes out between exasperated breaths.

As he stares at the blinking screen, he wants nothing more than to run to the other marker and throw it at Sakusa’s idiot head, but maybe it’s for the best. That the radar has picked up something means Atsumu was right to send Sakusa and his abysmal luck in the opposite direction after all. If the disc is to be believed, Sakusa should be walking into an empty building as of right now and Atsumu will meet him – alive – back at the dessert shop once he puts his foot through whatever’s waiting for him here.

With the elevator out of commission, the radar leads Atsumu up several flights of steep metal stairs. He takes them two at a time, the loud echo of his feet against the steps and the shrill noise of the radar mixing together with his loud breaths.

The urgency of all three grow the higher he climbs, until the piercing sound reaches a crescendo as he kicks open the door to the rooftop.

His hand flies to his blaster as he steps out onto the concrete to search for the source, but his inhale stops short in his chest and he skids to a halt when he realises what’s waiting for him.

There’s a figure standing on the roof ledge, looking out over the city. They’re tall, broad, and clad in plain, dark clothes. One hand is tucked into a pocket, while the other carries the black plastic box of a bomb.

Atsumu’s lost count of how many seconds remain. There can’t be many.

“The bossman himself,” Atsumu says, aiming his blaster at the hooded head. “Or just another useless rung on the ladder?”

“Miya Atsumu,” the figure says, voice deep and slightly distorted. “I was hoping it would be you. Seems fate is on my side today. Did you enjoy my game?”

“Bossman it is,” Atsumu ignores him to conclude. “Now that is a surprise.”

All these months spent trying to lure the bastard out of hiding, cutting his ties, piling on the pressure, and he’s the one inviting Atsumu candidly to his doorstep.

The cause of his pain, the destroyer of his car, brother’s arcade, his city, is standing right in front of him. Flesh and bone – just one man.

“You plannin’ on blowin’ yerself up and savin’ me the trouble? Don’t care how you die. So long as you do.”

The Director turns around and jumps down from the roof ledge. He’s wearing a mask over his face - a blank grey that’s chiselled to resemble a human’s. Atsumu’s seen it countless times before with how often he’s watched back the footage of the harbour incident. He’s envisioned it a billion more in his plans and daydreams. His finger itches to press the blaster trigger.

“With this?” the Director asks, holding up the box and tilting his head at it. He waits a moment, then throws it Atsumu’s way.

Atsumu doesn’t have a free hand to catch it with. He lets it land near his feet and barely manages to blink before the final second ticks down to zero.

The Director laughs when Atsumu flinches. It’s a low, obnoxious sound, and somewhere, lingering in the deep recesses of Atsumu’s mind, there’s an odd spark of recognition fighting its way above fury.

Atsumu stares at the box. The countdown is flashing 00:00, but he’s still in one piece. So is the building. So is the street. So is the bastard opposite him.

“It’s a shame you aren’t as well-versed in bomb-making as you are in idiocy and bullshit, Miya, or you might have worked out that those boxes weren’t wired up to anything.”

That doesn’t matter. They would still have had to check each location to be sure, and in playing along, one of them has ended up where they need to be. What Atsumu does next will determine whether or not the morning was wasted.

He fires a shot into the bomb. The bolt melts through the plastic and shatters the crystals inside with a hot hiss and a cracking of glass. Once he’s fairly certain he won’t die, he moves the muzzle upward, and fires at the Director instead.

It hits the front of his mask, but it’s made from the same material as Atsumu’s chest plate and vambraces; it bounces off the surface and veers towards the sky.

“Worth a shot,” Atsumu shrugs.

The Director leans back against the ledge wall and tucks his hands into his pockets. “Worth a shot,” he echoes.

“So didja mean to mess up that bad with Sakamoto?” Atsumu asks as he readjusts his aim to the Director’s chest and fires out another shot. It sears a hole through his shirt, but bounces off a plate beneath. Atsumu clicks his tongue. “Or did ya drop your blaster and kill him accidentally while you were throwin’ your tantrum?”    

“So you still fancy yourself a comedian,” The Director muses. “Maturity comes with neither age nor experience in your case. Can’t say I’m surprised. Dumb dogs learn no tricks at all.” He tilts his head up to the sky and its clouds greying with rain. “That pig’s uses had come to an end, and I warned him what would happen if he attempted to cross me. His secretary knew that too. There’s no room in the New City for those who cannot do as I tell them.”

“That why I’m not allowed in?”

“You’re not allowed in because I despise you and the air you breathe. I’ve delegated the killing of you until now so as not to dirty my hands, but if you want a job done correctly, you really must do it yourself.”

Atsumu moves the muzzle down slightly to the Director’s stomach. He pulls the trigger and watches the shot go wayward. “Quick question,” Atsumu says.

“Fire away.”

Atsumu smiles and fires another shot a few inches left to no avail. “How far do the idiot apples fall from the Director tree?”

The Director doesn’t respond to that, so Atsumu elaborates, “Every one of yer minions I’ve encountered so far loves yappin’ more than fightin’. I kinda wanna end this so I can get back before Omi does. Reckon killin’ you will be worth triple points.”

“Ah, yes. Sakusa Kiyoomi. I wonder if he’s enjoying my surprise.”

Atsumu lowers the blaster from where he’s aimed it between the Director’s legs. “This is the surprise.”

“No, silly boy. This is the nothing. The bomb didn’t explode, after all, did it?” He frees his hands from his pockets and pulls back a sleeve to glance at his watch. “It should be coming to an end by now. No calls means it’s all going according to plan. He’s not invincible as he seems, hm? And neither are you.”

Whatever it is, Atsumu tells himself, Sakusa will deal with it. He has to. He won’t think about the alternative. That can’t happen.

The Director straightens up. “Oh well. That game is over. Time to start a new one. The final one, if you will.”

Footsteps thunder up the stairs behind Atsumu. Dozens, by the sound of it. He turns in time to find men pouring out onto the rooftop, weapons raised and aimed his way.

“Eighteen against one,” Atsumu says with a hollowness forging a hole in his gut. “Odds seem pretty favourable.”

“Have at them,” the Director says with a shrug.

Atsumu doesn’t have a choice.

In such close quarters he keeps to his blaster, engaging those nearest first. He pushes his count from forty-six to forty-seven, eight, nine. Knives come at him, sharp and fast, bolts fly past his face, catching his clothes and bouncing from the metal plate beneath his shirt.

Fifty, fifty-one, two, three.

Bodies start to pile up, and the fight drives Atsumu backwards to a clearer space. He throws out the explosive knives and watches men scramble away as the blasts catch them off guard and scramble their footing.

Fifty-four, five, six.

There’s little breath left in his lungs, but he keeps his mind sharp. The visor over his eyes alerts him to movement at his left, and he catches an incoming knife before it finds his thigh. He wrenches it from the man’s grip and throws it out to the second man attempting to engage from the right. As it finds his chest with a wet thunk, Atsumu pulls the first guy down into his knee and sends a foot into his head to knock him out once he hits the ground.

There are only five men left when Atsumu decides to finish up with his sword. He moves to reach for it, but something metal wraps around his wrist and wrenches his arm back so painfully he can’t stop the hiss from passing through his teeth.

The Director’s on him in a second. He presses himself against Atsumu’s back and wraps a strong arm around his throat.

“Play time’s over,” he says. “It’s my turn.”

“Sorry to crush yer dreams, but I already have a thing goin’ on right now,” Atsumu says, a defiant smile tugging at his mouth, voice taut. “S’pretty serious. His hands fit ‘round my neck nicer too.”

Atsumu attempts to throw an elbow back and loosen himself from the hold, but the Director jostles him and a blade stabs through the hand Atsumu’s using to hold his blaster, in the fleshy space between his thumb and pointer finger. Atsumu bites down the pain as he drops it, lips bloodied with how hard his teeth press into them to avoid shouting.

More men emerge from the doorway, bringing the five back up to twelve.

There’s a way out of this, he knows there is. He still has pocketfuls of grenades, a belt full of knives, the lasso at his wrist, and the switchblade in his jacket.

Atsumu stops struggling to think.

“Killing Bounty Hunters is very easy if you know how,” the Director says into his ear. “All I have to do, is—”

One of the first proper conversations he had after waking from his coma floods his mind – the steps of Hirugami’s Anti Bounty Hunter training.

“Lead me somewhere with few exits and attack in a large group,” Atsumu starts, noting the only exits to this building being the one with multiple men guarding it, and the very long way down over the edge.

There are no nearby buildings to jump to. No ladders against the roof ledges.

“Very good. What next?”

Atsumu tests his range again with another sharp elbow backwards. It hits the metal plate of the Director’s chest, but that’s as far as the rope around his wrist will allow him to move. Before Atsumu can retract it, the Director grabs his elbow and twists until it feels dangerously close to snapping.

“Incapacitate me,” Atsumu forces through his teeth.

Both of his hands are currently out of commission, his blaster is on the ground, the arm of a bulletproof bastard is wrapped around his throat, and there’s a small army of blasters pointed at his face.

There’s a way out. There has to be.

“Hm. Which just leaves the finale,” the Director finishes. “But you’ve been a thorn in my side for one too many years, Miya. I’m not quite finished with you yet. Enjoy your nap. We’ll continue our chat once you wake up.”

Something sharp pricks the skin of Atsumu’s stabbed hand. Almost immediately his vision blurs and his legs go slack.

That familiar laugh at his ear is the last thing he hears before the world goes dark.

Chapter Text

Waking is painful. It finds his chest first. Atsumu’s inhales scrape like knife blades, the sort that mean he’s been lying on his back for far too long. It finds his hand second, wet, and with the metallic tang of blood. Once he reasons that he’s alive and somewhat operational, it erupts lastly in his head and pinches his eyes closed tighter.

“Wakey-wakey, Miya. Don’t go back to sleep. You’ll miss the party.”

A cool, gloved palm rests on Atsumu’s cheek, then it draws away to snap back into a hard slap.

It wrenches Atsumu’s eyes open and the momentum forces him onto his side. His muscles feel as though they’re on fire, but he doesn’t get time reorient himself – he’s pulled harshly to his feet by strong hands and thrown down into a metal chair.

He’s had better mornings.

From there he gets his first bleary look at where he’s ended up.

It’s an office. Or it was – the furniture has been removed to leave the whole floor empty. It’s a high-rise too, one central midcity he surmises, judging by the angle of the skyline beyond the windows.

There’s rain hitting the glass panes and the sun is starting to set behind the clouds. He must have been out for at least a few hours. The power has come back on but his earpiece is missing. He’s not sure if that’s a good or bad sign. If the rest of the guild know something’s wrong or they’re all still in the dark.

The Director pulls up a seat a few feet opposite. He sits down and leans back, a cocky tilt to his head as he admires the blade of Atsumu’s sword in his hands.

“You should have killed me on the roof, bossman,” Atsumu says, voice hoarse and dry with disuse. “I was totally fucked. That was your best shot. Now it’s my turn to play a few games with you.”

“Your unfounded confidence is astounding,” the Director says. “What do you suppose you’ll kill me with?”

Atsumu’s jacket is gone – carrying Sakusa’s phone and his switchblade. His pockets feel light and empty, his blaster is missing from its holster, and the Director is holding his sword. The cuff at his wrist and the belts of knives around his waist are gone too.

Still, Atsumu says, “I’m resourceful. I’ll work it out.”

There’s a chair with four metal legs beneath him, and his hands aren’t tied up. One of them aches like hellfire when he tries to close it into a fist, but the other is still perfectly functional. He also has the hands of a few promises he needs to keep at his back.

“Hm. I’m sure you will.”

A silence falls between them, one in which the Director simply sits and observes, and Atsumu takes advantage of to catch his bearings. He blinks the remaining blurriness from his eyes and counts the rhythmic pounding of his head until he reaches twenty, then he resigns himself to the painful process of addressing his injury.

The wound on his hand is deep – a thick line of sliced skin between his thumb and pointer finger that’s pierced through to the other side and been left to bleed out for fuck knows how long. The mess has coated his fingers and smeared its way up to his forearm in varying shades of red and brown. It’s in need of stitches, or at the very least wrapping if he wants to avoid losing any more blood.

Atsumu tugs his shirt off over his head. The Director’s taken his chest plate and vambraces, so Atsumu’s left with nothing but the skin-tight knife-proof fabric of the undershirt Osamu made for him. It’s not ideal – his arms are mostly bare and his neck is exposed - but it’s better than no protection at all.

With his good hand, Atsumu hooks a finger into one of the bullet holes of his shirt and pulls until it rips. He tears away a sizeable enough strip, then wraps it tightly around his bleeding hand and ties it off as best as he can with the aid of his teeth.

He won’t be able to grip anything tightly with it, but it’ll be useable now. That’s all Atsumu needs.

“We gonna sit here or are we gonna kill each other?” he asks as he uses what remains of the shirt to wipe away some of the blood staining his arm.

The Director holds out the blade and lifts Atsumu’s chin. “In due time,” he says turning the hilt so that Atsumu’s face tilts with it. “I will fight you once I’m through breaking you. Once you’ve lost as much as I have. Once you’re ready to beg for it.”

Atsumu glances at the strip of crystal core lining the edge, then up at the Director’s blank mask. “Uh, yeah. Sure buddy. How long’s that gonna take, exactly?”

“That’ll depend.”

“On what?”

“On how much your boy means to you.”

Atsumu offers a tight smile. “Someone’s done his homework.” He bats the blade away and swallows the bitter taste in his mouth. “He alive?”

“For now.”

“Yeah? Then where the fuck is he?”

“Let’s see if you can guess.” The Director leans forwards, hunching over his knees and peering up at Atsumu through the blankness of his mask. “While he was unconscious, I injected him with a lethal dose of a slow acting poison. Upon waking he was then given the choice to learn the location of one of two things: he could either receive the precise coordinates to a cure, or, the answer to your whereabouts. Which do you think he chose?”

Before parting, Atsumu told Sakusa to put himself above the city. He wants to believe that Sakusa has listened, but he also knows how irrational they make each other. If their positions were reversed, Atsumu would have run straight to this building, cure be damned.

“Five minutes ago, he walked through the entrance doors. He has a little over thirty minutes before the symptoms will start to shut his body down, and there are ten floors and over a hundred guards between us. How many do you think he’ll clear before his body gives out and my men are dragging his corpse up to greet you?”

Atsumu clenches his fists and gets to his feet abruptly, but the Director turns the sword on in a warning. “Sit the fuck down, Miya. We haven’t finished talking.”

For a moment Atsumu continues to stand there, searing heat aimed at his stomach, fury simmering beneath his skin. Somewhere below him, Sakusa is fighting his way through men and poison to get to him. He won’t waste his efforts by getting himself killed before then.

“This feels a bit fuckin’ personal for a wartime grudge,” he says as he retakes his seat.

The Director flicks the light of the sword off. “That’s because it is personal, Miya. This whole fucking thing is personal.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“I don’t know why I expected you to have worked it out,” he sighs.  “I keep forgetting the Rank One standards have lowered significantly these days.”

Atsumu shrugs and watches as the Director reaches up for the mask. His fingers splay to pinch at both temples, then the clips click out of place.

When he pulls the plate away and lowers his hood it takes a moment for Atsumu to connect the dots, but once he does, he can’t help the laugh that seizes his chest – bright, surprised, and genuinely fucking entertained.

“Fuck me,” he chokes out. “Bastard-kun? I thought you'd have died by now. How old are ya, champ? Must be ancient, right? Like, seventy? Seventy-five? Eighty?” Atsumu pauses. “Eighty-five?”

The face staring back at him doesn’t shift out of neutrality. “Thirty-three, Miya.”

“Damn, close.”

A lot of things suddenly make sense.

The Director knew how Bounty Hunters operate because he used to be one. He knew Atsumu’s name, rank, and appearance, because they used to be colleagues. The laugh sounds familiar because it was the last thing Atsumu heard before he was humiliated and locked in a dumpster overnight to suffocate during his first A-Grade job.

It all should have clicked into place after finding all of the bombs in dumpsters. It definitely should have clicked whilst watching his car burn after what he did to three of that bastard’s.

Sato hasn’t changed much. He’s sporting a new dusting of stubble, but his hair is still the same dark shade of brown, and his eyes are their usual piercing black. He’s even wearing a similar glare to the one that Atsumu last saw on him as he drove away in the back of a police car.

During his short explanation to Sakusa in the city’s sewers, Atsumu omitted a lot of his feud with Sato. The bastard didn’t just lock Atsumu in the dumpster and place several heavy crates on top to keep him there, he embarrassed Atsumu in front of the guild the following night, had everyone above Atsumu’s rank laughing at him and tossing him air fresheners. He would slash Atsumu’s bike tires and send people to warn his bounties away so that he’d be running circles around the city and left short of rent money for months.

In retaliation, Atsumu didn’t just steal a few of Sato’s S-Grades and set his cars on fire. He slowly but surely spent two years dismantling Sato’s life. He worked his way up the Bounty Rankings and took first place from him; he used Aran’s cameras to collate evidence of Sato’s infidelity and sent the findings to his wife; he followed him to an S-Grade in the upper city and fucked it so badly that the entire elite guard came down on his head and revoked his Bounty License.

After Kuroo got him out of prison, Atsumu thought Sato had fled to another city to start anew.

Clearly, he was wrong.

And it definitely is personal.

“No other cities wanted Sato the Scrub so ya had to come crawlin’ back, huh?”

Sato stands and crosses the gap between them in a second. He pulls Atsumu forward by his hair and onto the length of the sword that he holds to his throat in a threat. The metal is still hot with residual crystal heat when it touches Atsumu’s skin. His body jolts, but he doesn’t let sound escape him. He holds Sato’s eye and smiles, breaths fast and erratic with pain.

“This is my city,” Sato spits, grip tight in Atsumu’s hair, words shaking in his rage. “I don’t care who I have to kill or what I have to destroy; it will be my city again by the next sunrise. I’ve worked too hard to make this coup happen, and no lower city runt with an unearned ego is going to take it from me a second time.”

“This another one of your tantrums?” Atsumu laughs. “Things are not goin’ the way you planned, huh? Were ya hopin’ I’d see your face and start shakin’?” He leans further into the sword, until he hears his own blood hissing as it leaks onto the hot blade. “Before ya took the mask off, I might have believed you. Now I can relax.”

Sato’s face twitches. “I should have pushed that dumpster into the canal and drowned you like the runt you are.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu grins. “Ya should have.” He brings his knee up and sends a hard kick into Sato’s stomach. It sends him stumbling back a few steps and Atsumu catches fury in his eyes. “Sit the fuck down,” Atsumu tells him. “Omi’s gonna bring me a sword of my own to cut your fuckin’ dick off with, so be patient ‘til then, yeah? Thought we were chattin’.”

Sato straightens out his shirt and retakes his seat. “You think you know it all,” he says. “You think you have every little thing figured out in that narcissistic little head of yours, don’t you?”

“Pretty much,” Atsumu says with a shrug. “Pro of bein’ born a genius.”

Sato laughs. “I wonder how much your Omi has told you, hm? About his expulsion from the guild of assassins. Did he tell you that it was your fault?”

“Why the fuck would he tell me that?”

He didn’t know Sakusa as an assassin – the earliest they met was at the Bounty Office bar on Sakusa’s first day. Atsumu remembers it clearly. As he’d gone to pick up his daily bounties, Kuroo had told him a rookie was signing up and warned him to play nice. Atsumu wouldn’t usually, but he’d stuck around to introduce himself. Sakusa had scowled at him, refused his handshake, and walked right past him to claim an A-Grade disc as a first job. For the next few weeks, Atsumu had tried to drive him out the same way he had done to Sato, but Sakusa had been impossible to crack and likeminded in his retaliations.

Bokuto used to call them enemies at first sight.

“Oh I’m going to enjoy this. I think it’s time for a story, Miya. Would you like to hear it?”

“How long is it? I get bored pretty easy.”

“I think you’ll enjoy this one, regardless of its length. It concerns you, after all. Your favourite subject. Make yourself comfortable.”

Atsumu sinks down into the chair and tilts his head as if to say, go on.

The corner of Sato’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Sakamoto was one of the first people I sought out after returning last year. I knew how easy he’d be to manipulate – I’d done a few jobs for friends of his. The fool had billions just lying around collecting dust.

“All I had to do to get him on board with the New City was tell him the truth – that I’d been wronged and wanted what was rightfully mine. I told him my plans of a utopia where those hungry for power got fed and those not ambitious enough to demand continued to starve. He gave me a huge grant to get started with. Twelve million coins to amass an army and lay down the groundwork for the coup. Do you want to hazard a guess as to what I bought first?”

“Lemme think. A new car? Maybe some pride?”

“Better,” he says. “I thought I’d treat myself to your death. Remove you from the picture before I even started to paint it.”

“Sounds fun.”

“I went to the city’s assassin guild,” Sato continues. “Picked out the most callous, ruthless motherfucker they had, and paid him two million coins to deliver you the nastiest death he could imagine.”

Atsumu’s mind skids to an abrupt halt. “You hired Sakusa to kill me?”

Sato hums. “On paper he sounded like the right man for the job. He’d earned himself quite the reputation over the years; he was meticulous, thorough, and, most importantly, pitiless. I was eager to see you dead.”

The strings pulling Atsumu’s thoughts together are cut, and no matter how hard he tries to gather them again, they slip through his fingers. He keeps his face neutral and unaffected as he listens, keeps his slouch casual and forces his bouncing leg still.

“I was told it would take a while. Sakusa liked to take his time to ensure success, and assassinating Bounty Hunters is dangerous work. I didn’t think much of it when months passed and nothing came of my investment. I had other things to occupy myself with while I waited for the call.”

That’s easy enough to understand. Sato must have spent a long time gathering his troops, finding his techs, and planting his moles. But—

If Atsumu knows anything about Sakusa, he knows he should be dead right now. Sakusa never leaves anything unfinished, be it board games, puzzles, kills, or missions.

And yet, he’s held knives at Atsumu’s throat and withdrawn them before they’ve broken skin. He’s passed Atsumu dozens of cups of non-poisoned coffee, knocked dubious drinks out of his hands, and gotten mad when Atsumu’s put himself in harm’s way for him.

“I’m still alive,” Atsumu says. “Why?”

Sato scoffs. “I ask myself that question every fucking day, Miya. What is it about you that infects and destroys competent minds? Sakamoto threw away my utopia to watch you race tedious circles around a speedracing track. Sakusa broke the cardinal rule of contractual killing when he refused to put you down. He gave up his entire career and got himself expelled because somehow, the underworld’s most brutal killing machine couldn’t handle the thought of knocking the dumb fucking smile off your face.”

Isn’t that somethin’?

That final piece of the Sakusa puzzle clicks neatly into place. Whatever Atsumu felt for him before turns fierce, suddenly grows tenfold beneath the heat of an angled magnifying glass. Sitting in this empty office with a bleeding hand, singed throat, and pounding head, Atsumu’s nerves are exposed and feeling a million times more than what they should be.

“When I found out he’d been banished for his ineptitude I hired the next best man for the job. Just as brutal, but a little less finesse. Do you want to guess what happened to him?”

Atsumu doesn’t offer a response. He can’t.

“He turned up dead on the assassin guild’s doorstep. And so did the next three idiots I paid. The fourth refused to take the job at all. You’ve got yourself quite the bodyguard, Miya. How does it feel to know he’s down there dying for you?”

Like I’m drowning, Atsumu thinks. Like water is slowly filling his lungs and making it harder and harder to take a full breath. Like he’s suffocating from the inside out.

“How does it feel to know that once Sakusa is dead, I’ll hold you here, grieving, until my men have located your brother?” Sato leans forwards, lip curled into a sneer. “How does it feel to know that I will force Osamu to watch as I cut you apart with his own creation, then put him to work making weapons for the army your death helped build?”

Atsumu mirrors him, elbows resting on his knees. If there was even the slightest chance of that coming true, he’d be on his feet taking his chances. He remains seated, holds Sato’s eye and says, “Feels like I’m watchin’ a man dig his own grave.”

“At least I’ll get one,” Sato returns. “I’m planning on throwing your body where it belongs: into the sewers with the rest of the city’s vermin.”

The chiming of a phone breaks their staring contest. It’s an old model, probably a burner phone that he uses to talk to his men. Sato leans back to accept the call and holds it to his ear.

Atsumu can’t hear any clear words, but he can hear raised, desperate voices and the distinct sound of blaster fire. It’s impossible to pinpoint where it’s coming from – outside or inside – but it doesn’t sound good for whoever is calling.

Something resembling alarm passes over Sato’s face for a split second, before it’s buried beneath the anger of a scowl. He stands and walks over to the wall of windows nearby and Atsumu wonders what’s going on beyond it.

For the first time all day he wishes he had the voices of the guild in his ear filling him in.

“Deal with it,” Sato says suddenly, a sharp edge to his voice. “I don’t care how many die. If you fall back, I’ll kill you myself.”

He ends the call and throws the phone across the empty office floor with a hissed curse and a muttered, “Useless.”

Atsumu watches Sato run a stressed hand through his hair, then he breaks into a grin. “Uh-oh. Things aren’t goin’ accordin’ to the big bad plan, huh? How’s it feel to have made a huge fuckin’ miscalculation?”

Sato snaps his gaze back around to Atsumu. His façade has slipped again, like it had done earlier when he lost his temper and held the blade to Atsumu’s throat; his chest rises and falls pointedly beneath the dark fabric of his coat and the veins in his neck protrude as he clenches his jaw.

“The only miscalculation I’ve made,” he snaps, “is how badly I would want to kill you before I broke you. Get up, Miya. My patience has run out and your eternal silence is far more enticing.”

“Ooh. Eternal silence. That sounds excitin’. But is it your patience that’s run out, or your time, Sato-chan?”

Sato crosses the room towards him. “Get the fuck up.”

“Sure, bossman.”

Atsumu jumps to his feet and rolls his shoulders to limber up, matching Sato’s steps forwards with equal steps backward. His legs are weak, the muscles so sore he feels as though he’s run two laps of the city rather than one, but as adrenaline starts to kick in, the pain falls to the back of his mind.

“The power’s back on,” Atsumu says idly as they circle each other. Sato’s taller than he is and the sword extends his reach considerably, but Atsumu used to fight men double his size as a kid growing up in the lower city. Men holding heavy pipes, crowbars, planks, and nail-infused bats. “Does that mean my friends found your hackers? They done somethin’ to your New City?”

Sato’s response is a swipe with the sword. It’s more a warning than a serious attempt on his life– it’s heavy, slow, and easy enough for Atsumu to dodge. He darts to the side and attempts to bring his elbow down against Sato’s forearm, but Sato’s still got a spring to his step for someone so ancient. He twists away and puts a little distance between them again.

“How many allies d’ya have left now? Few stragglers ‘round the city and the men Sakusa’s almost through wipin’ out?”

“I don’t need allies,” Sato spits. He surges forwards, two hands wrapped around the blade handle as he slashes in an arcing upswing. The tip scuffs the front of Atsumu’s knife-proof shirt as he jumps back. The blade glides across the fabric with enough force to bruise. If the heat was on, it would have gutted him stomach to chest. The most it does is knock the breath from his lungs and pull a grunt from his throat.

Sato seems to realise that too – he flicks the switch and the office room fills with red light.

Atsumu watches his next movements carefully. Any more missteps from here on out will be costly.

“Must be frustratin’ though, right? Seein’ them all disappear like that after spendin’ so much money buyin’ them out.” Atsumu dodges another swipe. “Daiju.” Another. “Hayashi.” Another. “The techs.” Another. “Sakamoto.”

He needs to get close enough to knock the sword from his hand, but it’s taking the majority of Atsumu’s concentration to keep up, all of his energy to push his body out of harm’s way.

He sees now why the men he fought would back up and blanch the moment he turned the heat on – it’s hot enough to burn as it cuts through the air nearby, as though Atsumu’s fist fighting an open fire. He hopes Shirabu has an extensive supply of burn salve waiting for his return. With the way his arms are blistering, he’s going to need it.

Sato’s next flurry of attacks are relentless, but Atsumu spots something vital as he picks up the rhythm and keeps himself alive by dancing to it – several glaringly obvious holes in Sato’s form that seem to grow along with his frustration. His hold on the sword has slipped, his standing leg is turned outwards, and his gaze is too hyper focussed on Atsumu.

Anger, Atsumu thinks with a smile, breeds mistakes.

He starts to dial up his own kind of heat. “I had it on good authority from a few of yer scrubs that meetin’ you would be a fate worse than death.”

The sword comes down. Atsumu ducks to the left.

“But it’s been super underwhelmin’ so far. You’re nowhere near as tough an opponent as Sakusa. Seems like you’re only scary to people who don’t know who ya are. Sheep in wolf’s clothin’ kinda shit.”

He takes a few more attacks, stepping backwards until they both start to approach the windows. Atsumu’s periphery catches what’s going on outside, what made Sato throw his phone away in temper: the midcity guards are no longer under Sato or Hara’s thumbs. They’re finally pulling their weight and helping to turn the tides on the streets below; the guild must have figured something out.

“Ya had a good run,” Atsumu laughs. “Guess you’ve run out of games though, huh? Or at least the pieces to play them with.”

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?”

Atsumu grins. “Only when I’m takin’ things seriously.”

The punishable mistake comes when Sato pulls his arm back and attempts a sloppy overhead slash. It allows Atsumu enough time to dart forwards instead of back, affords him the momentum to kick at Sato’s unsteady leg, then grab the wrist holding the oncoming sword.

Sato buckles beneath the assault, falters as Atsumu twists his wrist to loosen his grip on the handle, but he doesn’t relinquish it.

The blade lingers between their faces, heat sweltering, energy humming loudly. Atsumu looks past the glowing crystal to meet Sato’s furious scowl. “Y’know,” he says through a grin, “I thought I’d feel bad about beatin’ the fuck out of a pensioner, but this is shapin’ up to be pretty cathartic.”

“It can’t be more liberating than the overdue punishment of a spoiled child.”

Sato’s free hand throws a punch into Atsumu’s gut. He tenses and takes the hit with a wince, but before Atsumu can put his next move into motion, Sato jolts suddenly and stops. Beneath the scalding red light, his dark eyes widen and his mouth falls open around a pained grunt.

Only once Sato’s hand slackens and the sword clatters to the ground nearby does Atsumu see why. Without the blinding barrier between them, Atsumu can see the knife protruding from the back of his shoulder – one of the only parts of him seemingly unprotected by metal.

Atsumu follows its trajectory to the door opposite and relief washes over him with such force it’s dizzying.

From across the room, Sakusa’s eyes find his immediately. Atsumu watches as he lets out a long breath then sags against the doorframe. His lips tug into a small smile, and he says, voice hoarse and breathless, “What did I tell you about playing with your food, Atsumu?”

As he finishes speaking the smile fades into a pained grimace. Atsumu’s relief lasts no longer than a few seconds as his eyes fall to the rest of him.

Like Atsumu, Sakusa’s been stripped bare of armour, only, he’s been forced to run miles in the rain. The only weapon he carries is his sword, still burning its bright neon green at his side.

Sato can’t have been lying about the poison – Sakusa’s breathing is laboured, his body is convulsing periodically with repressed shivers, and his skin is pale with fatigue and lost blood.

As Atsumu’s gaze travels lower he finds that Sakusa’s wrists are burned raw, there’s a knife sticking out of his left thigh, and a hole in his shirt where a bullet hole has torn through his side. Atsumu’s not sure whose blood is spattering his arms, neck, and face, but he’s more distracted by the fact that one of his shoulders is hanging limply, very obviously and awkwardly dislocated from its socket.

The water that was filling Atsumu’s lungs earlier turns icy cold and hardens. It weighs him down, then empties him. Fills him with dread, then hollows him back out again with fear.

He can’t find words. Can’t even force himself to fake a smile. Nausea makes it impossible.

Movement distracts him as Sato tries to reach up for the knife in his shoulder. The same Sato that injected Sakusa with poison. The same Sato that ordered the men to put knives in him, to dirty him with their blood.

A different kind of red floods Atsumu’s vision.

The dam breaks.

In one swift movement he wrenches Sato’s hand away, yanks it behind his back, and gets his own firm grip around the knife handle. Instead of pulling the knife free, Atsumu pushes it deeper and twists until Sato cries out, until he hears and feels the blade scraping bone.

“Oops,” Atsumu leans forwards to say into his ear. “Was that the wrong way?”

After he pulls it free, he pushes Sato forwards and sends him sprawling across the office carpet. Atsumu follows him and crouches down to wipe the blade clean on Sato’s coat, then he stands again and throws a hard kick into his face.

On his way over to Sakusa he grabs the metal backing of his chair and drags it along. The second Atsumu gets close enough, Sakusa straightens from his slump in the doorway. His eyes flicker down to the cut on Atsumu’s throat, then the makeshift bandage around his hand, and he opens his mouth to start saying, “Are you o—”

“Don’t,” Atsumu tells him, fist tightening around the knife handle to stop his hands from shaking.

He can’t hear him ask that, because now that he’s closer, he can see just how deep the burn marks on Sakusa’s wrists are, he can smell blood and charred flesh, can see cold sweat mixed with rain clinging to his brow and hear how heavily each of his breaths pull on his chest.

Atsumu wants to touch him, but he’s not sure there are any parts left that won’t increase his pain.

“I told you to put yourself above the city.”

“I’m not here for the city,” Sakusa says. “I’m here for you.”

He gave up his entire career and got himself expelled, Sato’s voice mocks in the back of his mind, because somehow, the underworld’s most brutal killing machine couldn’t handle the thought of knocking the dumb fucking smile off your face.

Now he’s minutes away from giving up his life on the off chance that he might help Atsumu live a little longer. It’s safe to say that mission has long since failed.

Atsumu finds Sakusa’s eyes, glazed over, bloodshot, and fighting to stay awake. Something in his gut twists and something else prickles and stings at the back of his throat. He forces himself to look away. “At what fuckin’ cost, Omi? You—” mean a lot to me. “I can’t—” do this without you.

Atsumu’s vision blurs as he glares holes into his own feet. I can’t lose you.

“You can,” Sakusa says. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fuckin’ fine,” he snaps. “Jesus, Kiyoomi.”

This isn’t like when they were broken and bruised and riddled with holes, or when Atsumu grazed his cheek. This isn’t like that at all. They were safe then. They had time.

Now they’re running out.

Atsumu’s said a lot of goodbyes today. This won’t be one. It can’t be one.

“I will be.” Sakusa pushes the handle of his sword into Atsumu’s chest but it’s without any of his usual strength. “The only way I’m dying is if you’re the one killing me. You promised.”

“That’s—”

Sakusa pushes him slightly. “Were you lying?”

Atsumu stares at him, then brings his bandaged hand up to rest atop Sakusa’s around the sword. His skin is cold. Colder than usual. “No,” he says as he squeezes. “I wasn’t. How long do you have?”

Sakusa’s eye never leaves his. “However long you need.”

If Atsumu’s been keeping the correct count, Sakusa’s reality is around fifteen minutes. And that’s if the poison gets him before the other wounds do.

Atsumu will work something out. He has to.

For now, he takes the sword and pulls the chair to the wall. “It’s your turn to watch,” he says. “So sit the fuck down and stay there.”

Sakusa eases into the seat and lets out a shaky breath, stabbed leg held stiffly, free hand clutching his shot side. He’s holding a lot back, Atsumu knows he is, but whether that’s for Atsumu’s sake or his own, is uncertain.

Atsumu gently tips Sakusa’s chin up with his fingers. “Keep your eyes on me,” he says, using his thumb to wipe away a patch of drying blood from the corner of his mouth. He shivers, but Atsumu knows it’s not because of his touch. “Don’t fall asleep. Not even for a second, yeah?”

Sakusa nods. “I’m watching,” he says. “Make it a good show. For the book.”

Atsumu finds the strength to smile at that.

When Atsumu turns around, Sato’s bending down to pick up the sword, nose broken and bloodied, body angled and drooping beneath the pain in his shoulder.

Atsumu wraps his bandaged hand around the knife handle, and spins the blade around in the other while he waits for him to straighten up, taking long steps forwards to close the distance.

It feels good to hold one of his weapons again – Osamu’s weapons – a piece of his family that tells him he’ll be okay.

“Three minutes, Bastard-kun,” Atsumu says. “That’s all I’m givin’ ya to say whatever prayers ya need.”

Sato spits out a mouthful of blood and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “I’ll gut you in less.”

Atsumu wastes no time; he starts with a quick slash of Sakusa’s sword. It takes all of Sato’s wits to catch it before it cuts through his face, and the blades collide with hot sparks of green and red crystal. Atsumu presses it forwards, leaning all of his weight into the attack until Sato grunts and dispels it in a wide arc.

Atsumu doesn’t give him time to recover. He follows the momentum and swings the blade back around, aiming the cut at Sato’s wounded arm.

The edge catches Sato’s coat before he dodges, tears a line through the dark fabric but does no more harm than that.

Atsumu huffs out a laugh and limbers up for his next attack.

Fury drives his hand, but Sakusa’s presence at his back stops him from getting carried away. Each attack he sends Sato’s way is fast, heavy, and ambitious, but also deliberate, cautious, and careful.

Sato can’t do much else than block the onslaught. Atsumu knows he must be in pain with how much worse he made the wound on his shoulder, but it doesn’t show on his face; his grip is still just as tight on the sword handle. He used to be Rank One for a reason.

“No taunts for me this time, Miya?” Sato scoffs as they circle each other. “Has the bullshit well finally run dry?”

Atsumu ignores him and stays focussed. He has the upper hand, but he can’t afford to let his guard down. Not with Sakusa’s life on the line.

Sato has two minutes and thirty seconds left.

Their blades meet again. Sato holds them there long enough to smile, and say, “Or perhaps the damage I did to your boy has shaken you? He’s not looking so good, is he?”

Atsumu brings the knife between them and aims for a place unlikely to be protected by shields – it sinks easily into Sato’s hip, and Atsumu gives it a sharp twist before pulling it back out.

Sato throws the blades away again and stumbles backwards. His gloved hand flies to the wound and comes back wet with blood.

Atsumu smiles.

Two minutes.

This time, Sato comes at him. They share a few rapid fire bouts, metal groaning, energy humming, light blinding.

When Sato attacks, Atsumu deflects, blocks, and parries with ease.

When Atsumu attacks, Sato keeps up, but takes steps back to accommodate the strength of each hit.

Sato’s frustrations grow again; he raises his sword and lowers it in a heavy slice. The crystal sparks as the edges meet in a block - pieces of it land on Atsumu’s exposed arms, but he clenches his jaw and presses forwards, dispelling Sato’s sword towards the ground and affording himself a free slash against Sato’s chest.

The green blade cuts through the layers of his clothes and forges a gashed hole through the chest plate beneath. The fabric falls open to expose the ruined metal, cracked and hissing as it rapidly heats and cools.

“Oh, is he tapping out already?” Sato coos, looking over Atsumu’s shoulder. His face is smeared with blood, slick with sweat, and curled in a sneer. “I thought he’d last a little longer. Maybe I administered a higher dose than I intended.”

However long you need, Sakusa had told him. Atsumu trusts him and doesn’t look back.

Forty-five seconds.

Time to start wrapping up.

Atsumu throws his foot into Sato’s knee and follows up immediately with a knife aimed at his throat. Sato wobbles slightly, but he manages to catch Atsumu’s wrist in time as the tip of the knife presses into his skin.

Atsumu’s grin widens.

Instead of attempting to break himself free of Sato’s grip, he drops the knife, and uses his now free hand to twist Sato’s arm and get his own tight hold around him. Before either of them can take another breath, Atsumu yanks Sato’s arm outwards, then brings the beam of green light down onto the crook of his elbow.

Sato’s guise of indifference shatters; he cries out as Atsumu throws his severed arm aside, and drops his blade to clutch at the smoking wound.

The stench of burning flesh is overwhelmingly acrid, but it’s not as terrible as the smell of Osamu’s lost arcade, or Atsumu’s torched car.

As Atsumu bends to pick up the second sword, Sato drops to his knees, face pale, eyes watering, words stuck in his throat in favour of gasping breaths.

“Twenty seconds,” Atsumu tells him. “Got anythin’ worthwhile to say?”

Sato says nothing. He looks up at Atsumu and defeat makes his shoulders sag. There’s no way out for him now. He knows that.

Atsumu walks closer and rests the two blades either side of Sato’s neck, illuminating one half of his face a sickly neon green, and the other a flickering crimson. Sato cries out again as the heat burns through to his skin, melting layers down to bone, but Atsumu doesn’t relieve him.

“You were always goin’ to lose,” Atsumu says. He leans down and presses the blades a little deeper, holding on to Sato’s desperate eye. “You shoulda learned your fuckin’ lesson the first time I taught it to ya, old man.”

Sato spits his way, but the heat of the blades fizzles it out with a hiss.

Atsumu smiles. “Game Over.”

He thinks of his pain, Sakusa’s pain, Osamu’s arcade, his car, his safety, his city. He thinks of all the times he felt fear, the shame of being knocked off his pedestal. He thinks of what will come, and what he still needs to do, and with what strength Atsumu has left in his arms, he forces the blades to cross and severs Sato’s head from his neck.

It hits the office floor with a dull thud, and Atsumu kicks the rest of his body over to join it.

Atsumu stands there for a second, breathing heavily, swords shaking in his hands as he stares at Sato’s lifeless eyes gawking up at the ceiling. Everything – his muscles, his lungs, his mind - feels a little numb. Like he’s suspended in cold water; like the stress of a deadline’s been extended indefinitely; like he’s won a lottery.

It’s over.

The Director is dead.

Months of uncertainty have now been made certain.

The broken city can be fixed.

Atsumu’s alive, and Sakusa—

“Kiyoomi! Hey, I said don’t sleep!”

Atsumu drops the swords and his feet carry him across the room before he knows what he’s doing. Shaking hands that he vaguely recognises as his own find Sakusa’s face and tilt it forwards again. His skin is colder than before, breaths even more ragged. Atsumu taps the side of his cheek. “Wake up,” he says, and his voice cracks around the words. “C’mon. Kiyoomi, please.”

He can’t shake him with a dislocated shoulder, so he taps Sakusa’s cheek again, a little harder this time.

Sakusa’s face pulls into a pinched grimace, and his hand that was clutching his bullet wound comes up to tug one of Atsumu’s away, wet with blood. “Stop fucking hitting me,” he grumbles.

Atsumu almost chokes on his relief. He still has time. “Then don’t sleep. You’re scarin’ me.”

“I’m just tired, Atsumu,” he says, but he listens and forces his eyes open. There are pained tears welling up in the corners. Atsumu’s throat tightens; he doesn’t know how to help.

He holds Sakusa’s face tighter. “Well don’t be.”

Sakusa’s chest shakes around a laugh. “You did it?” he asks. “He’s dead?”

With a nod, Atsumu says, “Sure fuckin’ hope so. Unless he’s got some kinda second beast form.” He drops his hands and tries to slide his arm gently around Sakusa’s back. “Come on. I’ve gotta get ya somewhere.”

He has no idea where, but they have just under twelve minutes to figure it out, maybe a little longer if Sakusa can hold on. With the city’s guards on their side, they might be able to get him to a hospital before it’s too late.

“Don’t.” Sakusa pushes him off. “I told you it’s fine.”

“Quit it with the hero act, yeah? It’s not fine,” he snaps. “I won’t be fine without you. Stop fuckin’ actin’ like I will be.”

Every slow breath that leaves Sakusa’s chest puts another rapid inhale into Atsumu’s, until there’s so much oxygen going to his brain he feels like he might topple over.

He feels tears of his own welling up behind his eyes, ones that feel hot with frustration. He knows Sakusa doesn’t want to worry him, and Atsumu doesn’t want to burden him with the pity he hates either, but none of it feels fair.

What’s the point in winning if it still feels like Atsumu’s lost? If it was all for—

“Shirabu’s on his way. Just sit.”

Atsumu stops. “What?”

“I found a phone on one of the men’s bodies on my way up.” He stops for a moment as a shiver wracks his body, then swallows it down and continues, “Called Motoya and described my symptoms. He found out which poison it was. Shirabu knows how to treat it. They should be here soon. Osamu and Aran, too.”

“Wh—” Atsumu blinks and tips his head back to stop his emotions from spilling over. “Ya didn’t think to tell me that sooner? Bastard.”

“I didn’t know what the Director was capable of. I had to be sure he wouldn’t stop them before they got here.” Sakusa tugs Atsumu’s hand downwards. “I cleared the way, and you got the boss. We’ve done our jobs and I’ll be fine,” he says. “So sit.”

I’ll be fine.

Maybe Atsumu can believe that now.

He drops to a crouch and releases the whole morning’s worth of tension from his body. Exhaustion hits like a truck, hard and fast, and the impact renders his muscles useless.

He shuffles over to the wall next to Sakusa’s chair, slumps against it, and tips his head to the side until it rests on Sakusa’s arm.

“You knew him?” Sakusa says. His voice grows weaker with each word that leaves his mouth, but Atsumu needs him to keep talking so that he’s not tempted to fall back asleep. “The Director.”

“Yeah. Sato. Remember him? He’s the—”

“The old Rank One? The one you told me about?”

Atsumu hums. “Guess he had some kinda grudge and an even bigger sense of entitlement.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. He was a fuckin’ idiot and now he’s dead.”

“Now he’s dead.”

Now he’s dead.

It feels good to remind himself, to look at the motionless heap of dark clothes opposite them and know that it’s over.

The sun will rise in the morning and Atsumu will still be alive. Sakusa will be alive. Osamu, Aran, Suna, Komori, Kuroo – the whole guild – they’ll all live to see it.

Because they won.

“Reckon killin’ him’s gotta be worth a hundred points. That gives me one-fifty-six. Can’t wait to watch your jackets burn. I’m gonna chuck ‘em on the fire myself.”

“One-fifty-six,” Sakusa says. “I can’t wait to see your face when you find out I finally beat you at a game.”

Atsumu looks up at him and narrows his eyes. “No way.”

“One-eighty-seven.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

Sakusa was on forty-one before they parted, which means whilst he was suffering beneath the effects of poison, he still managed to down over a hundred and forty men to get here. To Atsumu.

He could have died long before he reached the doorway.

Atsumu swallows.

“You can go and count them yourself if you don’t believe me,” Sakusa says. He lets out another long exhale. “I’d prefer it if you stayed.”

“I’ll stay,” Atsumu says quickly. He places his head back down against Sakusa’s arm. “I’ll stay. Shit.”

For a moment they sit like that, Sakusa holding on, Atsumu counting his breaths and feeling each tremor against his cheek. There’s only the hum of the swords still burning holes into the office floor, and the distant droning of sirens beyond the windows to keep them company. The fluorescent lights above are starting to remind Atsumu of his headache; the burns on his arms are starting to throb.

“Ya said it was easy to pick what you wanted,” Atsumu says. “What is it?”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away. Atsumu has to look up to check he’s still awake and finds him smiling. “You’re going to clean my fucking motorbike,” he says.

The laughter that seizes Atsumu is inevitable. He’d probably do anything Sakusa asked of him right now, game or no game, and yet he’s choosing something as mundane, something as inconsequential and boring as Atsumu picking confetti and sequins out of his bike seat.

“Sure,” he says. “You want me to dress up while I do it? I’m feelin’ generous. I’ll let ya pick a costume.”

“Don’t care,” Sakusa says. “I just want to be able to ride it as far away from you and your disgusting living habits as possible.”

Atsumu had forgotten about that – that the end of his job also spells an end to them sharing the accommodation behind the Bounty Office. Atsumu will have to find a new place to rent after the mess he left his last one in, and so will Sakusa, considering his was burned down.

They’ve been living on top of each other for months, attached by tracking pins and circumstance. In that time Atsumu’s adapted to Sakusa’s habits, to changing his own to avoid being scolded. He’s gotten used to chatting in the kitchen, to Sakusa’s morning coffees, and their late nights lying on sofas strategizing. He’s familiarised himself with company – good, easy company – that’s only ever a room away.

“Then you’ll ride it back, right?”

Sakusa hums. “You know I will.”

It takes four more minutes before Shirabu skids to a halt in the doorway, hands overcome with briefcases, lungs devoid of breath. “Why aren’t the elevators working in this place?” he huffs with bright red cheeks and rain-soaked hair “Jesus Christ.”

Osamu, Aran, and Komori follow closely behind in a similar fashion, pushing Shirabu into the room with shouts and desperate hands. He unloads an entire hospital’s worth of kit onto the floor next to Sakusa and gets to work treating the worst of it before they can even think about moving him to the car.

Atsumu stands nearby and watches as he administers the poison cure, then temporarily stems the bleeding from Sakusa’s bullet wound with one of his pieces of medical sponge tech.

He only takes his eyes away long enough to hug Osamu for the second time that day, to cling tightly to him and hear him say, “Ya fuckin’ did it, scrub,” and then, “Didja cut his fuckin’ head off?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “Your swords are real fuckin’ awesome, Samu. Maybe I should go back and cut his dick off too so you can hang it in the arcade once it’s fixed.”

Aran smiles. “Or maybe not?”

Osamu grins too, and he doesn’t let go of Atsumu’s shoulder, grip so tight it’ll add another bruise to the collection.

They’re okay, Atsumu reminds himself.

“So what happened?” Osamu asks. “Who was the bastard?”

Atsumu tells them – about the separate ambushes, about waking up, about Sato, his grievances, and their fight.

Komori shakes his hand with teary eyes and thanks him a million times for reasons Atsumu’s unsure of, then he hurriedly fills Atsumu in on what happened while he was unconscious, probably to distract himself from the thought of his heavily injured cousin.

According to his rapid explanation, after getting past the guards, the guild found the techs dead in Sakamoto’s mansion. Though they were too late, Akaashi had enough knowledge of technology to know that the software they were using to hack the city was still perfectly operational, that it was running automatically, and that whatever was coming next needed to be stopped.

He got Aran and Komori on the phone and with the generators online, they were able to remotely dismantle the software and power the city back up.

It was Aran that came up with the idea of using the same method of citywide communication to publically call out Hara – the police mole – and the city’s current President for ignoring the unrest through the city’s billboards.

It took a few hours for the guards – both mid and upper – to turn their backs on authority and unite to do their goddamn jobs. Kuroo also got a few responses from other guilds in the meantime; more people flew in to help than they were expecting. A few of their own guild members returned, too.

“S’about time some other people pulled their weight,” Osamu says. “Ya did this whole fuckin’ thing alone, more or less. The city’s gonna be furious when it finds out.”

“As soon as word gets out that the Director’s dead the gangs will start to give up,” Komori adds. “They’ll all be vying for the chance to take over his spot in the hierarchy.”

Atsumu can’t argue with that logic, but Sawamura will have free reign to clean the city as he pleases without Hara breathing down his neck, and once the guild returns to normal, the city’s Hunters will start collecting payments for doing the exact same thing.

Kuroo will probably call a meeting or ten to discuss this all further. Atsumu doesn’t want to think about it anymore. At least not for a little while.

As soon as Shirabu’s happy that Sakusa’s stable, Atsumu helps him up and down ten flights of stairs, fighting off and refusing offers of help from the others no matter how badly his body aches.

He stays with him in the back of the car and watches his breaths continue to rise and fall as he sleeps through the journey. He helps him into the elevator and to his room at the apartment, and he stays and watches as Shirabu sets his shoulder back into place and knocks him out with anaesthetic to address all of his wounds properly.

Atsumu stays while he gets his own wounds treated, sitting on one of the kitchen chairs next to Sakusa’s bed to get his hand stitched up, his throat cleaned, and his arms slathered in burn salve.

He stays, sitting in the muted darkness of Sakusa’s room, despite the fact that Shirabu tells him Sakusa won’t wake for a while. He stays despite the drooping of his eyes and the aching of his muscles, knees tucked up to his chest, chin resting on his bandaged forearms.

“If you’re waitin’ around so you can be the first to see him die, yer outta luck, scrub,” Osamu says from behind him suddenly. “Shirabu said he’s gonna be fine.”

It looks bad, were his exact words to Atsumu, but he’s actually in better shape than you were after the attacks.

Atsumu lifts his head high enough to mumble, “I know.”

“Yeah, so stop creepin’ and go rest before ya pass out or somethin’.”

Atsumu ignores him.

“You stupid? He’ll still be unconscious when ya wake up.”

When Atsumu ignores him a second time, Osamu reaches for his arm and attempts to pull him to his feet. Atsumu shirks him off with more strength than he thought he had left. “Don’t Samu,” he snaps. “I’m stayin’.”

“Wha—Why the fuck’re ya getting’ so worked up all of a sudden? Few months back you were divisin’ ways to kill him and make it look like an accident and now you’re—”

There must be something on Atsumu’s face, something obvious in his eyes, or perhaps Osamu’s just clicked the same way Atsumu did that night in the hallway.

“Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god, you’re—you—you like him.”

Atsumu braces himself for impact when he forces out a terse, “Fuck off,” through his teeth.

“Holy shit,” Osamu laughs. “No fuckin’ way, Tsumu. You’re jokin’ right? You hate each other. You— Shit. For how long? Have ya done anythin’ about it? Does he know? Are ya—” he makes a vague gesture that Atsumu scowls at, then he runs an exasperated hand through his hair. “Fuck. And all this time I thought you were just bein’ an asshole.”

“I was,” Atsumu mutters. “For the most part.”

He turns his attention back to Sakusa. He’s sleeping peacefully now, and his breaths grow stronger by the hour. It’s hard not to think about the fact that less than twenty-four hours ago, they were lying in the same bed unharmed. Atsumu was warm, pleasantly exhausted, and wearing a dumb smile on his face. Despite his warning to stay on separate sides of the bed, Sakusa’s foot had still found his during the night, too.

There must be something else on Atsumu’s face now, because Osamu drops the interrogation and says, quietly, “Guess it makes sense. Takes a certain kinda person to handle your bullshit.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Osamu leaves for a few minutes, then returns with a pillow, blankets and a bag of snacks and drinks he took from the kitchen. He places them down on the floor next to Atsumu’s chair, then places his hand on Atsumu’s shoulder again, squeezing and pushing him down this time, instead of attempting to pull him up.

“I ran past what he did to get to ya,” he says when Atsumu looks up at him. Osamu’s not looking back, he’s staring at Sakusa, wearing an expression Atsumu can’t place. “Heard him go fuckin’ crazy on the phone when Komori told him he shoulda picked the cure and let us work out your location instead. Whatever the fuck you’re feelin’, I think he’s probably feelin’ the same damn thing.”

Osamu doesn’t know the half of it.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “I know.”

Sakusa wakes while Atsumu’s hunched over his arms on the chair, caught between the uncomfortable limbo of sleep and stiff consciousness. Something hits his head, something light.

The apartment is silent now. Komori, Shirabu, Aran, and Osamu have finished talking to the rest of the guild, and the noise of the television news has long since cut out.

Atsumu jolts awake and looks up through bleary eyes to find Sakusa reaching towards the bedside table for another wrapped piece of candy from Atsumu’s half-finished pack to throw.

As their eyes meet, his hand stops midway.

They don’t say anything. Atsumu doesn’t think they need to.

Sakusa nods to the empty space next to him and Atsumu climbs into the bed, keeping to his side, careful not to jostle the mattress too heavily or knock Sakusa’s arm.

He falls asleep again, with a small smile tugging at his mouth, just after Sakusa’s foot touches his own.

It takes a few days for Sakusa to gain enough strength to walk on his own, and Atsumu stays with him throughout, only ever leaving long enough to shower and grab Osamu’s food deliveries from the kitchen.

Eventually – after a few doses of miracle medicine - Shirabu signs him off with two week’s bedrest, a few thousand boxes of pain medication, and new exercises for his shoulder.

Without their phones or working tech, they rely on the updates Kuroo, Osamu, and Komori bring to them during their daily visits in order to piece together the current state of the city.

Atsumu’s not particularly bothered – he doesn’t care a damn now that it’s not his direct concern, and Sakusa doesn’t seem overly interested either. They’ve been far more content keeping each other busy with lengthy games of Battleship and conversations about literally anything else other than what happened or what is currently happening.

When they do listen, they find out that Sato’s identity was revealed to the city – he was held accountable for the coup and exposed as the true culprit behind Sakamoto and Kimura’s murders. Jackal’s name was cleared, Hara’s involvement is now under investigation, Sawamura and Sugawara are looking at promotions, and the Bounty Hunter’s guild is getting a huge monetary grant as a reward for their efforts.

Both the lower city and midcity are badly damaged, but the President is making all sorts of ambitious compensatory promises to mitigate the PR disaster and divert attention from his incompetence. It’ll probably fall through once the outrage dies down – the elections will continue ahead as planned and some new idiot will take over and forget all about the Director and his failed coup.

The guild is operational again. Kuroo’s promised to hold back a few of the more interesting bounties for their return He thanks them once a day for their hard work, and apologises a hundred more for not keeping closer tabs on Sato or realising sooner.

As the visits from friends decrease and Sakusa starts to grow tired of his bed, they move to the living room and watch nonsense on the television, upgrade from Battleship to a round of rematches at the other board games, and lie down on the sofas to talk about the ordinary sorts of things that ordinary people talk about when they’re ordinary and aren’t dismantling an uprising.

They throw tennis balls back and forth, play homemade mini-golf, aim crumpled up pieces of paper into cups, and this time, Atsumu’s not itching to leave. He’s content to enjoy Sakusa’s company while he still has it. Before this weird, domestic bubble bursts and they find another new normal.

Sometimes they get bored, and other times they’re glad to be doing nothing. Sometimes Sakusa climbs into his lap and kisses him without reason or explanation. Other times Atsumu falls into bed with him and helps him tip his head back against the headboard with sighs of pleasure, rather than pained grimaces.

He doesn’t bring up the elephant in his own mind until midway through the second week of their self-imposed confinement.

“You’ve reached a new low,” Sakusa says as he returns from a shower, hair damp, skin flushed, and wrapped up in a dark sweatshirt and joggers. His thigh is more or less healed of its stab wound, but his shoulder is still suspended in its sling, and though he won’t admit it, Atsumu knows the bullet wound in his side is continuing to give him problems.

He eases himself down into the kitchen chair and grimaces at the mug of coffee Atsumu’s left out for him before picking it up. “I’m convinced you wrangled a herd of wildebeest to stomp around the bathroom. That’s the only explanation for the mess.”

Atsumu’s not really listening. He’s deep in contemplation as he stirs his eighth spoonful of sugar into his mug, trying to think of a way to broach the subject.

“Spit it out,” Sakusa says with a sigh.

Fuck it, Atsumu decides. Sakusa doesn’t care for sugar coating anyhow.

“Sato told me somethin’,” he says. “Just after I woke up.”

Sakusa raises an eyebrow. Neither of them have spoken about what they went through that day. Atsumu’s not sure he wants to know the stories behind each of Sakusa’s injuries. He might want to bring Sato back from the dead just to kill the bastard again.

Atsumu continues, “He said the first thing he did when he got his sponsor money from Sakamoto was buy my death. Said he hired you to do it.”

The coffee mug stops an inch before Sakusa’s lips. He refuses to meet Atsumu’s eye, though he must know how intensely Atsumu’s watching him.

“Did you believe him?” he asks, lowering the mug slowly.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “I did.”

“And you’re still here.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “I am.”

He finally looks up, expression blank. “Why?”

Atsumu shrugs. “That’s what I was hopin’ you’d tell me, buttercup. He said you refused the kill. Got yourself expelled.”

“You weren’t supposed to find out.”

“But I did. So tell me.”

Sakusa looks at him like he would rather die, so Atsumu rummages around in one of the snack bags Osamu dropped off, and finds a coin nestled amongst the receipts. He takes a seat opposite Sakusa at the table and holds it out between them.

“Are you going to cheat this time?” Sakusa asks him.

Atsumu smiles. Of course he noticed. “Heads you tell me,” he says, but as he flips it, Sakusa snatches it out of the air.

“I didn’t know who he was at the time. All transactions were anonymous, and we never met in person.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen imperceptibly, then he leans back in his chair to listen.

Sakusa sips the coffee before continuing, and does a bad job of concealing how much he hates the taste.

“I had a particular way of doing things – I liked to observe marks and plan the best way to get rid of them without making a mess.”

“You watched me?”

Atsumu can’t say he remembers ever being followed, at least not without knowing about it and dealing with it accordingly.

Sakusa nods. “For a few weeks. You were… disturbingly easy to shadow for someone who was supposed to be the top ranked Bounty Hunter in the city. I don’t think I ever saw you look over your shoulder or lock your car doors after getting inside to read discs. I thought you were stupid.”

Atsumu blinks, then frowns. “That’s—”

“But then I followed you to a fight and realised it was because you didn’t need to look over your shoulder. Nobody else in this city was a match for you.”

“Except you.”

Sakusa raises one shoulder in a shrug. “Hand-to-hand sparring is one thing. If it came down to it with our lives on the line, I’m not sure which of us would win. I don’t like uncertainty, which is why I decided I couldn’t just follow you into alleyways and attempt surprise. I joined the guild to give myself more opportunities. You presented me with far too many.”

Yeah, Atsumu thinks, I know.

“I could have killed you on my first day. You took the same A-Grade just to compete with me and once you stole the kill, you sat on the nearby curb and played online Scrabble for forty-five minutes with your blaster holstered and your back to me. I could have put a bullet in your head and called it a day.”

Atsumu chokes on his sip of coffee. “So why didn’t ya?”

“Because it pissed me off. You pissed me off. I wanted you to be a challenge. It had been a while since I’d killed anyone worth anything.”

Atsumu casts his mind back to the first few weeks of Sakusa’s time at the guild, thinks of all the times he’d taunted Sakusa and the moments after in which he trusted him blindly not to kill him in retaliation.

“I started to push you, and you started fighting back,” Sakusa says with a slight laugh. He looks down into the coffee mug and his finger taps the surface of the table beside it. “You played petty games and riled me up until I had a novel’s worth of reasons to want you dead myself. You ran your mouth every single day, but you carried yourself like a bodyguard’s nightmare; I could have broken into your shitty apartment and smothered you in your sleep. I could have waited for you in your car and put a knife in your neck. You take whatever’s handed to you without question, I could have poisoned you a dozen times over.”

“What changed?”

“Nothing,” Sakusa says. “You were the most confusing, infuriating, exasperating person I’d ever met. But five months in I realised I could have killed you ten thousand different ways, and I hadn’t picked a single one, because I—” he stops himself, but then shakes his head and continues. “I didn’t want to. I hate leaving things unfinished, I was furious at myself for quitting, for letting myself get affected by something so ridiculous, but I’d knew I’d rather lose my reputation, job, and life ten times over before losing you.”

Atsumu’s taken bullets that have hit with less force.

He gets up out of his seat and moves the coffee mugs aside, then sits himself on the table in front of Sakusa, legs crossed, eyes searching. Sakusa looks up at him.

“Think I can fill in the gaps from there,” Atsumu tells him. “Honesty looks good on you, Omi-kun. Also, for the record, I think the whole thing is kinda hot, so if you want, you can live out the assassin roleplay fantasy any time ya like. Preferably with knives, yeah?”

“When you say things like that,” Sakusa says slowly, “you make me question if I made the right choice.”

Atsumu hums. “Do I?”

“No. But your coffee definitely does.”

“Tough shit,” Atsumu laughs as he finds Sakusa’s chin with a finger and brings him closer. “No refunds, remember?”

Sakusa waits until their lips are almost touching to say, “No refunds.”

Kissing him feels like safety. Like trust. Like relief. Like a reprieve. Like they were always going to be inevitable in this lifetime.

“You ready to start a new game?” he asks when they part. 

Sakusa meets his eye, the glint of a challenge creasing the corners into a smile. “Only if you’re prepared to lose it.”

Atsumu grins. “Good luck catchin’ up, rookie.”

Chapter Text

“When I gave ya that money to buy new machines, I did mean ones that weren’t still fuckin’ rigged,” Atsumu says as he holds himself back from sending his fist through the screen of Ms. Pac-Man.

His score is no longer high enough to make the leader board at all. The initials SKO comprise all ten places, points by the million while Atsumu struggles to break a thousand.

Osamu sighs. He looks uncomfortable in his suit. He keeps tugging at his tie, and Atsumu can see slight wrinkle lines in the shirt from where he’s been sitting hunched over in it for far too long. His hair looks nicer than usual though – styled, instead of falling into his eyes or stuffed into a cap.

“For the ten billionth time,” he says, “ya can’t rig Pac-Man. You’re just dogshit at the game. Always have been.”

Atsumu pokes another coin into the slot and starts up a new round. “Aran taught ya how to hack it,” he says mindlessly as he guides Ms. Pac-Man around the screen. “I’m not dogshit ‘cause I play properly.”

“Aran didn’t teach me shit. You made that up to make yourself feel better. Same way you convinced yourself Sakusa’s cheatin’.”

“That bastard already confessed to his crimes, said he learned the level routes or whatever, but I’m gonna win with skill insteada cheesin’ it with memory games. You fuckin’ watch.”

“By accidentally stumblin’ on the same routes ya mean?”

“With skill,” he reiterates as he loses a life. “Shut the fuck up so I can concentrate.”

Five wasted minutes later the screen boasts an obnoxious GAME OVER – as is always the case when his hand isn’t being guided by Sakusa’s – but Atsumu doesn’t start up another game to prove his point. He abandons the machine and makes his way over to the prize counter where Osamu’s leaning back in a chair and tapping away at his phone.

Atsumu runs his hand along the tops of the games as he passes them. Without money being an object, Osamu was able to find ones in better condition, some rarer ones too that he had to win in auctions and get shipped in from far off cities.

The whole place looks better than it did before it exploded – the carpets are now the charming kind of garish, the lights don’t buzz or flicker, and, most importantly, the lollipops are no longer expired.

Atsumu picks one out of the prize tub at random.

“Construction finished yet?” he asks as he tucks it into his pocket.

Osamu looks up from his phone and glances at the door behind him that’s still locked shut. “Not ‘til the end of next week. Got my new tools in though, and that laser cutter ya ordered is arrivin’ tomorrow.”

Though the arcade looked as though it took the brunt of the blast, it was the workshop beneath that suffered the most after the detonation. The men they’d taken out and left scattered around the workshop floor were all carrying explosives. Once the fire got to the powder within, the result destroyed an entire wall, part of the ceiling, and the stairs leading down to it. The fire department were only able to save a few metal tools and the items locked away in drawers and cabinets.

Osamu was right about the insurance too. He got next to nothing to rebuild, and the reward from the Bounty Office for his help wasn’t nearly enough to cover the cost of the damages.

Luckily, Atsumu has come into a bit of money.

Enough money for Osamu to completely redesign the workshop to suit his preferences.

It’s taken months to get to a point of near completion - Osamu’s been working out of a temporary mechanic workshop in the automobile sector until now, but he should finally be back to normal soon.

“Every day is another day closer to that grenade launcher,” he says with a wistful sigh.

“You’re not gettin’ a fuckin’ crystal core grenade launcher, Tsumu.”

“Pfft. Yeah. Ya said that about the swords, and there’s one sittin’ on my—”

“I mean it this time. The city’s lookin’ good now. I’m not gonna let ya blow it apart again with a weapon of semi-mass destruction. Who the fuck would ya use it on anyway? Ya don’t need one.”

“You have no idea how badly I need one, Samu. How much d’ya want for it? I’ll pay anythin’. A million? Ten?”

He levels Atsumu with an unimpressed look. “Just because ya can throw money around like that now, doesn’t mean ya should.”

Atsumu raises a brow.

Osamu purses his lips. “Make it twenty and I’ll think about it.”

“Deal!”

As he pulls his phone out to make the transfer, the chiming of an artificial bell signals the opening and closing of the arcade doors. Atsumu doesn’t need to turn around to know who’s walked in – the smile on Osamu’s face is a dead giveaway.

“I’m here to pick up a cute boy,” Aran says, smile obvious in his voice. “Heard he’s free for the evenin’.”

Atsumu crumples up the lollipop wrapper and flicks it at Osamu’s face. “That’ll be my ride. See ya scrub.”

“You fuckin’ wish, freak.”

There’s a loud rustling of metal and plastic as Osamu dips his hand into a prize bucket for something to throw. A keychain bounces off the red leather collar of his jacket, but Atsumu catches it before it hits the ground – a miniature novelty tennis ball in a familiar shade of gaudy neon yellow. Instead of aiming it back his brother’s way, he closes his fist around it with a smile and tucks it into his pocket alongside the lollipop.

“I’m not sure you’re gonna wanna come where we’re goin’,” Aran says. He’s dressed sharply in a grey suit and turtleneck when he sidles up next to Atsumu at the counter and gives his back a heavy pat. There’s a lanyard around his neck too, one identical to the one Osamu’s wearing.

“Yeah. S’too highbrow for the likes of you,” Osamu adds. “Even with an invite they’d probably turn you away at the door.”

All of the city’s greatest inventors will be gathering in the upper city tonight to reveal the latest developments in tech. It’s the first time Osamu’s ever been formally invited to an invention showcase. He’s always relied on Aran to hack the security cameras in order to see inside before now, but tonight he’s got more than a few of his own pieces on display.

It’s about damn time the city recognised his genius. Osamu’s designs have always been ahead of the curve. Atsumu doubts anything the crowd sees tonight will trump the death sword.

“Nerd conventions aren’t highbrow. They’re just fuckin’ borin’,” Atsumu scoffs. He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time: 7:40. “Got somewhere to be anyway.”

“Thank God,” Osamu groans. “Thought I was never gonna get rid of ya. Also, tell Suna I want my goddamn microwrench back.”

“If he’s usin’ it for what I think he’s usin’ it for, he needs it more than you, Samu. Grow up.”

“Grow—You’d better fuckin’ run, Tsumu. I don’t wanna get my suit dirty pummellin’ your dumb face into the carpet.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Atsumu waves him off. “Have fun or whatever. If any upper city pricks say anythin’ stupid gimme a call and I’ll come give ‘em a sword demonstration.”

He starts for the door with wave over his shoulder. It’s better he leaves now before they start staring wistfully at each other or holding hands over the counter. “Get him home by eleven, Aran-kun!”

“If you’re gonna die,” they both call, voices relaxed, bored, almost.

Atsumu smiles around the stick of his lollipop. “Die where you can find me.”

Atsumu’s new car may not have taken him two years to save up for, but it certainly means just as much, and it’s definitely just as loud, obnoxious, and sexy as the old one.

It’s the same shade of red as his jacket, one of the newest models on the market, and fitted with some of Suna’s finest modification work. The doors are fixed with anti-slam technology, the windows are bulletproof, and Atsumu can control most of its functions with just the sound of his voice.

As he makes the short walk over to the carpark from Osamu’s arcade, he works the tennis ball keychain onto the ring alongside his car keys, apartment fob, and the extra key he now holds to Sakusa’s front door.

“To stop you from mutilating my locks,” Sakusa had insisted as he’d slid the key across the kitchen counter on a random Tuesday afternoon last month. “Not because I want you here.”

“Sure Omi,” Atsumu had said with a smile and enough scepticism to weigh an airship back down to earth.

He takes the drive to Suna’s slowly – by his standards – and lets the city pass him by. The damage done to midcity during the coup was superficial for the most part – smashed windows and trashed shops, broken cars and shattered billboards. It’s been cleaned up and ironed out over the last five months. If Atsumu didn’t know any better, he’d think nothing had happened here at all.

The same can’t be said for the lower city. It took the brunt of the impact – fires tore through dozens of houses and just as many shops. Explosions worked craters into the streets and pavements, and the canal dam broke and flooded the surrounding area with stagnant water.

The new President offered to set aside some funding to help fix it, but a month of promises passed and nothing changed. Each bounty that saw Atsumu picking his way through the carnage stoked the fire of frustration in him a little hotter until, luckily, he came into a bit of money.

Enough money to fund the rebuilding of the lower city by himself.

Suna’s garage is closed when Atsumu pulls up and kills the engine. Late autumn is setting the sun beyond its time and putting a chill in the air that has him questioning if he wants to leave the warmth of his car at all.

It’s Suna’s text of Food’s getting cold that encourages him to finally move, and he keeps his hands deep in his pockets as he makes the short jog over to the door.

“Honey,” Atsumu calls through to the workshop, “I’m home!”

“The divorce settlement clearly states that you’re no longer allowed to call me that,” Suna calls back.

The workshop is warmer than Atsumu’s car, courtesy of Suna’s portable radiators and the residual warmth of his machines. It’s a nightmare during the summer, but Atsumu can appreciate it now. “I still haven’t signed off on it. That shit’s not legally bindin’ yet.”

“Gives me some time to make some amendments then.” Suna looks up from his pizza when Atsumu walks in and raises his slice in a toast. “To get more money out of you.”

“Aren’t I payin’ you enough?”

“Considering how much is currently sitting in your account, absolutely not. Stingy bastard.”

Atsumu grins at that. Sometimes he can’t quite believe the number of digits himself.

He’d needed a few days to reorient himself after the phone call that named him the sole beneficiary to Sakamoto Masaaki’s entire legacy and fortune. He’d needed a few weeks more to process the fact that he now owns the speedraces, the stadiums, and the contracts of the racers that take part.

Sato promised to take everything from Atsumu that day in the high rise, but his death and the mistakes he made before it have granted Atsumu more than he’s ever even thought to bargain for.  

Atsumu had panicked at first, unsure of what to do with an empire he didn’t ask for, but fortunately for him and his Bounty Hunting productivity, Sakamoto did very little himself. There’s a whole team of people that help the speedraces run smoothly, and Atsumu’s more than happy to let them continue doing whatever the fuck they want so long as he still gets to hunt and race, just as Sakamoto intended.

His new colleague Yachi Hitoka helps to mitigate almost everything tiresome before it has the chance to reach his burner phone. The only thing Atsumu does, is help to design the tracks in advance – a task he’s gotten Suna involved with on account of his super fan status and design expertise.

“I’m close to a working prototype for the acceleration boost pads,” Suna says as Atsumu takes a seat opposite him along with two slices of pizza. “They’ll increase speeds by at least thirty-percent if hit correctly. They stack too. You’ll probably fly half the course if you take one before a jump.”

Atsumu makes a delighted sound around his mouthful of food. The mere thought of boosting his speed like that is exhilarating; he can’t wait to see how the rest of League One will react. Mad Dog will undoubtedly take to it like a fish to water; The Grand King’s already impressive times will skyrocket; Fury Falcon might make it out of last place.

It’ll shake up the leader board more than the scrapping of time-based practice allowances did. The top five move around so often now that nobody knows what the outcome of a race will be anymore, and Atsumu doesn’t think he’s imagining the heightened fan excitement and rowdiness of the crowds each week; speedracing has found its footing again.

“Samu said you can keep the microwrench for as long as ya need.”

“Tell him thanks, and that I’m getting my disgusting oil grease all over it.” Suna leans to the side, elbow resting on the table top, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “How’s the new bike treating you?”

“Even better than the old one,” Atsumu says with a grin.

His new moniker – Wildcard – is also better than the old guise of Jackal. He shows up to the stadium when he pleases, his costume a reinforced version of his red hunting jacket, his helmet a simple cryptic black. The bike is fashioned in a retro style, like one of the old bikes from the racing games at Osamu’s arcade, and he doesn’t curb his attitude when he appears for interviews, riling up fans and racers alike with his provocations.

Just as Sakamoto predicted, the stadiums fill out when people think they’ve caught wind of an upcoming Wildcard appearance. Sometimes Atsumu will start the rumour himself, and when he steps into the waiting room on Saturday nights, League One’s shoulders square and their mouths battle between smiles and scowls because they’re never certain whether he’s going to take the race seriously, or choose someone to antagonise.

“Thought so. I had more time to make that one suit you. Last bike was just a spare I had lying around, but I ordered all the parts for that one custom. You can feel it in the turns, right?”

It’s not just the turns – Atsumu thought the old bike was incredible, but his new one rides like a dream. The seat support allows him to get even lower when cornering, and the handlebar grips help him steer steadier.

“Fuck yeah I can. And that’s why I can’t put my name on the settlement, Sunarin. Where would I be without ya?”

“Riding a way uglier bike and looking like a loser doing it.”

Atsumu hums. “Exactly.”

They finish the pizza around discussion of track blueprints. Next week’s race will be a simple speed-leaning track to keep the roster on its toes, but Atsumu also debates the logistics of ridiculously dangerous additions like flamethrowers, spring-loaded jump pads, and bridges over spikes, while Suna encourages him to think of bigger things like lava pits, tightrope bridges, and cannons.

After food, Suna shows him the acceleration pad in its current state – when Atsumu jumps on the square of moving glass he very nearly gets catapulted across the workshop.

Suna draws the line of him testing it with a spare bike.

“Yeah, you might actually die,” he says with a shrug. “I can’t let that happen before you get Fury Falcon to the top five. After that though, do what you like.”

The hours melt by as they move on from race tactics and obstacles to anything and everything. Atsumu talks through his lower city renovation plans, about a bad movie he watched whilst scoping a bounty, and a new trick he learned with the sword. Suna talks about his full book of customers, about his sister’s speedracing practice, and a new video game he’s just bought. They both swear through their turns of online Scrabble – the game that Atsumu now regrets inviting Komori to on account of his uncanny ability to create words Atsumu’s never heard of in his life. He’s almost ninety percent sure Komori’s hacked the game and added the words to the library in order to win. Sakusa says he probably did.

Atsumu’s alarm takes him by surprise when it rings and alerts him to the time: 11:35.

“Time for work,” he says with a grin.

The Bounty Office is one of the only places Atsumu frequents that hasn’t changed since the coup. The hallways are the same shade of crimson, the floorboards are their usual dark mahogany, and the chandeliers remain untouched and flickering with their old electricity.

The only difference arises as he reaches the end of the hall – the doors are already open, and there’s noise beyond them in the form of Hoshiumi’s loud voice drowning out the jazz from the gramophone.

“Three minutes before official opening and you’re still somehow late, Miya,” Kuroo says with a smirk as Atsumu takes his usual stool at the bar. “You’re getting sloppy.”

“Yeah, well,” Atsumu drawls, “if I was fuckin’ a Bounty Officer, maybe I’d get early access too.”

Hoshiumi scoffs at that. He stops spinning his A-Grade disc around and tucks it into his pocket. “Too bad the only Bounty Officers around here have taste and standards,” he says, “Guess you’ll have to suffer second place for the rest of time.”

Atsumu raises a hand to his brow and makes a show of narrowing his eyes at the leader board behind Hirugami’s head. “Looks to me like you’re overcompensatin’ for somethin’.” He turns to Hoshiumi and offers a lazy smile. “Doesn’t matter when I get here so long as my name’s still leadin’ the pack.”

“We’ll see how much longer that lasts.”

The whole guild is working hard to catch him up - Sakusa’s only a few hundred points behind - but Atsumu’s not worried. “Sure, pipsqueak.”

There’s a sharp scraping of stool against wooden boards, then a flash of movement as a hand darts out and fists in fabric. “Remember the rules, Kourai-kun,” Hirugami says with an easy smile as he holds Hoshiumi back.

“No violence at the bar,” Atsumu sing-songs.

Hoshiumi settles and straightens out his jacket – a new one since he became a Hunter, rather than the ratty old hoodies he used to wear. It’s a white track jacket, with lines of pale blue running along the seams, and it matches the white-metal of an Osamu Original blaster at his hip.

Hirugami’s scrubbed up nice too, taking a leaf out of Kuroo’s business book as a newly instated Bounty Officer in a crisp white shirt, waistcoat, and slacks.

“Whatever,” Hoshiumi says. “Hitting you isn’t worth getting my car keyed by the Neon Grinch.”

“No?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

He leaves with that, hand raised over his shoulder in a wave that’s definitely not meant for anyone other than Hirugami.

Atsumu pulls his lollipop from his pocket and tugs the wrapper off. It’s lemon flavoured. Sour enough to make him wince. “What’s on the menu tonight, bossman?”

Most of the hard work has already been done – a gang hierarchy has re-established itself, and the crime rates have reached a familiar equilibrium. Kuroo reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a single blue A-Grade to slide across the counter. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Search and collect. Client is a boss who wants this man alive. Two thousand coins, not that you need it.”

No, Atsumu doesn’t need the coins. These days he’s working for Bounty Points and the title Rank One. For the chance to whisper, I win.

“Five-hundred Bounty Points,” Kuroo says as though he’s reading Atsumu’s mind.

Atsumu holds up two fingers and grins around the sweet in his mouth. “Two please.”

Kuroo grimaces. “I don’t consent to being a part of your weird idea of foreplay,” he says as he reaches beneath the counter for a second disc anyway.

“Then maybe you should draft up some new bar rules, Tetsu-kun.”

“The time is fast approaching, Miya. Every day you two do something that makes me reconsider whether I should send you the door codes at all.”

“Hm? Like what?”

The frown that tugs at Kuroo’s face makes Atsumu laugh, because he can’t pinpoint anything particularly out of the ordinary, Atsumu knows he can’t.

“You know what,” Kuroo settles for, and Hirugami hums agreement.

“No,” Atsumu says as he tucks one disc into his jacket pocket and the other into a zipped pocket of his joggers, “I don’t. I’m just preparin’ myself for the inevitable. Vultures don’t like to play fair.”

He leaves the Bounty Office with a skip to his step and a tune humming beneath his tongue. The Inevitable takes form as he reaches the middle of the hallway – a jacket so offensively bright it makes his skin crawl and his mouth twist.

“Kiyoomi,” he says, rolling the lollipop to the side of his mouth and following the neon nylon up to dark, wind-tousled curls.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa replies, voice growing clearer as he tugs down the black fabric of his mask with a finger.

Atsumu levels him with an appreciative once over, obvious in the places he chooses to linger. He looks the same as always; shoulders relaxed, smile small yet smug, eyes alight in a dare.

“You parked in my space again,” Sakusa says, returning his hand to his pocket.

“You sure that was me? Might have been someone else.”

“I doubt there exists a second person conceited enough to waste that much money on a personalised licence plate. Or the monstrosity it’s attached to.”

Atsumu takes a few steps forward, stopping with his shoulder next to Sakusa’s, leaning in to speak against his ear. The air between them is cold. It always is to start with; Sakusa continues to insist on the motorbike. Not that Atsumu’s complaining. “Hm? But I seem to remember you likin’ it just fine a few weeks back. Thought the reclinin’ seats were a hit.”

“That had less to do with the seats and more to do with the idiot sitting in them,” Sakusa’s voice returns.

“Ooh. You’ve gotten a little better at that, huh? The flirtin’ thing. So forward with your moves these days, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa’s speed always comes as a shock – his hand is around Atsumu’s elbow and manoeuvring him in a second. Atsumu barely has enough time to blink before he’s being pressed against the wall with his arms restrained tightly behind his back.

“And you haven’t gotten any better at countering that at all. How many times is that now?”

“Not enough if ya ask me, buttercup.”

Sakusa presses him flush against the wallpaper, arm so heavy against his back that it’s hard to take a full breath in. Atsumu can feel the scratch of peeling paper against his cheek, can smell the memory of coffee somewhere beneath Sakusa’s skin. He asks, voice quiet enough not to reach the Bounty Office beyond, “Are you racing on Saturday?”

“Maybe,” Atsumu says, words strained and stretched around a smile. “Why? You plannin’ on comin’ along to watch? Got you a special booth remember?”

A thumb strokes over the skin of Atsumu’s wrist, contemplative as it lingers on the underside, pressing a little firmer against his pulse. “No,” he says, and Atsumu can hear the lie in the drawn out hesitancy of his vowels. “It’s helpful to know which days you aren’t Hunting. So I can plan to overtake accordingly.”

“If that was ever gonna happen, it would have already.”

“Would it?”

Atsumu hums. At first he’d found it hard to balance the races with Hunting, owning the speedraces is a little different to just partaking in them. Atsumu had taken more than a few nights off from work to figure it all out, but— “S’too late now. I’m in the swing. Know exactly what I’m doin’.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Sakusa says against his ear, the warmth of it stirring Atsumu’s gut and winding it tight. “Nor will it ever be. For starters, you keep allowing me to do this.” He reaches into Atsumu’s pocket and removes the disc, metal scraping against metal as he drags it out past his keys. Atsumu’s periphery catches him holding it up to the light with two fingers, then it disappears as Sakusa tucks it into his own pocket.

“But at least you’ve found the initiative to prepare a contingency this time,” he continues, hand reappearing at Atsumu’s thigh. His fingers splay across the fabric that comprises Atsumu’s pocket, finding and pressing into the impression of the disc. Atsumu can feel the coolness of the metal against his skin, even through the layer of material separating them. It forces his mouth to fall open around a pleased exhale, and then Sakusa’s hand inches a little to the left, thumb a little too close to reaching levels of public indecency that Kuroo might banish them for.

“Like I said. I know exactly what I’m doin’.”

Sakusa’s hand moves again, from Atsumu’s thigh, up to his mouth. His fingers find the stick poking out from between Atsumu’s lips, and he tugs until Atsumu relinquishes it with a swirl of his tongue.

“And I still don’t believe you,” Sakusa says, words short around the new sweet in his mouth, breath candied lemon.

His hold loosens suddenly as he disappears, and Atsumu turns in time to watch him taking the steps up to the exit. “See ya ‘round, rookie!” he calls.

“Hopefully not,” Sakusa calls back.

Atsumu’s car locks automatically now as he climbs into it. He moves the seat back to make himself comfortable, and a flash of Sakusa pressing him into the leather seizes his memory, fresh in his mind after the generous reminder of what his weight feels like pushing against Atsumu’s own.

He indulges it for a moment, lets the recollection of Sakusa’s mouth take him apart during the quiet hour of midnight, pretends the cold shiver of night air lingering beneath his clothes is Sakusa’s touch.

Then he gets to work.

He doesn’t bother with the disc in the pocket of his joggers. Instead, Atsumu finds his phone and pulls up an app that he paid Komori to create.

The thing about tracking devices is that they’re only viable if the person being tracked has no idea they’ve been bugged. And the thing about Sakusa, is that he’s too cautious for his own good.

He checks his jacket three times before slipping it on, he keeps his pockets empty and his attention sharp no matter the time of day. Atsumu’s tried to slip things into his pockets before – condoms, sweet wrappers, tiny rolled up notes with crude drawings of naked vampires scrawled atop them – but Sakusa’s grabbed his wrists and torn the items out of his palms before they’ve ever found their destinations. If Atsumu was ever successful in planting something he’s certain it’d last no longer than a few minutes before Sakusa found it out.

Following Sakusa around the city is also out of the question. Atsumu has a naturally heavy step. “It’s like your feet are made of rocks,” Sakusa had told him after waking and watching him attempt to sneak around his apartment with the intention of throwing his jackets out the window. It’s more than that though, Atsumu thinks. His whole existence might be just a little too loud – Sakusa would spot his car amongst the city from miles away.

Following him on security cameras is impossible too. He’s gotten a little too good at avoiding Aran’s placements these days, like he knows Atsumu’s looking. He’s not wrong either, Atsumu’s always searching for Sakusa – be it with his eyes, hands, or mouth.

So he’s left with something Sakusa can’t foresee or predict: an alliance with his cousin and a new form of tracking device that only exists in the space between Komori’s computer and Atsumu’s hands.

The app tracks the signal of Sakusa’s phone– as Atsumu loads it up with the password Komori created for him, he finds a map that shows Sakusa’s current location, already a mile away from his, already on the Hunt.

It’ll only work once. Sakusa will probably throw his phone into the canal once he figures it out. Or murder his own cousin. Or both in quick succession.

It’ll be worth it.

For a while Atsumu sits back and watches the marker traverse midcity’s topography, watches Sakusa linger in a carpark for ten minutes as he reads through the disc information, watches him move through the streets as he chases leads.

Turning up the volume of the radio and popping open a bag of chips, Atsumu wonders if Sakusa’s looking over his shoulder as he dips into a corner store, wonders if he’s waiting for him to give chase, as is the usual when they find themselves trailing the same bounties.  

Once the distance between them starts to grow, Atsumu dusts his hands free of chip dust and fires up the engine. He doesn’t allow himself to get too close – but he continues to follow Sakusa’s progress around the city, waiting for the moment he’s certain Sakusa’s found what he’s looking for.

It comes almost two hours later. Sakusa’s speed drops as he trades the motorbike for his feet, and Atsumu watches his marker start to aim itself towards a dead-end alleyway.

He takes the car as close as he dares, then pops open the boot, tugs on some gloves, and retrieves what he needs; tranq blaster, grappling hook, rope, and handcuffs.

The night is even colder now – a freezing chill turns his breath to white smoke and hikes his shoulders up to his ears to protect them from the winds. Jogging to Sakusa’s location is a reprieve, one that warms his lungs and gets his blood pumping.

As he approaches the alleyway Sakusa’s turned into, he loosens his grappling hook from his belt and uses it to scale the nearest building, gloves tight against the rope.

He walks the narrow ledge of the building, then leaps over to the next and peers down into the alley. The guy Sakusa’s chasing – the guy the disc labels as a high-ranking gang member that’s been skirting payments to an even higher-ranking drug lord – is slowly backing up as Sakusa approaches, a knife raised in a threat, a curse lodged in his throat.

It’s a search and collect – the guy is wanted alive, to be delivered in one piece. Nobody is going to die tonight, at least not here. Whatever happens afterwards is none of their business. Atsumu certainly won’t care. He has far more interesting plans ahead.

Atsumu crouches on the building edge and watches as the guy attempts to bargain. He offers money and other pretty things – drugs, weapons, contacts. Sakusa ignores them all and presses forwards; Atsumu loads a tranquiliser dart into his blaster.

They fight. Or rather, the guy runs at Sakusa with his knife, and Sakusa disarms him sickeningly fast with a flash of metal and a loud clink as the blade hits the ground. Within seconds he has the guy pressed against the wall, but before he can reach for his own tranq blaster, Atsumu fires a shot into the guy’s neck and watches him turn limp in Sakusa’s arms a beat later.

Sakusa looks over his shoulder towards the end of the alley first, letting the guy drop motionless to the floor, then when Atsumu throws out the line of his grappling hook, he looks up to find him on the building ledge.

“Thanks for all your hard work, Omi-kun!” he calls with a wink and a two-fingered salute.

“You haven’t been following me. I would have felt the earth shaking. How the fuck did you know I was here?”

“We’re linked by fate, buttercup. I’d find ya ten cities over.”

Sakusa pats himself down, searches his pockets with narrowed eyes, then looks back up at Atsumu when he finds them empty. There’s a battle in his eyes – even from this distance Atsumu can see it – irritation versus the thing neither of them will name. “It was Motoya, wasn’t it?”

After miming the zipping of his mouth, Atsumu grins and says, “No comment.”

The climb down is quick. Atsumu lets his palms burn as he descends the rope in one swift slide and lands on a nearby dumpster lid with a thud. He jumps down and walks past Sakusa, tugging a spool of rope out from his belt to start tying up the man on the floor.

“You should have shot me,” Sakusa says as Atsumu works on rolling the guy over. “If you were planning on actually winning.”

Atsumu winds the rope around the guy’s wrists, pulling it as tight as he can with dozens of knots in the hopes that it might piss someone off hours along the line. “I’ve already won,” he says.

“No,” Sakusa says. “You haven’t. You still have to get him out of this alleyway.”

“Easy.”

“Yeah?”

Atsumu hums. “Been workin’ this one out for a while. Thinkin’ real hard.”

“Careful. We’ve only just gotten the city back to normal after the last disaster. I’m not sure it can handle a second calamity. You thinking is a bad omen.”

Atsumu finishes up the knots and straightens, dusting his hands clean of alley gravel with a few loud claps. “I’ve drafted a three step plan,” he says, and when he turns around, Sakusa is closer than he’d thought. He has to look up to meet his eye. “This is step two - the part where we fight.”

Sakusa’s brow raises. “Is it?”

“Yup!”

Atsumu moves quickly, but it’s impossible to take Sakusa by surprise. He catches Atsumu’s fist easily before it finds his face, and blocks the follow up to his gut too. His hands are tight around Atsumu’s wrists, but Atsumu throws his knee up between them to create space and Sakusa lets go to jump back and avoid the oncoming kick.

While Atsumu still has yet to knock him off his feet, he’s discovered a few crucial pieces of information whilst sparring with Sakusa over the past few months.

One: Sakusa always knows what Atsumu’s thinking and predicts his movements with such ease it’s mildly terrifying.

Two: he’s impervious to the bullshit that comes out of Atsumu’s mouth whilst in Hot-Omi-Fight-Mode, no matter how filthy.

And, most importantly, three: he likes to use fights to teach Atsumu long overdue lessons in humility.

It’s point three that Atsumu will be taking advantage of tonight.

He puts his all into the next few exchanges, leading Sakusa into believing it’s an ordinary bout; relentless blows, impulsive kicks, and wild elbows. It ends the same way it always does, with Atsumu backing up into a wall and Sakusa pinning his arms against it somewhere above his head.

“Oh no,” Atsumu says, the smile he’s wearing easily misconstrued. “My fool proof plan.”

Sakusa looks at him, chest even versus Atsumu’s erratic, eyes steady versus Atsumu’s wandering. “You aren’t stupid enough to believe this could have ended any other way,” he says, voice low.

Beneath the dingy alleyway streetlights their shared breaths turn to smoke, but the huff of Atsumu’s laugh clears the air.

“No,” Atsumu says, moving his knee between Sakusa’s legs and applying a little pressure. “‘Course not.”

Sakusa drops his gaze to the movement. “You put my cousin’s life in danger to make a substandard move in a filthy alleyway?”

“Komori’s life isn’t in danger.”

“If he helped you do this, it is now.”

Atsumu ignores that. “And this ain’t a move,” he says, pressing harder.

Sakusa looks up again and meets his eye. He only lingers there for a second or two before his gaze drops to Atsumu’s mouth and the movement of his tongue as he wets dry lips. “Certainly feels like one.”

“It’s not,” Atsumu’s insists.

Sakusa’s hold loosens. One hand drops to Atsumu’s forearm rather than his wrist as he leans in closer. “Then what is it?”

Atsumu waits until their lips are barely a breath apart before saying, “Step three.”

There’s a click as the handcuff Atsumu’s been shimmying out of his sleeve fixes around Sakusa’s wrist, then he takes advantage of Sakusa’s surprise to pull his other hand down and fasten the second cuff into place.

“You—”

“Are a genius,” he finishes, admiring Sakusa’s hands stuck in their position at his front. “I know, Omi-kun. It’s written somewhere on my birth certificate.”

The cuffs rattle as Sakusa attempts to pry them apart, but Atsumu stole them from Osamu’s workshop a few years back – they’re impossible to break. He’s tried.

“You have three seconds to take these off,” Sakusa warns, scowling down at his own hands.

“Or what?” Atsumu tugs at Sakusa’s restrained wrists and uses the leverage to reverse their positions. He drives Sakusa against the wall, hears the fabric of his jacket rustle as his back thumps against brick and grins because Sakusa always turns pliant beneath his touch once he’s through fighting.

His arms raise in an invitation for Atsumu to dip beneath them, and he does, encircling himself neatly in the space between. “Is Sakusa the Spiky Sea Urchin gonna impale me to death with a hug?”

If Sakusa was going to reply, it’s lost when Atsumu leans in and presses his mouth to his jaw. Sakusa’s head tilts immediately to accommodate him, and Atsumu trails a warm path to his ear. “You gonna snap my neck?

A sharp intake of breath answers that as Atsumu simultaneously catches skin with his teeth and pulls a glove off to dip his hand beneath nylon. His fingers ghost along the muscled planes of Sakusa’s side, passing the puckered flesh of a blaster shot scar, enjoying the involuntary shiver that crawls across his skin. “Break my ribs?”

Sakusa’s arms raise higher in tandem and rest on Atsumu’s shoulders. He has enough range to curl one hand in Atsumu’s hair and tighten his grip in encouragement. “Oh yeah,” Atsumu says. “Almost forgot.” He moves so that his lips hover over Sakusa’s. “You can’t.”

“Fuck you,” escapes on an outward breath before Sakusa closes the distance and kisses him.

It’s easy to forget how cold it is when all Atsumu becomes capable of knowing is Sakusa’s mouth. He loses himself in the warmth of his tongue, in the lingering taste of lemon, and their slow, relaxed rhythm.

His hands roam aimlessly, sometimes pushing Sakusa harder against the wall to earn a sweet sound or a whispered sigh. Other times opening his mouth to surrender a little control and let himself burn that familiar white hot.

It doesn’t matter how many times they do this, how many curses they spit at each other beforehand, or how many stupid games they play to set it up – the moment Atsumu tunes into Sakusa’s frequency, whatever song is playing there, no matter the volume, he still thinks it’s the best damn thing he’s ever heard.

When Atsumu breaks the kiss he almost forgets what he originally set out to do. His eyes blink away the blurred haze of want in his veins, and he watches Sakusa do the same, the rise and fall of his chest no longer as calm.

“Time to go cash in,” Atsumu tells him, moving a stray curl out of his eyes before he lifts his arms and steps out of the Sakusa Circle.

Though he could still fight Atsumu for the bounty whilst cuffed, Sakusa leans against the wall as he watches Atsumu haul the unconscious man to his feet. He also stands by and watches him throw the same guy over his shoulder and start off towards the exit.

Atsumu stops as he passes, free hand dipping into his pocket briefly to retrieve the handcuff keys.

“Sharpen the knives before ya come over, yeah?” he says, pressing the key into Sakusa’s palm.

“Gladly.”

A coil tightens excitedly in Atsumu’s gut and a smile spreads across his face. Sakusa doesn’t match it, but his hand does squeeze around Atsumu’s so tightly his bones protest.

He’ll probably be waiting in Atsumu’s apartment for him before he gets back, will probably have a glass of non-poisoned water waiting in one hand, and a blade in the other. Atsumu probably won’t stop smiling until the sun rises again.

“Toldja I knew what I was doin’, Kiyoomi.”

“Fuck you, Atsumu,” Sakusa calls after him as he leaves, tone a bored, inflectionless drawl.

“Mm,” Atsumu hums the weight of five-hundred extra Bounty Points on his shoulder. “Hopefully.”

And yeah, he thinks as he throws his bounty’s unconscious body into the back seats of his car, he might be a little in love with his new normal.